email like not so deviant after all

All those rapey fantasies I confessed to you over email yesterday? It seems they don’t make me immune to the fear.

It’s true what you said– the last time I saw you, I did wish you’d simply clenched your fingers to the back of my head and pinned me against the wall. Removed my say in the decision. Inspired want in me through the sheer urgency of your want for me.

Your tentativeness made me sad. And hesitant, myself. And you were so eager to have me go.

We still didn’t fuck. As you know.

***

I had to have an MRI today. I’ve fucked up my hip socket god knows how. I swear, it’s the pendulum sway of me in my impractical shoes, not the yoga my far-too-conventional chiropractor thinks it is. The MRI technician gave me the creeps. He had a funny cone-shaped head, a lisp, and a lazy eye. But it’s not just that I found him inordinately ugly– even I am not that specious in my judgments. I’ve been around clairvoyants and perceivers my whole life; I know extrasensory information is quite real. I don’t claim such talents for myself, no, but I have learned to trust these seeming irrational anxieties I feel on certain first encounters. I am not one of those people who mistake erotic charge for extreme distaste. If I like you, I know it right away– and I know it intensely. Same goes for not liking you. The not-liking, however, feels like fear– pretty unfailingly– whereas the liking comes in multitudinous shapes. Also, never have I once had one of those ugly, low-down, grunting alarm bells not prove itself to have sound reason for sounding. In other words, I just know creepy people when I meet them. For the most part, I’d rather not stick around to find out why they make my skin crawl.

So, the MRI technician. I did not like him.

He took me to a teeny dressing room closet and told me to exchange my street clothes for one of their soft gray smocks. He told me to remove all my jewelry. I asked if my naval piercing had to go? I haven’t removed it since I was pierced– so many years ago, for some cute guy who thought it would be sexy, but then only fucked me once and then left me pining after him. The technician said he’d have to inspect it. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, despite his shrill, unnerving giggle. Everything except my underwear, he said.

I did not wear underwear under my little red cotton dress today. The idea of me unwrapping my unstructured gown for his inspection — wherein he could see my bellybutton and all that is below — didn’t sit well.

Fortunately, he was kidding.

However, when I emerged from the little dressing closet, he was there waiting. My robe slipped off my shoulder, fully exposing one of my breasts. He noticed before I did and said, uh oh! As coolly as I could, I tucked myself back into the flimsy thing, but was further disquieted by the way he caught my eye. Something about that lazy eye! You know how sometimes that weak ocular muscle makes you feel like you just can’t establish eye contact at all? And how other times, when speaking to a person with said affliction, you feel like he’s working so hard to look at you that the gaze becomes an imposition? His is the latter sort of lazy eye. It made me scared.

After a few minutes in a chair outside the exam room– in my little gray robe and clinic-supplied lint-colored socks with black rubber treads on the bottom (I just couldn’t put my own stiletto sandals back on to walk around the clinic)– he invited me in. He took the key to my dressing room from my hand, and though the keychain was large and dangled, he found a way to brush his fingertips along the inside of my palm when he took it. And he put his hand on my hip to guide onto the flat bed of the MRI machine. The physical contact made my stomach wobbly

Once inside, though, I felt last night’s wakeful thrashings lay waste to my consciousness. Through headphones, the banging of the magnets– or whatever it is that makes MRIs so loud–startled me from this drowsing now and again, but mostly I slept.

And when I’d stir, this little quicksilver of panic would slip through me. I was asleep in a room with this man who really weirded me out. This man had taken the key to my dressing room. What would he find if he went hunting in there? Money and credit cards? Sure, that stuff was there in my bag, but I didn’t care so much about that. What if he stole my tampons (evidence that I am so female, fertile)? What if he found the condoms I keep on me (evidence that I fuck and that I’m prepared to do so at a moment’s notice)? Stupid, sleepy worries… worries that make no sense to fully-awake me. But what if he lifted my little dress to his face to sniff it? Searching for the vague smell of my cunt where the skirts might have pooled between my thighs at some juncture of my workday? Another irrational thought, absolutely– but not one that I liked.

When I emerged from the tube, I went back to my safely locked dressing room. I put my dress back on, along with the I’m-too-much-woman-for-you demeanor I adopt when walking the streets of my city. I am, after all, the sort of girl that men approach with compliments, with flitting eyes, with overt friendliness, with some frequency — though not the type they ever attempt to victimize. They wouldn’t dare, so fearless seem I.

You’d think my predilection towards submission, my fantasies of aggressive, coercive sex would inoculate me against the fears. But they don’t. I think about you holding my arms at my sides while you hammer away at my insides. I think about how my teeth itch with little vengeful bites when boys fuck me the right way. I think about a game of power differentials played between equals– and it’s the game that’s the fantasy.

The reality of finding some ugly man insinuating himself upon my flesh? Me being naked before him with only an abstract and distant legal system to protect me? These things still scare me. Even still.

***

One of these days, you’ll get it right. You outweigh me by, what, 80 pounds? You could have any part of me you want. If only you’d just take it.

email like I don’t want to talk about it

Why do you always ask me if I fucked this new one or that new one every time there is a new one with just the bareliest toehold on my radar? You know it just makes you feel sorry for yourself that you are neither fucking me nor fucking anyone else. You know it makes me feel put on the spot. Called on the carpet.

But you did ask.

I know I said I wasn’t even attracted to him. And yeah, I’m a little worried– he seems so damn grateful.

I don’t have any real good reason for why I fuck people I only like but for whom I don’t feel particularly lustful. I could say that this is just how I forge connection. That I fuck when I hope to express mere affection.

I could tell you that, in a pinch, any cock will do. I could tell you that’s why I first fucked you all those years ago.

I could tell you that I walk around in this persistent haze of arousal most days and I’m just looking for some clear air. That would be true, too.

Maybe I’m so fucked up about sex and love that I just can’t turn down sex on the off chance that there might be love hidden under its red and frilled toadstool.

I don’t think that last one’s it, though.

He fed me rock fish, snow peas and white wine. We talked for hours until he informed me I owed him a kiss for the fish and peas– the usual (legal) prostitutional arrangment. I could think of no reason not to.

He spent some time swirling his tongue around my clit, but to no avail. This is why I was such a lousy fucking lesbian. My vagina, it seems, is more keen than some on being interlocked… with the traditional interlocking part of my gender’s opposite.

He stripped me in the living room, but led me to his bed. I have no doubt it had been a while for him. He is not the sort of man who finds cock-hungry slutty girls like me in his apartment too often, I don’t imagine. But, it had been a few weeks for me, too. No, you weren’t the last. But you might as well have been.

I heard my own guttural groan at that moment when he penetrated me. I was a little embarrassed, I suppose, that such a sound should escape me, so hungry was I for this man who, sweet and smart though he may be, did not turn me on when he was sitting across the room, the room with all the lights on.

But there I was, sinking my fingernails into his ass, pressing my clit into his pubic bone. He fucked me, but I wasn’t going to come that night. I couldn’t– not yet. I told him, move me how you want me. I should say I was pleased when he handily manipulated my body. Though I’d barely moved, he was suddenly in me from behind, tilting my hips back to him with his hands. When he was close to coming, he pulled out and fucked himself to completion between my clenched thighs.

He holds me when we sleep. I find this unnerving. Boys don’t do that with women they’re merely fucking. And sometimes, even with women they love, they complain about the sweat and the body heat and hang themselves off the other side of the bed– as far away from my steaming little self as they can get. You know what I mean. We’ve fucked for years and you’ve never once held onto me and sniffed my hair all night, once we were done. Right? But this one? He holds me. That first night we slept together– even though we didn’t fuck– he held me then, too. I don’t know what to make of it.

I was restless. I’m an insomniac. It’s just how my nights pass.

I woke before he did.

I woke wet. That happens a lot. Research tells me this is atypical. Supposedly, a woman’s estrogen level is at its lowest first thing in the morning. That’s why so many morning woods go to waste– the female body needs activity to get the appropriate saps running. But not me. I wake up hot and throbbing all the damn time. So often, I’m alone. Most mornings, there are no convenient scratching posts on which I might relieve myself before I go about the business of my day.  It sets me off, frustrated for the duration. I drive to work, trying not to muss my skirts as I slip the heal of my hand between my legs. If I wear pants, I sit at my desk, my mug of hot tea wedged into my crotch so I can feel the heat through my clothes. Such is the way my body wakes.

I threw an arm over him, low on his belly. Low enough so that I just had to adjust only a little in order to brush the head of his cock with my wrist. I was trying to be subtle. I suck at subtle. I ran my fingers up his stomach– I didn’t want to be so demanding (as I am wont to be) but I wanted him to be awake. I wanted to know if he was hard. I took my fingers lower. All was operating according to my wicked plan.

He pulled me on top of him. He reached for a condom. Fucking condom. Inside out, of course. The process of fixing it drained some, uh, momentum. I had to guide his hand into me. One finger. More, I signalled. Two. Not enough yet. With three, he fucked me until I broached the bucking, but I still could not come.

He rolled me to my side, pushing into me. He pulled his thigh up between my legs to funnel my wet body into his and I held it, pushing myself into his leg, like it was a fucking saddle pommel. Fuck, I convulsed over his cock. That fast. And then the cock quickly followed suit, he letting a thick sludge of cum onto my hip bone. There is no sex like morning sex.

So, now you know. Don’t ask me what it means. I don’t know what it means– that I can have such hot sex with a man who feels like a friend in my walking life. I don’t want you to make me feel guilty and dirty about the fact that I can’t turn down a fuck once it’s been offered. I don’t want you to tell me I’m leading him on, just because I already know I’ll never fall in love with him.

I mean, how many men have fucked me, knowing full well they’d never love any more about me than the way my mouth feels on their dicks? Aren’t you, ultimately, one of those men?

No, I know, that’s not fair. You do love me. I am your best friend. I am the best fuck you’ve had to date. But we’ve never had any sort of romantic illusions, have we, baby?

email like alone at night

Hello, my assfucker–

I’ve been thinking a lot about painting. And I’ve not been sleeping. I’m up all hours. Thinking about paint. I think of the wet squelches of color as I spread it across walls and I think of the physicality of me covering canvases and canvases with it. I fantasize about smearing them with my fingers and forearms. I fantasize about finding color like wings on my shoulder blades in the shower and not remembering what gymnastics got me painty there. I fantasize about me with wild pthalo behind my ears and alizarin marking the knob of my ankle bones. Me in wrecked wifebeaters and frayed jeans. Me, the painter. After so long not painting.

Painting is different than writing for me. When it’s good, I write and it comes easy. It feels like drunken gaiety. Like the best of conversations. Like linkages all lined up, all webbed. But sometimes, it’s work and I worry too much that it’s not pretty enough, that it’s trite, that I’m boring, that I’m missing my mark completely. Regardless, writing is a calculation. It’s a careful translation of what I hear when I talk to myself, extricated like figures from stone, so that other people might hear it too.

But I don’t think so hard when I paint. It is a physical act and it feels that way. I do not mean to draw an analogy between painting and sex– not at all, really. Honestly, language and my libido compose a much tighter circuitry. Good writing, erotic or otherwise, arouses me in a way that the visuality of paint never could. But nonetheless, the act of painting feels to me like athleticism turned feral. It comes out of my body. And it’s celebratory when it does.

I’m up all night. Reading, yes, of course. To distract me from the prospect of painting. I’ll finally have my own studio space soon. I’m obsessed with it. I think I’ll paint the walls the color of hybridized orange roses. Or bleached terra cotta. The color of a tequila sunrise, heavy on the grenadine so that it’s almost pink. Like that. And once it’s painted, I’ll paint. The thought of it! The thought alone wires me for fucking sound!

But I hate not sleeping. I can’t think in the daylight when I’ve gone so many nights with only fitful rest. I lose my orientation too easily. I press panic buttons and I weep over the most inconsequential things. So, I do everything I can to lull myself to sleep. I read. I pace. I turn on the vapid filler of wee-hour television (and it annoys me to the point of further stimulating me).

I take melatonin tablets. They are supposed to simulate the hormone released during alpha-wave rest without creating dependence. My results have been undependable.

When all else fails, I fuck myself.

It takes forever because I’m usually tired enough for it to take some work. Eventually, though, I feel the glaze of sweat prick out over me while I absently rub myself beneath the sheet and quilt. I wonder that it doesn’t wake me further, but I know the post-cum flood of oxytocin will sometimes quell the racing mind– enough to open the trapdoor at the bottom of the insomnia pit.

During this last bout, though– I can’t help it– I keep remembering your cock to help bring myself off. I know it’s probably because there haven’t been any other cocks around to displace yours from my memory. And it makes me sad to remember you like that– fatly hard, plunged so far into me I could feel you thrumming against my guts. Or slick and spitty inside the tube of my palm. Or nudging my asscheeks apart, searing in, thick with muscularity and blunted intention.

Fuck. It’s a good cock, yours.

Remind me again why you didn’t like me enough to keep fucking me? Fucking me like that? Why I’m reduced to mentally replicating past fucks to bring myself to brinks, to bring on sleep?

I need new cock, it’s true. If for no other reason than because I hate it when my wakeful midnight rituals leave me so acutely lonely. And wetter yet.

email like wishful thinking

Remember that time you told me you wished you could fuck me with your thigh? With you calves? With your thick bicep? With every part of you? Like you wanted me so badly there could be no penetrating enough?

I found that which is pictured below in my internet meanderings the other day. It made me giggle– and I couldn’t NOT send you this picture.

In silicon and leather, all things are at least possible– if not probable.

email like a tantrum

I’m in one surly snit of a mood tonight. I’ve been up watching the insomnia parade for the last several nights. I had to work last weekend, so I haven’t had a day off in two solid weeks. And, oh, god, I am such an introvert. For the last two days, I haven’t even been able to hole up in my office– I’ve been around people constantly. I passed my threshold for actually enjoying being around my fellow humans at some point mid-afternoon yesterday.

My apartment is hot. I hate having the AC on– because I like to conserve, because I like the heat, because I like to feel languorous– but because I’m tired and cranky, I feel annoyed at the heat, too. I took off my clothes a while ago and while I write, I have a glass of water wedged into my groin. The water itself is only slightly cooler than room temperature, but feeling it there makes for one cool place on my body on which I can focus. Surprise! I’m focused on what’s between my legs.

No doubt, if you were here, I’d pick a fight with you. We don’t know each other well enough to fight, I know, but when I’m in this kind of mood? I’d disagree with everything you said– and you’d know I don’t really believe what I was saying, you’d know I was just being petty and contrary so as to be provocative. You’d refuse to engage.

Sooner or later, you’d tire of my mood and lose patience and you’d toss me this look like you wanted to strangle me. And I’d roll my eyes and turn away from you. Inwardly, I’d feel a little satisfied that I’d gotten such a reaction– and also a little nervous that you were gonna kick my ass.

When I’d turn to walk away from you, you might grab a fistfull of my hair. It’s not that it would hurt, but it would stop me short. I’d think about struggling, but I have too much pride. So I’d just stand there, with your fingers clenched against my scalp, feeling you standing behind me. I’d seethe silently.

Pushing on my head, you might force me around to face you. My stomach would thrill a little because I really would be nervous, but I wouldn’t want you to know that, so I’d look you in the eye with just about all the defiance I could muster. Your hand would still on the back of my head, so you’d shove me down so I would be sitting on my heels, looking up, still glowering.

With your other hand, you’d unbuckle your belt. I’d know you were going to make me suck you and I’d be thinking about what would happen if I bit you– just exactly how pissed off would you get? But you really would be a little annoyed with me so you’d shove yourself far enough into my mouth that my jaw hinge couldn’t work so well. I wouldn’t have enough leverage to bite down, even if I really wanted to. I’d choke a little and pull back but your hand on the back of my head would hold me in place so I really couldn’t move back much. I’d put my palms flat against the front of your thighs and push against you, relaxing my mouth. You’d feel me relax and you loosen your grip on my head. By now, you’d trust that you had subdued me to the point where I’m not going to hurt you. I’d proceed to give proper attention to your the head of your cock…and then the length of it… and then back to the head. And you’d starting to think about coming.

You’d ask if I’m wet. I’d flit my eyes back up to yours but I wouldn’t say anything. I’d be in no mood to give you the satisfaction. You would pull out of my mouth and push me backwards on the floor hard enough so that I’d lose my balance on my knees and have to catch myself on my hands. You’d squat down in front of me and check for yourself with your fingers.

You’d pull me, a little roughly, to my feet, turn me around and steer me, with your hands on my hips, to the bed. I’d move forward to the bed, but when I’ve halfway climbed on, you would, again, apply enough force to the back of my head that I’d find myself suddenly face down in the sheets, flung sideways across the bed. I could feel your hand inside me, working me, while the other one would be nudging my thighs apart. Just wide enough to accommodate your hips.

But then you’d stop. I would feel your cock, poised there, hot and hard, but just outside me. I’d be frustrated that you’re not inside me and I’d look over my shoulder to see what the hold-up is. You’d force my head back down into the sheet, and spread the whole weight of your body onto my back. You still wouldn’t enter me, though I’d be arching my ass up to you, trying to communicate nonverbally that I’m ready, that I can barely think because I want you inside me so badly. I’d feel you move your hand down to your cock and I’d think you were going to guide yourself into me, but instead, you’d just push the head so that it would be putting pressure against my clit.

I’d grit my teeth because I’d know I would be on the verge of begging you to fuck me, but I wouldn’t yet have abandoned my pissy mood and I’d be feeling far too indignant to deign to beg. But I’d be so slippery and I couldn’t help it– I’d move my ass so that I could rub my cunt along the length of your shaft. I’d be pretty sure you were not going to be able to hold out much longer either. But you’d make me say it. You wouldn’t fuck me until I do. So, finally I’d breathe it more than I speak it: please. just fuck me. And you would. You’d enter me and thrust into me so hard I gasp. Still face down, I’d slip my hand under me and begin to work my clit while you’d pound into me. I’d feel the head of your cock catching against my g-spot. I’d feel something swelling and rising in me. You’d have been riding a wave, close to orgasm since way back when you’d forced yourself into my mouth. And as soon as you’d feel me start to stiffen and convulse beneath you, you’d let it give way, pushing yourself as far into me as you’ll fit. You’d release. And by the time you’re done, you’d realize that you hadn’t even heard me, though I’d have been vocalizing the whole time– and I still would be. I’d still be crying out and shuddering because this orgasm just won’t end. You’d relax your whole body weight onto mine and wall me in with your arms, trying to quiet me, still inside me. And you’d stay there for a few beats until you’re just too sensitive and have to pull out. And I’d be sorry to feel you go.

You’d sit back and regard me, appraising me. I’d lie there, still on my stomach, legs still spread. You’d see your own come reflexing out of me. And you’d put your fingers in it and rub it into my legs and my ass. I’d be, at last, too tired to be anything but subdued. You, in fact, will have subdued me.

email like a notched bedpost

In the meantime and after a glass of wine…

You asked me a little while ago what turns me on (ok, you asked what you could do that would turn me on, but, ultimately I’m sure we can both anticipate that my level of arousal is pretty much always dependent on me).

Instead, you’ll get a little narrative, if that’s ok with you. When I got home from work today, I started an IM chat with my friend J. We have a convoluted relationship, he and I. He is my best friend. But we’ve bickered like siblings for these 4 long years we’ve known each other. We’d make one lousy-ass couple. We continue, however, to have plenty of sex.

So, as generated by a conversation about Charlotte Roche’s new novel, feuchtgebeite , we got into a conversation about the eroticism of sexual excretions. As Roche’s narrator says,

“We’re always told that perfume can have erotic effects on others, but why don’t we use our own, more effective perfume? In reality, we all get turned on by the smell of pussy, cock and sweat.”

As you might anticipate, of course, part of this conversation consisted of reassurance that I taste OK. (How can you have that conversation without the implicit request for ego massage, I wonder?) J says that I do. He would know.

I told him about this guy who lives in an apartment down the hall from me who I used to fuck every once in a while. I told him how much I hated the smell of his cum. It was like bleach poured over fresh grass clippings. It was so strong that sometimes I’d smell it, even a couple days later, if the condom was still in the trash in my bathroom and I hadn’t yet emptied it. It would gross me out, and, at the same time, give me a dirty little satisfaction at the recollection of having rented myself out to someone about whom I cared so little. Of course, it was a short-lived fling because this neighbor of mine couldn’t fuck me for shit and he annoyed me when we were out of bed. Simply put, I did not like him. I blame this emotive disdain for my lack of receptivity to his cum.

And I told him about the guy I mentioned to you earlier today– the one I really liked. That guy drinks altogether too much Diet Coke and he masturbates like a fiend. He cum was totally odorless and tasted like straight-up sugar. He’d come on my back or my stomach and I go to sleep with it still drying and I didn’t really ever want to wash it off in the mornings. And after we’d fuck, mostly, I’d smell myself all over the both of us. Because the one thing that’s consistent every time you have sex is your own smell, it would be hard to NOT associate it with being turned on, you know? I just never wanted to wash us off. I felt convinced that, if I could have walked around for days on end, smelling like the sex we’d had, I could have cultivated a trail of men in my wake and they would have followed me anywhere, utterly narcotized with lust for me. And I could have had my pick or I could have had them all. That’s how strong those pheromones were.

And I told J that his own cum was fairly nondescript. That it smells and tastes like cum– like so many other cums– but isn’t so strong as to be offensive. It’s not like pineapple juice is a regular part of his diet, but he isn’t consuming too much asparagus either. He never changes his sheets, though. So I can’t think of fucking him without remembering sleeping on those yellowed, oily bed linens, some unformed fantasy of cheap hotels and whoredom flitting in and out of my head as I sank into the post-fuck stupor.

Then I told him the thing that was subtext to the whole conversation— that I really need to be fucked. He lives 600 miles away, so what could he do? He apologized for the distance. He said he would help me out if he could. I asked if he’d fuck me ’til I bled. He said, “Is that what you want?” I said, “Yeah.” He said, “Wow.”

It’s been 3 weeks since I last had sex. I’m still a week and a half off of ovulating– and I usually don’t get to quite this pitch of hazy-mindednes and hunger until I’m a little more fertile. This is what you call the “fucklust”, right? But, tonite, it’s hot in my apartment and I stripped to underwear as soon as I got home. I’m wet. I miss what cock feels like in my mouth. Of course, I also miss what if feels like in my cunt.

And I wonder what your cum tastes like. Strictly as a point of comparison, of course.

email like tupperware

I read debauchette’s post first thing when I got up Saturday morning. It made me think of you and I immediately had to get myself off. Twice.

I’m really sorry. I know this is terribly inappropriate and I really have no business writing you at all– let alone with the intention of telling you things of this sort.

But it seems I still have some residual sexual energy stored up in whichever of my synapses are associated with my internal image of you. I think about the weight of your cock in my mouth. And I think about pressing the flat of my tongue against the head. Fuck. I shouldn’t be writing this.

I’m wondering (hoping) if dumping some of this energy into an email to you will help exorcise it. I’m sorry. Please understand that I’m not writing to try to change your mind about the decision you made. I don’t think you’re wrong to have made it.

I think about the way your cock stretched my pussy open, pummeled it. And the way you couldn’t keep your hands out of me. About how you could bring on my orgasm early and fast. Even when I thought I was miles away from it. About how you’d watch me come. And about how I could feel you bringing yourself to the brink inside me. About how we could still fuck even when we were both way past the point of being too tired to fuck. And how delicious that was. And how I only got to experience that kind of sex a few times with you. And how no one had ever fucked me past my limits like that before. And still wanted more of me. And I still gave it.

I so should not be writing this.

I understand why we shouldn’t see each other. It all makes very good sense. Undoubtedly, all I’m feeling right now is pedestrian rejection. If we’d tried and you had still come to the same conclusion some months on down the road, it probably would have hurt more. I know this is true. I know you made a good decision— a kind one that lets me off the hook now, as opposed to later.

But I had to make myself come two more times over the course of my afternoon.

This really is completely, completely inappropriate and totally disrespectful of boundaries and all that. I know that. I do. I’m not a stalker and I’m not needy– not like that.

I am, however, wet and underfucked and not quite sure what to do with myself.

That married guy from my old job called me last night. His wife and kids are out of town. He invited me over to his house. The invitation held allure only because I was hungry for some connectivity. Even if it was fake. I went; I saw him. He wanted to fuck me in his wife’s bed. From my end, fucking him was not even an option. And not because I was feeling some moral compunction about fucking another woman’s husband. I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to fuck him. So, I didn’t. I did, however, let him undress me. I spit in my hand and jacked him until he came on my stomach. It felt like mercy.

You know how I used to stray off into sleep, letting your cum dry on my back? I showered his off the second I got home.

My refusal of cock (any cock) makes no sense at all, given the state in which I’ve been stewing.

I don’t get it. I don’t get why I need to write this. I don’t get why I need you to read it. I don’t know why my desires are, simultaneously, so urgent and so picky. I don’t know why they’ve picked you when it’s clear you don’t want me. I’m not the kinda girl who gets off on the chase. And also, I can’t imagine that the sex would be near as good if I felt like you were holding back. Or if I was.

Is it strange that I find it a little sad that I no longer want him? At all? I mean, we’ve been fighting off that affair for over a year. I felt so strongly for him. And for months. The not-feeling feels like something of a loss. I know I will eventually feel that way about you, too. But right now, I don’t. Instead, I feel this need to engage in this exercise of humility and ego-sloughing. And I feel this need to tell you about this flood of sexual thoughts I’ve been having. About you.

Please don’t feel any obligation to respond. Unless you want to. Fuck. That would probably egg me on. Fuck.