He gets the carefullest of whispers, “yes sirs,” “no sirs,” each measured out in my head. Looking for buttons to push, or buttons I have pushed that I want to back away from, unready for the intensity I see myself staring at. No matter how much I want it, crave it, desire it…I can’t quite bring myself to tip over the edge into that blinding darkness of him.

But it isn’t just his darkness, I am forced to admit. It’s mine too, and perhaps that’s why it terrifies me so when I find myself snuck upon and startled, confronted with the angular planes of its shape. The way I flush to think of his hands pulling and pinching and scratching. The way I think of my flesh as a sensation, touch or taste. It is not skin, any longer, but the taste of sweat in the hollow of my throat or the shiver as his breath raises bumps on my arms.

I confess things to him, little tiny baggage sized pieces of the darkness. The strange fetishes I have, the fact that I find playing pretend in bed sexy. But I want to show it all to him. Not that I can. I can’t map the internal landscape of my sexuality, can’t spread it bare. Can’t explain that sometimes when I look at him I think of sliding to my knees while he sits at his computer, or plays his video games, and taking him in my mouth until he’s panting and as desperate as I am. Until pushing me down, face half pressed into the carpet to achieve his outlet is as natural to him as setting aside the controller and taking me to the bedroom.

This tiny scrap of my pillowbook. Remaining hidden between weightier pages.


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