A Letter

I've tried to figure it out, sometimes, until my brain is almost ready to explode into tiny pieces, and I think I see a glimmer of sense, a moment of truth, of things coming together. But then, then everything is tangled again, I know nothing, I don't even want to know, to try anymore.

But this dimension, it refuses to be ignored, insists on being analyzed, merely by virtue of the fact that the stakes, the stakes are high, the potential for implosion is too great to just "let it be". And I so I analyze, I calculate, I sort thoughts like currency, look for reasons and answers, for the "why" the "how" the "why not", and once in a while, I nearly have a grasp, almost understand, at least a little.

The confusions: It doesn't make you "happy". None of it does, does it? Even the real - it can excite you, exhilarate you, make you feel so, so, so extraordinarily alive, blast your mind and body with ecstasy for thirty seconds at least. Enable you to feel new sensations. But is it possible that the expectation for a future encounter would possibly exceed the actual events? Would you be disappointed? Maybe conquering most, if not all, of your lifelong fantasies, actually living them, would let you down. Wouldn't have been worth it. And the, the other extreme, for me, the problem could be that the possibilities seem so endless. Would enough ever be enough? There would always be another scenario, something else to try, somewhere else. And just penetration, over and over, that never grows dull in my world. And simply being near you, that could never grow dull either. But if enough were enough, for you, if just experiencing a handful of mind-blowing, never-felt-before moments left you fulfilled, finished, ready to move on, then would I keep plaguing you for more, after you were finally ready to shut it down? Would you feel trapped, burdened, obligated, and therefore, miserable? Would you resent me, do you already? These are questions, questions I can't answer. And maybe they don't matter.

Here we are, kind of somehow caught in eachother. At times, in deciphering the meanings of what you say, I think I hear this: you've weighed the risks and decided some things are worth their weight in pain. But I'm not sure which voice that is, which voice is the true you, or if they all are. Sometimes I think you do care, about me, that I matter as something a bit more than a compulsion, based on things you've said before, or a hint of something in your actions, a certain tone in your voice. Not that it matters, or maybe it does. Of course, I'd never ask to hear you say it, it's not like that. That would, quite likely, ruin everything. And frankly, at this point, I appreciate whatever you give me, even though it hurts to think... it hurts you.

Sometimes, I feel like I've made you happy, but then, you assure me that no, that's never possible. Especially now, now that I bring this extra stress every into your already stress-drenched life, and your once safe end-of-the-week place to go and relax and talk about anything and entertain and be amused has become another kind of place, and honestly, I'm not sure what place you want the most. Or if they can be combined.

There are lots of answers, all swimming around in my head, at the same time. But none taking root.

Me: I'm a nymphomaniac, apparently. According to certain statistics. And so I wear my sexuality like a musk, I can't contain it, it leaks out, bursts out, covering my life, including the part of it that's you, in a milky glow, and there's not much I can do about it. I always wanted to connect with you, be part of you. Crawl inside your brain and curl up there. But you were always just out of reach, just going away any minute, mostly untouchable. And then the unexpected happened, I couldn't believe it, dreamlike, stimulating. Thrill washing through me, I was overwhelmed, captivated even more than ever. Because something triggered something, and your mind was more exposed to me than I'd thought possible, and your mind connected to your body, and all of it, all of you, was perfection, a kind of sacredness - incredible, like all human connection found in one being. So when you said to make it stop, for your sake, mine, everybody else's, I couldn't, just couldn't. I tried, but the pull was too strong, the taste hypnotic. A drug. I didn't feel guilt (maybe this brain is just twisted enough not to be able to, regarding you.) Like some kind of destiny, halfway right, halfway meant to be... my insides, outsides, whole self being satisfied, but then driven wild with greater appetite, satisfaction becoming craving, becoming satisfaction, turning back to extreme craving, then fulfillment, over and over.

You: You simply say you have addictions, you lack control. When your addiction met my passion, and they recognized each other, that was it. Convergence. No control for anyone. Now, you live in a state of panic of "us" being discovered, of your life crashing around your head, your future plans shattered, because of this, because of me. I would fix it for you, if I could. And that's why I analyze, to try to understand. You say you can get it all - this day to day stuff that we share - and more, with a good porn site. That there's no emotion involved whatsoever, no emotional connection to the actual person, the "me". But then, that being said, what I don't understand is - why you seem to want more, why your continued appetite for the virtual... me? Why instead of just perusing a site, you'll reach me? (And proceed to "make my day" I might add.) You said once, "The mind behind it." That's a logical point, and frankly, very high praise, the "stuff of Anthony and Cleopatra". It moves me, does more for me than having my body raved over. The mind, the mind is a powerful thing. However, you could still have my mind, without "partaking" of my body. You know that. Yet here we always are.

So, another factor: customization. You have discovered that yes, I will at least attempt to do absolutely anything you hint at possibly enjoying. With gusto, with great delight, virtually, or in the real world. Maybe that's powerful because, maybe you couldn't get that just anywhere. Oh yes, I'm sure there are plenty of females, with more appealing bodies and at least similarly creative minds who would customize for you, but most likely, for a fee. Not really for you... not like I do, not finding the arousal and pleasure I get from just making your eyes widen, your mouth open, your brain spin; perhaps that's the magnet, the part that makes you not able make the last time stay the last time. The part that makes your actions defy your words, that makes your morning, afternoon, evening minds so different. And that's the part I can't control, the part I can't change, the me that would do anything to please you in any way I know how. Including exposing my vulva and breast at a drive through, or cumming hard on a cucumber in a parking lot, or learning to walk like a hooker in five inch heels and micro skirts.

The real: I'll never forget when you told me (after some conversations where I had no idea that describing the way I work, think, feel was out of the ordinary) that I was the only female you'd met who could actually fulfill a number of your fantasies. How the power of the possibility of what you'd imagined becoming real was mindblowing, how the notion of fantasy crossing into reality was irresistible.

There's been some real... I know, I was there. I felt that amazing dick between my legs, in my mouth, deep in my throat. I absorbed the scent of your skin, touching, breathing you in, felt those oh so strong hands in all the right places, experienced your gifted mouth. Felt your breath, your voice vibrating through every fiber, your mere presence alighting my cells. I could go on and one, except the words for what it means to me, they don't exist. All I know is, I'm overcome, didn't know I had the capacity to feel so much, to live so much blood racing fire and want, to have that gut-wrenching, pulse raising, whole body reaching toward climax, just because someone brushed my body in passing. The real, well, that makes the "other" very pale, and weak, and, yes, worth putting away. I believe I could do it, set aside the imitation, wait for something more valuable if, if I knew it were certain. Knew that I could be with you, alone, long enough and safe enough to let go of my consciousness. That you could really come inside me, all the way, deep, deep, full.

That I could writhe on you, engulf your hard shaft with my ravenous, engorged pussy, let you feel the throb, the pulse of my pleasure, gush essence all over us, feel your warm, wet explosion filling every crevice. Flesh on flesh, slick with oil, my skin drenched and flushed, our muscles pulling and straining together. I want you to take my body, and do whatever you want. Enter it anywhere, in any way. From behind me, driving into my anus, watching my muscles constrict, legs tighten, trembling. I want to be consumed while consuming. I want you to let me fill your face with my cum, pulling your head in tight between my soaking, open thighs, shuddering, crying out. I want you to take me out, anywhere, everywhere, and let me help you live out what you've always imagined, using whatever devices, in the clothes you'd choose, or lack thereof. Whatever you want, I'd want it too. I would wait for that, any or all of that.

Yet, in the meantime, the "real" often seems more unreal than the fantasies, farther away, less attainable, and even more "forbidden". So I struggle, wrestle, every single day, with getting what I can and giving all I have to offer at the moment, versus waiting on a dream.

But the one thing that's certain, the one place where my trails of thought always end up converging: You and Me. Somehow, someway. Inevitably. Yes. . . .