An open letter to future lovers

When I say "I want you," it is not simply some carnal desire that I'm expressing. It is the need to lose myself in you, to let the sensation of your skin, your touch, your scent, your breath, your hands, your lips overwhelm me until it is like so much surf crashing against the shoreline of my being. The need to have my ears filled with nothing but white noise, a static buzz that roars and roars until I fall into it, lost, my eyes closed, dropping further and further into the feelings that you give me.

And all this is simply desire for you - it is what happens in my mind when we build it up, slow, tentative, getting tangled up in each other, unhurriedly uncovering each other with nothing particular in mind. For me, the journey is gorgeous, with many many possibilities, opportunities just waiting to be taken. I almost never make it to a destination, so I have stopped planning for it or expecting to get anywhere.

Perhaps you will at some point understand how elusive and transitory orgasm is for me. I can't even get myself off without needing an image in my head of something so lascivious, so filthy that it drives me over the edge. My mind is a maze full of leather and chains, soft words and hard smacks, humiliation and praise, delicate touch and pain, exposure and privacy, tenderness and sternness all coalescing into this whirlpool which I struggle to hide from the world, for I doubt that ordinary society could ever understand or accept the things that float my boat.

The point is: if you care to come, I'd love to let you in, show you around, let you play curator to the museum of oddities in my mind. It's almost all in the mind (it always is - much more than most people like to admit). The more you explore my mind, the better you'll know me. And the better you know me, the further you'll be able to push me. And I want you to push me. I want you to want to push me.

How do you like it?

How do you like hair? Do you like it short? Long? Tied up? Worn down, cascading over my shoulders, so you can tangle your fingers in it when you reach for the back of my neck? In a loose, tuggable braid? Left to fall wildly over your face as we kiss, as I straddle you?

How do you like clothes? Do you think they’re a hindrance – or another part of the mystery? Do you like them layered, so that you can unwrap me, one piece at a time? Or do you prefer something that you can pull off me in one smooth move? Do you like figure-hugging dresses? Skirts you can slip your hand under? Shirts you can casually unbutton while we’re out, making me blush and bite my lip at the rush it gives me? Skinny jeans that cling to my curves, leaving nothing to the imagination? Billowing garments that reveal nothing except the outline of my collarbone? Do you like hints of cleavage, of the curve of my ass, of the strip of skin at my lower back as my top rides up, of the underside of my thigh as I cross my legs? Do you like to undress me yourself, or does it heighten your pleasure to watch me strip for you?

Do you like it when I wear heels? Do you think about how the added height makes us meld together perfectly, how you don’t have to bend to kiss me, and I don’t have to reach to grind against you? How you could just take me up against the wall without any manoeuvring, all because I’m wearing shoes that bring us eye to eye, lip to lip, crotch to crotch?

How do you like nails? Painted, to match my lips, toes flashing colour as I arch below you? Long, so I can drag them down your back as we fuck? Trimmed short, so you can watch me play with myself?

Do you like to watch?

I should...

I can still taste the vodka on my breath as I type this. I've spent the last half hour aimlessly driving around town instead of going home because there’s something soothing about speeding down a dark road in a closed metal box while music plays loud enough to drown everything else out, leaving you alone with your thoughts. And there’s something even better about being absorbed in those thoughts as a song winds down, with nothing but the whine of the engine in the background telling you that you’re hurtling through the night.

My thoughts were simple, and focused. On you.

One of these days, I really must put everything aside and act on those thoughts.

As you turn to leave after hugging me goodbye, I should grab your hand and say, “stay”.

As you walk away at the end of the night, I should call out, “come back”.

And instead of saying goodbye and filling the space with silly closing lines, about how nice it was or how I’ll see you soon, I really should just drop the pretence, lose the façade, look you in the eye and say something real. Something that makes you stop thinking for a second, something that makes it real for you too.

And in that moment, while we’re both looking at each other, acknowledging that there’s something here, something between us, I should just fuck all the doubts and the what-ifs and the buts and do what I've wanted to for so long: lean in and kiss you.

Want, Circa 2007

(I)

Want him. So bad.

Want to kiss him, full on the lips, as hard as I can. Delve deep into his mouth with my tongue, explore it to the fullest. Breathe as he breathes, take his being into myself.

Want to press against him, wrap myself around him, be locked in his arms with no chance or hope of escape. Feel our clothes getting in the way, slip my hands under his shirt and let them play over his skin. Feel the heat emanating from our bodies. Feel the pressing need to be close, to be one, to come together. Feel the powerful ache of desire for him.

Want him to feel me, hold me, crush me in his grip. Want him to claim me, make me his in every way, leave his distinctive mark on me. Want him to make me incapable of moving, incapable of being anywhere but there.


(II)

The slightest touch sending jolts through me. Waiting, ticking like a bomb, ready to explode. Just need that little bit more.

Thought excites.
Touch excites.
Need excites.
Presence excites.
Looks excite.
Everything excites.

To the point of desperation. To the point of my nearly losing my mind, losing control, and doing what I want so badly to do...

Crash into him. At every level.

From the mouths of babes

(All right - not babes, exactly. But I was clearly quite certain about these things at age 18. This is from a recently discovered stash of old notes from college.)

We are all sexual perverts. We all want to feel the violence of sex, the animalism that takes over the human mind during the act, and the inhuman pleasure that we derive from it.
The demeaning treatment that so arouses us.
The force that makes us surrender ourselves.
The raw feeling of pain and pleasure being brought together in one big, wet, sticky mess.

We all want it.