Seriously . . . did they all think that I would ever be like them?

My two older sisters, Addison and Ashley, have already done the prim-and-proper thing to perfection. Hiking on the weekends, fashionable save-the-world hash-tag campaigns that accomplish nothing but make them feel good about themselves while not having to put in any real effort, gluten- and GMO-free diets to impress their peer groups. Not to mention the right grades, the right degrees, the right husbands, now the right babies with the right upper-crust names . . . Braddock Elton and Mary Althorp.

I know, right?

I, on the other hand, have been fantasizing about one thing since I was twelve. Maybe even before.

Dick.

When I saw my first penis, I knew my destiny. People all around me talked about all the things they wanted, all the places they wanted to go, all the music and movies they wanted to see.

Yeah, I found all that boring as shit. Music, fashion, movies, food . . . it’s all nice, but a firm solid cock is the only thing that truly sends me there.

You know there? Yeah, you do. We all have a there. It’s that place and time when we’re completely fulfilled, when we’re in a state of . . . what do they call it? Flow? Bliss? Some shit like that.

Whatever it is, nothing has ever got me there better or faster than a thick hard rod in my mouth. Or my pussy. Or my ass. Well, okay, I don’t know about that last one . . . yet.

Not that I’m a big slut or anything, don’t get me wrong. So far, it’s just my thoughts that are sluts. I’ve only had three boyfriends and only had sex with two. There was Brian in high school, then Todd who was my first, and then Chad in college.

(Oh yeah, and there was the incident with Trevor. Not sure if that counts, though.)

Chad is supposedly the perfect boyfriend. Everybody keeps telling me so. Looks like a goddamned Kennedy with tousled prep-school hair. Handsome. Smart. My mom fucking loves him.

Well, why don’t you fucking marry him then, Ma?

I did enjoy Chad’s seven thick inches and how he shot sweet cum down my throat like a geyser. Only reason I stayed with him for so long. Otherwise, he was meh on the manly scale. He let me lead everywhere we went. Always asked my opinion before making a decision.

I fucking hate that.

I still haven’t found a man who is able to control me, to dominate me, to command me. A man who will make me do very dirty, nasty things. And I’m talking really fucking dirty and really fucking nasty . . . the stuff that most women will never admit turns them on.

I went through a phase where I was addicted to those kinky porn sites . . . the really dirty ones with the girls tied up in refurbished armories getting whipped and fucked while begging for more. I had to stop because they made me too horny, only to realize that there’s nobody around to fulfill my submissive fantasies.

Chad, the perfect boyfriend, wouldn’t do anything even remotely un-vanilla. Not even anal, which I practically begged for. I mean, come on! What guy doesn’t want anal? Jeez.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate Chad. He’s a good guy, really.

But I don’t know anymore if I can ever be that girl, the homespun, baby-making cookie-baking wife he wants. Someone who wants to clean house, plant a tomato garden, and host wine parties while he practices law and eventually runs for political office . . . yuck! The very thought sends me into a panic.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just a slut, right? A whore. Well, fuck it, I’m going to Miami to find out. I so need to experience new things.

My official plan is to spend a month with my Facebook friend—soon to be real-life friend—Karissa at her apartment. My unofficial plan is to find a job and stay longer. I pat my purse, inside of which is a secret debit card with my own money. Well, sort of my own money, anyway.

I look over at Mr. Ray-Ban again, wondering if he’d do dirty, nasty, filthy things to me. Bet he would. He’d tie me up, blindfold me, gag me, spank me, invade me every way possible.

God, I bet his eyes are killer under those Ray-Bans. I think he’s asleep. Do you think anyone would notice if I went over and sucked on the fingers of that dangling hand? Yeah, probably.

I look back out the window at the coastline of . . .  what? . . . North Carolina? South Carolina? Where the fuck are we right now?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, holding it for a count of seven. Then I let it out slowly for a count of fourteen. I can feel the low hum of the airplane sending ripples of energy up my thighs and into my crotch. It morphs into a rare blind courage.

Fuck, I’ve got to do something!

I adjust my pants so my ass crack shows. I adjust my tight T-shirt, fully exposing my tummy and lower back.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but suddenly power and confidence charge through me.

Gingerly, I get up out of my seat and into the aisle, avoiding the holier-than-thou stare of the old prude. On purpose, I smash into Mr. Ray-Ban’s dangling hand with my left leg.

As if God himself was trying to help me in my quest . . . although it’s probably the other guy . . . turbulence hits the plane and we shake violently. I trip and fall to my left, landing right on top of him, crotch splayed on his thigh.

Just as quickly as it started, the turbulence is over. Thank you, up there . . . or down there. Whoever. Just thank you.

He wakes with a start, his dangling hand absentmindedly moving up to my ass as he looks up at me, my fiery wetness now only three thin layers of fabric removed from his muscular thigh.

“Sorry,” I say as I attempt to get back up. I look directly at his expressionless face. Damn, I can’t see anything behind those fucking Ray-Bans.

“It’s okay,” he says in a voice that penetrates me with its power, an even but rough tone with a hint of evil, his hand still on my ass. He squeezes.

Oh God, I’m so on the edge I might blow!

As I move upward to climb off him, his hand glides to the top of my white pants, snaking a finger over them and into the top of my ass crack where he presses hard on my tailbone. He pulls me back downward, forcing my spread legs down firmly onto his thigh. Then he slides me forward a little.

Like he and God have a deal, the plane shakes massively again, gyrating me both up-and-down and forwards-and-backwards on his steely leg. At the same moment, he lowers the Ray-Bans and hits my soul with the most beautiful, glowing, light sapphire eyes I’ve ever seen.

I try not to scream as I come.

Yep, it happens. I actually come.

I shake a little, the orgasm passing through my body.

I told you I’m not normal. Weren’t you reading? I’m horny like a fourteen-year old boy, what can I say? I can’t control it. Yes, it’s that easy with me.

He looks up at me and smiles a tiny flash of perfectly white teeth in the middle of thick but masculine lips surrounded by day-old stubble. Then he raises the Ray-Bans back into place and lets go, his hand returning to its pointless dangle.

I consider biting his chin, but we’ve already attracted enough attention. God, I hope people couldn’t tell.

“Some turbulence,” I say.

“I know,” he says in that goddamned evil steady tone that puts another orgasm on deck.

I’d better get up fast before I launch again.

I climb back into the aisle and catch the eye of the woman sitting behind him. If looks could kill. Uptight bitch.

Shit, could everyone see that? I didn’t yelp or anything. He knew, though. He knew he made me come.

“Well, thanks,” I say, realizing how stupid that sounds. Thanks for the orgasm, have a nice day.

He just continues to lightly smile, his face unmoving. Fuck, he could be back asleep again for all I know.