I have this fantasy of renting an airbnb near you. You could come over every day, and we could cook for one another. You could tell me how many hugs per day I was allowed to hug you, and I could max out my quota.
You liked my visit fantasy, when I texted it to you; it was sweet, your enthusiastic reaction to the idea of me as a hurricane. What just happened here, Hurricane Nest, 777. A powerful hurricane to impact and change you. But you didn’t say yes, and I didn’t make the reservations.
To feed you and to hold you–that’s what I want. Long walks where you’d teach me the plants would be a heavenly bonus. And to see the sea life, a graph lesson, can control, to sing.
I would hold you as long as you let me, my body with your body, an honest embrace. I’d breathe with you, smell you, feel your bones, your heartbeat, the texture of your clothes.
Can I hold your hand, as we pray before eating, candle lit at the table? If I cry, that’s ok.
To hold you, I would hope to kindle desire in your body and take you inside of me. All you would like to put inside me–your dick, your love, your semen planted up against my cervix or pulsed into the back of my throat, your long gorgeous fingers, your attention, your smells, some small swirls of your spirit, your voice.
I want that resonant voice, its vibrations emerging from you and touching my entire body. The sacred voice vibrations on my internal organs, my feet, my heart, my cunt. Shining on my face like the sun. Just that would be worth the trip. For you to speak to me, in person.
I don’t need the sex, but I really want it. But certainly, it wouldn’t be enough, to do it once or those few days of a visit. I would fall deeper in love with you, and want to make love with you every day for the rest of my life. I know myself well enough to know that.
Never before have I loved someone like you, the joker artist who invites chaos and sculpts it into something surprising beyond imagination. But I’ve known myself for a long time, and know the dailiness I need, with the kind language.
The vulnerable ritual of sex, and to come on you is what I most want. I would come on your dick, your knees, your fingers, your tongue, your sternum, your hips, your lips. The hair on the backs of your hands, your tattoos, your scars, your tummy with its fire inside. I want that ecstatic experience with you, to trust you, with complete vulnerability, and see what happens.
Simply put, to give you everything, even my body, should you find joy there and comfort there, or whatever you go to other people’s bodies for.
How would that change you? Would you like to find out? Am I just not a kind of pretty to kindle your animal desires? I could try singing to your balls. Maybe they would learn a new way of wanting, and animal love would spring out.
When you call me your dear, I feel safe, and I smile. I wish to be dear to you. But maybe I’m dear like an old granny in a rocking chair, wearing a bonnet. How do I matter to you?
That time I sang to you, why do birds suddenly appear, you had a reaction. Your response was in a funny voice, and I didn’t understand. I asked what saucy meant, and you said you didn’t know, but it was good.
I played it for my spouse. He noted my singing sounded breathy, like Marilyn Monroe singing happy birthday to a doomed president. I didn’t mean to wear a sparkling evening gown or be pushy with my softness. But if the veil is lifted, can I be blamed for the desire there? It’s fluctuated, over the past year, but comes back strong and clear.
Why won’t you tell the truth to me? If you do or don’t want me, could I know that? If you’re afraid of hurting me, don’t you see it’s more hurtful to let me long for you this hard, for so long, pointlessly? If kindness is why you won’t talk about it, could you choose a more longterm, real kindness of helping me make smart plans, whether or not they include you?
Or maybe the truth-medicine is too powerful, a weird thick purple liquid with the power to destroy as well as create, and you don’t know how to contain it yet. You don’t have the right kind of dark glass bottle, or the right crystal spoon to pour a dose into.
Maybe you don’t know how you feel. But you keep talking to me, every day. And honestly, what do you think about, when you masturbate? In my imagination, you’ve fucked me so many times, it’s almost like it already happened. But that was all my own thoughts–I know if we collaborated, it would be a totally different hurricane.
Maybe it would wreck my life, to accept you inside me, and if I fell deeper in love with you. I would start making stupid hurricane choices, to get more of you. But my life needs to be destroyed periodically anyway.