I have a very definite sexual preference.  I prefer not to have sex with anyone.  That is, no one other than myself.  After all, no one can make me come the way I can.

Self-indulgent, selfish and all the other bad self words, it is.  But at its most base, isn't sex a selfish act?  Whether for gratification or reproduction, sex is selfish.  Anyone who says their orgasm is less important than their partner's is lying, deluded or insane.  Propagating the species is not an act of humanity, but of vanity.  It is a self-serving, sad attempt at immortality.

I am proud of my sexual status, and even more pleased by my prowess and aptitude for indulgence.  I get ideas; strange cravings.  I'll be at the farmer's market on Second Avenue and 77th Street, perusing the produce when the urge will strike.  It begins slowly, a vague tickle at the tip of my clit.  It eases its way up to the pit of my stomach and then, just as it settles in a harsh ache, it surges up my spine through my throat and fills my head with a wealth of images.  The watery, crisp cucumbers become enormous, burly cocks, wrestler cocks; the green and prickly summer squash, elongated, elegant penises, poet penises; broccoli stalks, wonderful firm dicks emerging from plentiful pubic bushes; Brussels sprouts, darling little balls.  I'll feel a bittersweet yearning for the bags of baby carrots, lovely pubescent boy penises never to mature, frozen in time at that sensuous stage of youth when a light brush against the arm or quick soft kiss on the cheek was enough to make one squirm and come.   

I'll be waiting in line at the bank when it surfaces again.  I begin to eye the thick rope that marks the ATM line.  It becomes a long, unending dick.  The eternal prick - weighty, suspended on brass posts.  I imagine myself stepping out of line, raising my skirt (no panties of course), and straddling it.  I am on the cock of the world, sliding my clit over its vinyl hardness.  At this point, I can hardly stand still in line, with the wetness in my panties, my thighs brushing together under my skirt.  If it's winter, I'll sink my hand into my coat pocket and just about reach my clit with my middle finger.  To remain undetected, I don't move.  I just press that spot at the tip of my clit and feel it echo through my body.  In that moment, I feel every layer of separation between my finger and my clit - the silky lining of my coat, the harsh wool of my pants, the light cotton of my panties - all caressing me.

I have utterly given myself to the pursuit of this pleasure.  It is an adventure, even an obsession.  It is hard to control, and often I cannot wait to find a place to be alone.  I will relate the events of one such occasion. 

It was a sweltering July night, one of those nights when Manhattan seems a lethargic and lusty dreamland.  The air was heavy and oppressive, a haze hung low, yet I could still see the night sky, ominous with clouds.  I noticed the sky when I was closing the store.  As owner, I closed nearly every night.  Down a side street, nestled between the office buildings of Murray Hill, my exclusive little clothing boutique did well.  So well, that I found myself there quite late most nights.  The neighborhood, bustling and loud in the day, became silent, empty, almost ghostly at night.  On this particular night, the world outside the window seemed more still than usual.  And it was quite late when I began my final task for the night: preparing the window for the end of summer sale.

All the lights were off in the store, save the two dim nightlights on the ceiling above me.  Two naked mannequins stood on either side of me as I examined many fabrics and frocks.  I ran my hands over silk pajamas, linen dresses and lace shirts.  None pleased me. Eventually, I chose for one mannequin a sheer, white bra and panty set.  Over the slender arms of the doll, I slipped the bra.  While adjusting the underwire, I found myself pausing to cup its perfectly pert breasts.  Then, kneeling down, I stretched the panties taut and slowly slid them up its long smooth legs.  I stared at the firm thighs, solid hips and rounded crotch under the white panties.  As I brushed my fingers over her hard belly, I brushed my fingers over my own belly.  She was hard and cool but I was soft and warm, the restlessness in my clit growing. 

I slid my hand through the slit in my skirt and pulled my own panties aside to find that I was already wet.  I touched the peak of my clit, pressing down gently as I began to stroke.  My satin panties were smooth against my hand as I reached in deeper and slipped my finger inside of me.  A blast from air conditioning vent above me fell down onto my shoulders and dipped down my blouse, settling for a split second on my breasts.  My nipples hardened with the cold air, and I became even more wonderfully slippery.  Looking up at the mannequin, encountering her painted stare, I began to caress my breasts with my other hand, attending specifically to my nipple.  Through my blouse I circled its hardness.  It felt as enormous as a planet.  I could feel myself sinking to the floor, my thighs weakening quickly beneath me, my body ready to be consumed by my hands. 

As I sank, I had the sensation that I was not alone.  “It is being in the window, yes, that's it,” I whispered to myself, and I lay on the floor, belly down, body writhing over my hand.  Bucking my hips with the slow circular movement of my fingers over my clit, I was not concerned about being seen.  “The ladies are already watching,” I mused, thinking of the dark doll eyes.  The prospect of another watcher heightened my excitement.  I closed my eyes and thought of it, my panties sopping wet.  I slowly began to roll over.  My skirt was spread wide at the slit and hoisted high, just past my hips, to reveal the triangle of my black panties.  The exposed “v” was enlarged to a round hill by my hand.  My other hand tugged now at my breast.  On my back, I opened my eyes to a set of eyes staring back at me.

A man stood before the window.  Young and tall, muscular under his clothes, jet-black hair.  I wanted him.  His eyes were light and he looked at me with a soft, longing stare that I could feel like a soft hand on my body.  Was it those eyes or was I lost in myself?  I could not stop.

I lifted myself to my knees and kneeled before the window.  Without haste, I unbuttoned my blouse.  I spread it open and cupped my black satin breasts.  Clasping my bra, I pulled the cups down under my breasts in one smooth motion.  Full, white and slightly goose pimpled, my breasts pouted over the lacy rim of my bra.  I loved their bountiful curvature, their plenty, overflowing like fruit at the market. 

I circled my breasts with light fingers and a chill ran through my body.  Spreading my legs, still kneeling, I pulled my skirt aside and toyed with my panties.  The man watched me intently, the night still and dark behind him.  I tauntingly pulled my panties down, first sliding them off my ass so they hung teasingly from my hips, my bush still hidden.  Seeing the eagerness in his eyes, I did not pause for long.  I let my panties fall to the floor and reached down to feel the wetness of my pussy again. 

As I fingered the slippery bounty between my legs, I saw him move one of his strong hands down to his pants.  He slowly lowered his zipper.  The metal caught a streetlight and shot off a quick flash.  I imagined that it was my hand that tugged at his fly, my knuckles brushing against his pants.  As his pants parted, he reached in and pulled a long, smooth cock out of the darkness.  It stood erect, looking as smooth and sculptured as a mannequin.  In the half-light outside the window, I could see him stroking his thick and beautiful cock, his hand gliding effortlessly over it.  Wishing it was my hand, I moved closer to the window.  So did he. 

I sunk to the floor and inclined back slightly.  Spreading my legs wide before the window, I slid my hand down my body - silky, bountiful hair, elongated arching neck, breasts still overflowing my bra, my belly, soft and womanly - to that slick spot between my legs.  Slipping my finger back inside my waiting pussy, I caressed my clit with my thumb and watched him stroke his marvelous cock.  It stretched out toward the window, reaching, straining for me.  I penetrated myself deeper and harder, a second finger sliding into my cunt.  He was inside me.  I pushed my pussy up toward him, offering myself to him, reaching through the separation.  He moved his hips, lower and lower, bucking in and out as he fucked me. 

I felt my body tightening around him, enclosing him tightly, as I arched my back for the surge of climax.  My head was light as the tension mounted in my cunt and broke into a throb that shot through my body.  I cried out and so did he.  His white juice dripped down the glass.  I fell back in exhaustion, still seeing the white spot before me.  

Wanting breath, my body still charged, convulsions still reverberating throughout my body, my legs still spread before the window, I closed my eyes.  A tickle in my toes, a shudder at my shoulders, I opened my eyes and stared at the lights on the ceiling.  Instantaneously, inexplicably, I started, as if from a dream and realized where I was and what had happened.  I jolted to my knees, closing my legs and my blouse, only to find the man was no longer there.  Panicked, I jumped up on weak legs and ran to the door.  Still shaking, I somehow turned the locks and stepped out.

into the street.  I looked up and down the street, nowhere.  The street was silent and deserted.  I stood alone under the sky and the curve of a streetlamp.