I’m in love with a dick.

Okay, look, I know how that sounds.

You’re sitting there thinking, Oh no, one of those women. Not again!

Same shit, different story, right?

Boy meets girl, boy hurts girl, boy loses girl.

Cue rainy montage. Dark night of the soul. Grand gesture.

Blah blah blah.

She forgives him, they bang in the final chapters, and have a baby in the epilogue. Three hundred thousand words of unreleased bonus material in the back matter, and sign up here for my fucking newsletter!

You’ve heard this one before, right? Well, breathe a sigh of relief now, babe—because that’s not quite what I’m dealing with here.

See, when I first moved into the Bradford, I thought to myself, Fuck yeah, Quinn! You finally made it!

As far as starting your own company goes, this is pretty much the dream. I sold that enterprise for so much money that I’m set for life.

Cushy apartment in the swankiest apartment building in NYC. Black cherry Tesla in the garage downstairs. Yearly donations to every notable charity that’s batted its eyelashes at me.

And the investments I made with rest of that check are so solid and secure that even my spoiled future great-grandchildren won’t be able to squander this fortune. But then, when I least expected it, Cupid’s arrow misfired so fucking badly that I probably belong in like, I don’t know.

Maybe a mental hospital. Maybe hell.

See, big city apartment life isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be.

Sure, the Bradford is luxurious. In fact, it’s kind of like deep pockets Disneyland.

But in New York City, even buildings as swish and luxe as the Bradford have to be facing something. And in my case, for better or for worse, my apartment in the Bradford faces the Birmingham.

The Birmingham is this gorgeous old building. Brick and mortar—real old timey architecture. Sure, it needs a little work, but if you ask me, it’s fucking beautiful.

The Birmingham isn’t the problem here—the dick that lives in the Birmingham is.

On my first morning in my brand new apartment at the Bradford, I woke up in my big, plush bed in my silkiest La Perla nightie. For some reason, I just had this feeling it was going to be the most glorious day of my entire fucking life.

I rolled out of bed and into my slippers, then padded across my hardwood floor to the pretty yellow curtains that cover my ceiling-high bedroom windows. I pulled back those curtains with the biggest damn smile on my face—

And that’s when I saw him.

No. Wait. Not him. If there was him involved, I wouldn’t have such a fucking problem.

No, what I saw was really more of an it.

But god…what a majestic it it was.

Across the street in the apartment facing mine—twelve inches long, thick as a sailor’s wrist—uncut, perfectly shaped, fully erect, and saluting me like a valiant soldier to the Red, White, and Blue…

The biggest, most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen in my life was staring back at me, and I fell in love right then and there.

Sometimes in life, you look at something and realize that everything about it is just right. Dark, inky black curls of pubic hair. Thighs so powerful and muscular they could crush a watermelon between them with a single twitch of their rippling sinew.

And the balls—oh god, the balls! They were like two billiard cues stuffed in a cashmere tube sock, dangling so perfectly I just wanted to kneel before them, feeling them slap against my chin while I sucked them fucking dry.

I saw god in that dick that day. I just wish I could’ve seen more. Because as gorgeous and perfect and world-changingly awesome as that dick was…the man it belonged to was obscured from the waist up.

Fucking privacy blinds. Only a fuckwit at the Birmingham would go through the struggle of installing privacy blinds then only lower them halfway down.

The result was fucking infuriating.

It was the emotional equivalent of building a house of cards, only for some bastard to blow the whole thing down as you place the final peak. Ever since that day, that dick has haunted me.

It’s become my Lolita, my white whale, my one-armed man, so to speak.

I fell in love with that dick, but it was an empty love.

Or, maybe it was just a wake-up call: my pussy is empty, and I only realized how empty it was right then. On that day, I realized exactly how many holes I had to fill—and once I saw that dick, I knew that only that dick could ever possibly fill them to a point where I could be satisfied.

But what the fuck am I supposed to do?

Count the floors and windows of the Birmingham, bribe my way inside, knock on his door and tell him, “Excuse me, sir—your cock is truly divine. Might I put my lips around it until it explodes on my tongue, pretty please?”

Come on—let’s be real. That would be fucking insane.

Plus, I always chicken out just before the part where I knock on his door.

I tear my eyes away from my window—because of fucking course it’s there, just across the street, making my pussy wet and my knees weak. The Dick operates like clockwork: it’s there every morning when I wake up and every night just before I fall asleep.

It thrusts between my tits during my REM cycle—because when I do dream, I dream of dick. Sometimes I wish I’d never seen that dick at all.

No other man will ever satisfy me now—not now that I know exactly how gorgeous a dick can truly be.

Other times, I’m glad. At least now I know that the pinnacle of perfect manhood has finally been reached. It lives across the street, where I can see it twice a day in real life and all day long in my mind.