I wake up before my alarm once again, and in that moment between sleep and awareness, that little piece of excitement takes hold as I remember this site. I stifle the urges inside me to reach for my phone, instead going about my morning with an enthusiasm that has been lacking for quite some time now. I can see the notifications on my phone, a warm flush creeping up and down my body making my hands clumsy as I try to work.
Then I check the time, see I have at least an hour, make my pot of coffee, breathe deeply for a few moments, and dive in.
That warm heady flush of excitement turns to a hot throbbing painful ache in every ounce of me - messages or blogs? My lips touch my cup, my first cup, taking in a long deep needed gulp of caffeine. I describe it as a warm hug every time I have one... Blogs it is
I read the words, I check profiles before i click in to get a sense for the person writing, maybe a recording so I can read it in their voice - and then that sensual part of my brain goes into overdrive as I absorb every beautiful thought that person has deemed me worthy of reading - it’s like they’ve given me a pair of headphones to their soul. Their thoughts spill into my ears, like my coffee down my throat, giving me another warm hug. Smiling happily, aroused, sated, content, lustful, eager, fearful - ugh so many emotions and feelings coursing through me just from words.
My breath catches as I look at my inbox, wanton excitement coursing through me with a mix of dubious caution as I click in. Again I check profiles first, getting a feeling for who has taken the time to reach out to me - I’m a teenager all over again; shy, apprehensive, cautious, unsure of myself. Another cup of coffee, another warm hug sliding down my throat. That excitement never leaves though. I’ll need a shower, a significant puddle has already formed.
I can already see the ones that won’t work. I can already see and feel their need being so much more than I can offer in return to truly be of use to them. I can already see some that want to remain online, and though that makes me feel somewhat safer in my communications with them, I know I yearn for that look, that touch, that ultimate feeling of belonging. I’m growing stronger in my self-worth every day reading those blogs, feeling the strength of strangers and feeding on it. My soul is obese with self-righteousness each night as I read the last one, fuelling me up for sleeping, dreaming, fantasising. I click and open the first, and the dance begins...
I try to see my reflection in the words I read, get a sense of what it is I’m looking at. I use a mirror as a representation of a “dynamic” all the time - two identical souls, just the other way around. I smile, he smiles, each for their own reason. I cry, he cries, each for their own reason. Have you ever walked in the street and reach an arrow part, confronted by someone walking the opposite way? You both go left, you both go right, that awkward sensational moment of fear and hilarity combined. I dream of the day I do that and He will stop me and just look at me and see me. We’ll both know. That’s my mirror. So in the musings of these messages, are we responding to each other or simply acting independently...?
The one who has made me smile is there. He’s changed the subject again. This one will be tough - we’ve gone from morning coffee conversation of daily life and hobbies to “kinks”. I love that word, five little letters that encompass such a vast array of pleasure condensed into a single syllable. I say it out loud, letting my tongue wrap itself around it before another warm hug slides down my throat. How many people get to discuss their wants and needs in such detail just as conversation to see if they’re compatible? Wouldn’t life be so much easier if people felt empowered enough to tell a prospective partner they want to be taken and used before they leave the house every time? Would relationships last longer if that spark remained lit as the potential possibilities of an hour in the bedroom that night were discussed over morning coffee?
I read his list, his wants -v- needs. The pain causes me to catch my breath in my throat this time; the loss and the mourning begins... I can’t be His. But it’s ok. It’s not that I’m not enough, and it’s not that He’s not. The mirror fogs up as I realise our dance has ended.
Last cup of warm hugs. I pause and think of Him, what He might just look like, what colour the eyes will be because that’s all I’ll ever see. What his voice will sound like. If he’ll write to me and reawaken my soul like so many of you have while I get my warm hugs in the morning. I open my inbox again, my dance card. A slow waltz is next, and the band has just started playing...
