My friends are all getting married and having babies, and I’m happy for them. Really, I am – it’s great that they’re settling down and starting to establish their own families. But that’s not what I want for myself; I just want to spend the rest of my life in solitude, masturbating in a dank basement.
You might think I’m weird. That’s fine, I’m used to it; it’s been years since my friends first started telling me they think I’m sexually deviant. But I’m comfortable with their judgments; I know they’re just jealous because their husbands can’t make them orgasm for shit.
I don’t need to find a man with a house because 75% of my friends are already homeowners, and most of them have cellars. Jessie’s basement, for example, has a constant temperature of about 55 degrees Fahrenheit with a significant level of ceiling condensation, which makes it fantastic for casual masturbation.
But if I want to engage in a passionate mènage á moi during warmer seasons, Laura’s house is perfect; there are no windows, and it’s not connected to the upstairs power supply so I can polish my pearl in pitch darkness. Her moist and impressively chilly basement is decked with dust and cobwebs to match her newly-wed vagina, but not mine – I get plenty of action.
There is no environment better-suited for masturbation than a dark, cold, humid basement. I don’t feel bad about not settling down and starting a family. When it comes to stimulating my clit, no man can compete with my skills; I’m damn good at making myself cum, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life in a dank basement doing just that.