Presented without context… an email to J.
I’m so fucking delighted by what you wrote and the way you wrote it that I’d feel dishonest if I didn’t respond with something immediately.
I’ll send a proper response soon — not because you need a response, but because the unrelenting stomach flips I’m experiencing are starting to make me nauseous and I need to find equilibrium. You, love, are my equilibrium.
For now, you should know that I’m pleased. So fucking pleased.
And when you receive my response, please know it isn’t my real response. My real response can’t be translated into words–it’s an unintelligible growl, fevered skin, soaked panties, and pangs of I-can’t-quite-describe-what… equally present in my heart and in my cunt.
Sure, I can see that some of what you disclosed is topically “old news,” but the approach and the articulation is entirely new (to me). There’s no need to convince me that responding to my request made you uncomfortable… so sweetly awkward and beautifully vulnerable. :) That was obvious… and and so fucking lovely.
I’m not proud that your discomfort and your vulnerability make me hopelessly wet. What I’m not ashamed of is the fact it makes my heart lurch with the all-consuming want to kiss you (and then squeeze you between my palms until you’re small enough to shove into my mouth and swallow whole).
So I guess my initial response is this: You’re fucking beautiful. You’re a good boy. And you’re mine.
My real response is this: [unintelligible….] Please get here soon. I’m wet and I’m a mess and I want nothing more than your lips and tongue and your sweet face. I want your words and I want your silence. You need to get me off and clean me up and then you need to put me back together in some semblance of working order.
I need you.