He is delicious to think of. The almost forbidden fruit that draws you in as much with its promise of hidden treasures as well as its taboo nature.
It could also be that as the fateful date draws near – just nine more days now – my frayed nerves are locked tight in a ball. Thoughts flit through my mind like arrows, barely in focus long enough for me to read the printed words on the shaft.
Apprehension is the overruling emotion. I almost want to cancel on him save for the fact that I don’t know if he would entertain me again if I did that. And well, if I am to be perfectly honest, I do very much terribly want to see him.
The thing is, this doesn’t make any sense.
This. This apprehension is unfounded, this fear is uncalled for, this anticipation is all the more ridiculous.
Perhaps I’d best start at the beginning.
If there is to be a point defined as the beginning, I think he and I would agree that the date would be that fateful day in November. It was our first date; a short sojourn at a bar followed by what wasn’t yet sex but could have been.
I had forced the date. It was to be my last “test” of sorts, my last chance to bail out of his enticing offer. By the end of the date, I’d told myself, I’d know, I’d know whether I would go through with this. Not whether I’d want to – because who in their right mind would turn down someone like him- but whether I would go through with it, thereby starting a new chapter in my life.
I was terribly taken with him. He had come on to me – or rather, we’d come on to each other – sharing words over text. Of course, we’d met before, and we met here and there again within our group but we’d never chanced it alone with each other. Not before that night at least.
We couldn’t be more different and yet our words mirrored each other; we shared an easy chemistry; teasing and prodding with our words, challenging, charming and comforting each other in our disparate lives. Our attraction for each other plainly obvious.
We drank each other’s words in thirstily – at least for a brief period of time.
I don’t know what happened next; perhaps life picked up, perhaps he moved on to someone new, perhaps we ran out of words to say to each other, perhaps this became blase, perhaps I did something to encourage the distance. I never asked, never questioned the fragile rapport of our indiscretions for I knew going into this that I were just one of many. What right had I to ask? I chose this and the only option open to me was either continued acceptance or a total rejection of the terms.
We drifted yet further apart, our fortnightly associations becoming monthly and then, with a push from me, ceasing altogether.
I haven’t seen him since May. Or was it April? I haven’t shared a heartfelt talk with him for months.
He doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know my name, where I live, what I do, how I’m truly like behind the facade he’s used to. He doesn’t know how easily I can fall apart at the merest hint of mental strain, he doesn’t know how much I struggle with being accepted, he doesn’t know just how lonely I can feel.
That’s what makes this so entirely comical.
I like him oh so terribly but he wouldn’t want me if he knew me.
For what he knows of me is limited to the vagaries of my sexual nature. He knows how my eyes light up when I see him, he knows how my breath catches at my throat when he grazes lightly against my skin, he knows how I’ll always struggle against his weight – in vain – when he pins me down, he knows how I’ll drop to my knees without command and take him in my silky mouth, he knows how I’ll lose time doing that giving myself over to the pleasure of making him moan, he knows how I like to ride him while looking into his eyes challenging him to come for me, he knows how I love nothing better than to slap him and have him return the favour, savouring the burning sensation, he knows how I kiss him always holding a little back because I’m not completely comfortable with kisses, he knows how I like to scratch gently at his scalp while he rests, he knows how I laugh and say “I think I love you.” and “Thank you.” after each encounter.
But what else does he know of me? Or I of him?
Tony Kushner wrote, “It is impossible to write about sex and not reveal too much of yourself. Whereas I think it is possible to have sex and reveal nothing of yourself whatsoever.”
And perhaps this is where the crux of the matter lies.
For between us we have exchanged perhaps a thousand messages, probably more – some chaste with an underlying hint of sex, some outright suggestive material that would still make me colour if chanced upon.
And it is so terribly difficult to have shared so much of yourself without feeling just how vulnerable that makes you – this apprehension, this fear, this anticipation – everything rides upon meeting him again.