Confronting My Surreptitious Hatred of Men

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“Ms Fontainbleu, my verdict is thirty-six hours of community service. Failure to comply will result in a two-year prison sentence.” There were consequences for my hatred of men.

That was the second time I appeared before a judge for road rage. The chauvinistic pigs, whom society refers to as men, crossed my path again. Two hooligans speeding in a BMW on a suburban road swerved into my lane. When I caught up with them at the traffic light, I got out of the car and pummeled the bonnet. The youngsters got a fright when I dented the passenger door with my karate kicks. I was content with sending a message not to mess with a robust woman.

Avoiding contact with men has been my life purpose. I have been single my entire life and worked at an insurance company covering only women since I graduated from university, and I exercise at a female gym.

On my first day of community service at the nursing home, I had to report to Sandy. “Welcome to Greysville Retirement Centre.”

I kept staring at him without responding, feeling foolish for thinking that it would be a woman. My nightmare didn’t end there.

I gasped as I walked in. A lump developed in my throat, and my lungs clogged up as I looked at the emblem in the lounge—Greysville Retirement Centre for Men.

I repressed my regurgitation for the sake of my freedom as I shook his hand. Wolves had surrounded me and were eager to pounce as I walked into the lounge. Unfortunately for them, I was no sheep.

After the tour, I wanted to dart for the door, but Sandy reminded me of my shackles. “I’ve been informed by the courts that I have to sign off the papers after you’ve completed your hours.”

How bad could my tasks be? I figured the brunt of it would be keeping the men company.

“Most of the pensioners are limited physically, which means part of your responsibility will be to change their clothing, feed them and escort them to the bathroom,” said Sandy.

My jaw lowered, and my eyes widened while listening to the death penalty. Physical contact with men equated to incarceration to me, so I stormed out.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of getting your hands dirty,” Sandy yelled at me from the front door as I entered my car.

The one word nobody dared to affiliate with my name was ‘scared.’ I marched up to Sandy and said, “Point me towards my first grind.”

He smiled and showed me. Sandy’s cheekiness reminded me of myself. He was unlike the few men I had encountered, especially my father.

The arduous tasks of wiping the old men’s mouths, removing their pants and brushing their hair did not get more comfortable with repetition. Most of them treated me with respect except for one audacious soul, whom I walloped when he pinched my bum.

Sandy’s guidance helped to ease the burden of engaging with men. He had volunteered his services for the last five years. One of the things I admired about him is that his smile chaperoned him everywhere. He had a contagious smile, something I had not shown in years.

Sandy often stayed late to ensure the pensioners had fallen asleep and in case of emergencies during the night. The retirees loved his caring temperament. He dedicated a lot of his time to conversing with the men as he felt they were bored and lonely.

I sat in the lounge without blinking, only looking straight ahead. “You okay?” asked Sandy. “Seems like you’ve got something on your mind. I’m a good listener, and I’m non-judgemental.”

“No. I’m fine.” My tone was icy.

Sandy backed off after several attempts when he saw I was not going to budge. I admired his determination, but my past was impenetrable.

In the morning, sweat covered my face due to the recurring nightmare I had since I was a teenager. Years of therapy had not helped me to overcome the trauma.

At five o’clock as everybody abandoned the office, I could not recollect what I had done during the day. I always feared that the ordeal would affect my mental health, and now, it seemed imminent.

My attempt to be furtive at the nursing home failed as Sandy noticed my odd behaviour. “What’s going on, Amber? You’ve misplaced every pensioner’s belongings, not to mention letting Mr Thompson take his pills unsupervised.”

My chin lowered, hearing the disappointment in his voice. He was the only man I did not want to disenchant. “Sorry, Sandy. I’m a bit unfocused because my boss gave me grief.”

Lying to him may have patched the wound of my mishaps, but it prolonged my torment. I thought about confiding in him on several occasions, but I could not risk becoming attached to him.

After the hour at the nursing home, I drove to the nearest Chinese restaurant since I was not in the mood to cook. The couple sitting at the table in front of me gazed in each other’s eyes. The lady put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm as her eyes glistened at the man. I sighed, disappointed that my life had not turned out similarly. The one thing I knew was that ridding myself of the hatred would open my heart to love men.

At home, I reached for my favourite romance movie. A man got on the bed and slithered on top of the woman. That was all I needed to get in the mood. I closed my eyes and slid my hand up my shirt, squeezing my breast and circling my nipple with my finger.

I unzipped my pants, pulled down my g-string and ran my hand over my pussy. My two fingers slipped inside, making my pussy wetter. I closed my eyes and pictured a thick dick inside me, pounding my wall.

My head craned up, and my mouth opened as I drilled my pussy with my fingers. I moaned and ran my hand down my leg, then tapped my clitoris.

“Aaahhhh. Ah, yes. Oh, God. Yes. Hmmm.”

Fluid squirted out of my pussy as my leg trembled, and I grimaced.

I wiped the fluid off the floor and got dressed. As I watched the movie, I realised that my physical and mental torment were intertwined. Forming a relationship with a man was the only way for me to heal. The decision of which man to

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Written by EroticaLust
Cargado November 15, 2021
Notes Amber is sentenced to a male retirement centre, despite not liking men. Does she find love?
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