His fantasies are elaborate, spanning days and distances. In them, he takes advantage of material and incorporeal opportunities that don’t exist for us. He gives me grace and purpose I don’t have. I’m not sure if he sees me better than I am or if he writes me as he wants me to be.
The woman in his fantasies, she has my green eyes, my voice, and shares my best intentions. She isn’t quite me, but I’m pleased to see some of myself in her. (Or is it her in me?)
What separates us is that she is far more adept at twisting and shaping him for some predetermined, dramatic climax. I have no such foresight and little self-control to moderate my impatience. I take what I want when I want it, and usually, I want it now.
What I want is often some little thing that gets stuck in my head. Those little things are what grow into obsessions and fuel my fantasies.
(an email to J)
When I think of you, when I want you the most, there’s no rope, no implements, and no agenda.
It’s just you and me and my want for some part of you, some little obsession I can’t get out of my head.
There’s that beautiful muscle just to the right (my right) of your throat that comes into relief when you’re not sure whether you want to move toward me or move away. That lovely little muscle just above your collarbone — it’s one of the few, rare ways you ever show hesitation. I love it when it betrays you.
That muscle. I want to wrap my teeth around it.
Feeling your hesitation, trapping it between my teeth, holding it there so we can both enjoy it… that’s what I’ve been wanting today.