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C|Suite is a men's magazine founded by Frank Cervi. It combines urban/office life-style articles with soft-core pornographic pictorials. In recent years, C-Suite introduced the 'letters' column in which readers send in borderline ridiculous sexcapades, resulting often in explicit and unnecessary detail.
Friend With Benefits
C|Suite Letters
Dear C|Suite: There comes a point, in every Thirty-year-old woman’s life, when she starts to consider the following: I need to stop sleeping with fuck bois; I just really need a friend with ‘benefits’.
My loins still long for a lion in the long grass, but I was starting to consider the thought of presenting myself to a pack mule, also. Working as a ‘social media account manager’ at a non-profit was my dream career. The problem I was finding, though, is that there are no good men to flirt with here at work. Heck, there are no good men around, period.
I am a strong and independent woman, where is my prince to take care of me, to love me? I am ready for him. I've had my fun...for now. I am just starting to think that all the business men that I meet, or any man that I’d consider marrying, are just too intimidated by a fierce and sassy girl like me. Why doesn't anybody want to put a ring on it?
I will admit, I can be a bit picky. In my twenties, I went through a bit of a phase in where I would only fuck Black dudes: I got my first tattoo at 18; it was a lower-back embroidering of the words “Your destiny is inside me”— in cursive, of course.
I then had some vague, inspirational quote tattooed above my left breast and also on one of my shoulder blades: It gave guys something to read, ponder if you will, while they fucked me from the front; flipped me over to finish the story from behind.
Guys could stare at two works of art while we consumed each other in a fiery bliss of hot-liquid, magma from our nether regions.
Black dudes seemed to fill the void in my life rather effectively. Being filled-full by a thick tootsie cock was just something I couldn’t get enough of.
However, over the years, my vagina had paid the price from the amount of pussy-pounding I took from Darrel, DeShawne, Naquin,Daquinder,Daquan, Labrion, Tyrone, Trevon, Darnell, DeAndre, etc.
After getting my head banged for years against the headboards of strange beds, I started to bang my own. So, without the help of anyone, I did what I thought was best in order to find the man of my dreams; a man that could take care of my other needs. I am a strong and independently fierce woman.
I took to Tinder.
Being so awesome and unique, I crafted one of the best bio’s I'd ever had to write in my life on social media. A bio so intriguing, so different from all the other sluts on Tinder, it was bound to catch my 'big fish'; my Whale.
It read as follows: Red Wine enthusiast, fur momma who loves adventure and travel. Just a career-girl looking for someone to care for me and my fur-babies. If my dogs don’t like you, then I most certainly won’t! Not looking for hook-ups, just a friend with benefits.
It worked, to some extent. I did garner a lot of attention and swipes to the right for my profile. However, all of the guys just wanted sex. They all seemed confused by my two statements of ‘Not looking for hook-ups’, and that I was in the market for a ‘friend with benefits’.
Like, hello? I am clearly looking for a man with benefits: Dental, vision, massage, acupuncture, etc.
Gosh, guys are so dumb sometimes!
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Finally, though, I matched with a guy named Eugene: A young Bay Street Jew, up-and-coming in the investment world. I told him right off the bat that I wasn’t into ‘playing games’ and that I wanted a friend with benefits.
I asked him if he had any benefits with his firm. I then told him to Snapchat his pay-stubs and Desjardins profile to me, so that I could see if he could provide me with said benefits.
Everything seemed satisfactory to me; I sent him some nudes afterwards (topless with panties on); he wanted to then meet for drinks the following Friday. I obliged, naturally; drinks are expensive in Toronto. We talked about life, how I wanted to see the world; Eugene talked about how his balls percolated every time he looked at my Snapchat pics.
More importantly, I almost broke down in front of Eugene; tearing at the eyes about how I needed surgery. He thought I had something terminal, but really, it was much worse than that.
I needed labiaplasty.
I told him, in a sort of white lie if you will that it was due to being a chronic masturbator (much less embarrassing than my Black dude fetish); the result from the heavy usage of cheap dildos bought through Amazon’s Prime membership.
That confession seemed to have turned him on…to me more. He ‘respected my honesty’. I told him that finding a good man is hard in this day and age, but at the same time, a woman has needs; hence the heavy use of dildo/vibes; the needs to refurbish my vagina.
Eugene was so sweet. He never asked me about all the Black guys who had fucked me over the years. My labiaplasty sob story seemed to play out well on him.This went on for a couple weeks, Eugene and I going back and forth on dates, until he finally asked me if I wanted to move into his penthouse with him, fur-babies and all.
About a month in to living together, the issue of ‘rent’ had come up. Coincidentally, that night, I had the urge to perform oral on Eugene; he didn’t bring up rent after that. Then, one night, I let Eugene fuck me in my ass; he bought me diamond earrings.
A month later, another romantic eve had followed in where Eugene was on the bed with scattered bills to pay; Hydro, credit cards, car payments, insurance and of course, rent was due as well. He looked stressed, so I took my clothes off and slowly climbed onto the bed, layed on my back, and put my knees toward my ears; presented my prize to Eugene. He looked flummoxed, “But…you never let me pile-drive your vagina.”
I told him that for the longest time I had been insecure about him feeling himself inside of me….in that way (vaginally). That he wouldn’t like how my 'mashed-up potato' would feel, instead of my tight asshole to which hadn’t been used and abused as much, by my ‘incessant need to fuck myself' with large dildos over the years. How Black guys can really tear-up a girl’s lady parts like a backhoe during an excavation.
After Eugene made tender love to my vaginal pool—treating my pussy like an oil well—he finished on my chest; the way I wanted him to. In the afterglow of orgasm, Eugene kissed me as he pulled his bishop out of my castle's town well, and told me that he was going to pay for my labiaplasty. We both wanted the same thing: For my pussy to be great, again.
Admittedly, now, I wanted to fuck Black dudes, again. To feel the swell of an anaconda sneak around my canopy; enter my lagoon and dig for gold beneath my wet marsh. Can't a girl dream?
And with a new and improved, tighter vagina, I could really get myself back out there into the dating scene and not worry about Tyrone making rude comments about how he can’t ‘feel me’ anymore. Or how my pussy use to look like that small center dot of a apple pie, instead of a pastry that had been punched four or five times; a minced mess.
My doctor said that with surgery and a lot of Kegel exercises, I could shave five years of fucking off my vagina; a Thirty-year old pussy, more like Twenty-five. He said, though, to not literally shave my pussy, rather to keep a decent bush in order to hide the stretch marks from the years of taking Black dick like it was going out of fashion. A toll a girl must pay, unfortunately, for believing in diversity.
When you are a horny, Thirty-Something woman like me, it is always a good idea to have friends with benefits...and a good surgeon.
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