College sluts have needs only old men can fulfill

She showed up to his door with a thin excuse and thinner patience, fingers already working the buttons of her shirt before he'd finished saying hello. Twenty years between them and she felt every one of them in the deliberate way his hands moved — no urgency, no fumbling.

He read her body like something he'd studied, pressing exactly where she arched, pausing exactly where she gasped. Her textbooks sat forgotten in the bag she'd dropped in the hallway.

By the third hour she understood what her roommates meant. Experience doesn't announce itself. It just works, methodically, until you're flushed and grateful and already thinking about next Tuesday.