Basic Bitches Finish First

I’m a basic bitch. I drink pumpkin spice lattes from Peet’s coffee in autumn. I wear Lululemon to the gym. You’ll find seasonally appropriate decorative hand towels and scented candles from TJ Maxx in the bathrooms of my house. Basically, I live my life enjoying the widely-derided, mass-produced luxuries marketed to single women of a certain age. 

When I was sixteen, I lied to the DMV and told them I was five-foot-three. As we all know, an inch can make a big difference. I’m five-two in stacked heels and have a full head of gray, undyed hair. I don’t botox (yet), but I do take care of my skin, and my gym routine keeps me slim. I don’t want you to think it’s a “perfect” body. I have, as a drunk Caltech student yelled out to me once while I was walking home, “nice tits to ass ratio,” but instead of sculpted abs I have a pooch belly. I’m in my mid-forties, and I’m happy with my body as it is. 

You, Jason Ahn, you’re an inch short of six feet, about 145 pounds, and, if my trig is correct, a dick about eleven inches. You are perfection incarnate. We are early risers, and for the past two years, we’ve both found ourselves pedaling away at the five o’clock HIIT class at the Green Street gym. We don’t speak much. Sometimes you help me adjust my bike and sometimes you lean over and whisper, “Hey, you got your shirt on backwards again.” 

I don’t know if you think of me at all, but at night, I masturbate myself to sleep thinking of you. Most nights, I imagine you are lying in my bed, cock erect.

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