meeting the masturbator

i finally met her.
well, first i met her ass.
she was bent over in a pair of spandex tights. the fabric had thinned (or escaped to freedom), so i could clearly see her moon-pale ass rising and rolling out of that fabric like dough that had cracked-out on yeast.
the rest of her followed suit. if the michelin man had a sister--michelina, no doubt--she would pretty much look like this. pale, marshmellowey, with rolls and muffin tops and loaves coming at you from so many angles you'd swear you were at a pillsbury convention.
her voice was thick too and had the bitter, hardened edge of a woman whose pussy has seen more batteries and plastic than a mattel factory. she was standing on the steps leading up to her apartment when i asked her if she was my upstairs neighbor. yes, she said. i introduced myself, and then we stared at each other. her probably thinking, "i wonder if she's going to have thugs over here and play rap music." me thinking, "i can totally hear you fucking yourself." the moment ended with me simply walking away, feeling oddly satisfied. the chronic masturbation suddenly made sense, AND my theory that it was in fact a one person act i had repeatedly been awakened by seemed completely plausible. i mean, no one's tapping that. and NOT because she's a big girl. big girls need and receive plenty of love (more power to them), but when you tack on 5-6 decades, a stank attitude, anti-social tendencies and spandex, it's a recipe for not getting laid. now her exuberant self-gratification is justifiable, and i am somewhat comforted. that doesn't mean i excuse it, enjoy it or am not freaked out by it, but i feel better than i did when i thought she was merely some sex-addicted, big time exec who just didn't have time for a man. selfish and ridiculous, yes. but so is humping a fake dick so hard you wake up your neighbor.
i have since invested in ear plug balls and a radio on which i sometimes play rap music in L.A.