I told him one of my fantasies. One of the ones I'd been afraid to tell him.
Then he showed me one of his own secrets, and it nearly matched mine.
Said I'd earned it.
I've never touched myself anywhere but a private place before, have I mentioned? But while we were writing those scenes in private, handful of days at a time, I broke down once in the public bathroom at work. Couldn't help it, couldn't handle it, couldn't focus on my mindless fucking job at the register.
I wanted you. I fantasized about having you there in that narrow stall, stainless steel fogged with your breath as we failed to be quiet, hinges creaking, the slap of a palm sliding down the wall.
The packer came in the mail the other day. I've never seen a living, breathing penis before. That was the closest I'd ever come to one, and I can't believe they're so squishy and stretchy and beautiful. Gorgeous curves, symmetry, utility defining the elegance of an efficient form. Felt like a kid watching somebody eat a bigger slice of chocolate cake than me, jealous, hungry, hey man, I want one of those. Me, too. I want an organ designed for pleasure big enough to fill my fist. I want more options than to be penetrated. I want more sensation than simply being breached.
I want to feel something more than an echo when I buck my hips into yours. I want your gasp sharper, harsher, broken by an intensity you can't describe, only react to. I want to pin you in place when you're lifted flush against me, I want to write my name on your insides. I want to make you mine and in taking give everything to you, forfeit thought, reason, response, control for the raw, overwhelming instinct.
I want to write like that with you again because there I can be that, I can do that, I am able and I can learn to bring it out of only text. It's like old times. That old dance, that old ignition. That old sun burning brightly between the lines and I can feel you in there grinning back at me. Love that feeling.
The reality of it keeps me alive.