I would rather write this directly to you, but at the core of me there is someone a bit old-fashioned when it comes to expressing desires. If you wrote to me first, exposing some under the sheet fantasy you had about me, then I would feel justified in telling you mine. My mother always said, “Don’t call boys. If they are interested, they’ll call you.” Which is the way we do things where I come from. If another woman told me she was using this outdated technique, I would think that she was terribly passive, that she has the same right to expression as any man does, that she is so much more than just a pretty flower waiting to be picked….but I am not another woman. I’m just me, and since you don’t seem all that keen on picking me, I’m just going to share my fantasy about you to everyone but you.
It is early in the morning, the fan is blowing cool air on our entwined bodies and tiny slivers of light are shining through the shutters like thousands of diamonds that no one has ever offered me. We are on our sides in a sprawled out spoon position. My warm snatch ( I can really never find a word for that part of me that doesn’t either embarrass or horrify me or make me smirk.) anyway, my warm entrejambe is resting quietly on your knee, as if that is where it ought to be. I am floating back and forth between really sleeping and just resting. I feel your breathing change, I hear you stir and I bear down a little on your knee, just to get your attention. This works like a charm and I can feel you hardening, swelling up behind me. My hips start to rock gently and I turn into a liquid form of myself. In my ears there is a sound like when you put your head under the water in the ocean.
With your fine example of the male sexual organ, you start to search. To the left, to the right, as if you are looking rather clumsily for something that you can’t find, as if you are probing. You do this because you know that it makes me crazy. I am instantly mad with desire for you to penetrate me in the deepest way possible.
Then I woke up.
That was my fantasy about you this morning and it has left me feeling anxious. Edgy. I suppose that even if I had found the self-confidence necessary for sharing it with you, the impossibility of living it out today would make me vaguely dissatisfied. Voilà.