A love letter to a lonely stranger...
My Dearest,
I long to see you, love. To get close to you. To know you in the quiet where your breath catches, where your pulse can hum beneath my fingertips.
I know that I am no one to you, just a jumble of words we’ve exchanged, comments and posts on in the digital of the internet, but I feel your energy, your essence and I want so much just to touch you. Connect with your vibrant alive. I know that it’s bold, but I promise to leave no scar behind. I’ll be careful.
Is it so wrong to want to know you? Be close to you? I dream of the peace we could have as I sit at your feet while you work.
But right now, could you hold still for me, please darling, and allow me to learn you. I’ll take only one hand, just one. The hand that holds your coffee cup. The hand that cups a woman’s breast. The hand that folds and bends, daily, at every work task to earn the living wage, to do the things that must be done.
Maybe if you let me just touch your hand, I can discover you without trespassing in other ways. I can find out the quiet, constant thrum of your energy, the part of you that calls to a woman like me.
I love a man’s hands. Wide and warm, they carry the weight of your days, the ache of your unspoken, unreached dreams. They hold all your desires, every lonely, ravenous day since you were young is there in those creases. Every time you touched yourself, sought relief, thought of a woman, is right there. Your hands connect me to every groan and every sigh you ever uttered, every wicked thing you watched or read at three a.m.
I don’t judge you. I won’t. And I’m not afraid of anything you might say or do. Please, could you just let me touch you?
Let me touch those lines in your palm as we breathe together. In, out. In, out. My concentrated touch learning your life, your ambitions, your need. Stroking the pathways to your fingers. I hope you don’t mind if I take my time and go slow. Slow.
This is where I would rub into your knuckles search out the pain you hide. Caress it, the bruises, the long workday, the endless dreary repetition, in your tendons, your muscles. Just let me rub, soothe, ease. Let me have that pain, take it into me, as we breathe together.
Our breath would mix. I inhale you. You inhale me. Two strangers, yet in this moment, I think you might see my bare soul as I seek to see yours. I think you might know me better than I know myself as we exchange air, as the human energy in our existence hums around us. Yours is a sensual storm, I see your cock rise at my touch, but I want more. Can you give me more? Will you? You can have a quick fuck with anyone, but if you relax and open to me, I imagine that I can give you something special, show you that you are not alone, that you are not worthless, that you and everything you create has value. That you are not unwanted. That the dreams you are working toward can become real.
Don’t move. Don’t touch me back. And No, I won’t touch your cock. Just your hand. Please?
I will follow each finger and stroke, before returning to the thick mounded pads at the base, where I rub, seeking the sore places, the hidden tensions, and I want nothing more than to unravel each of them, muscle by muscle, until you are soft and open under my touch.
Please. Could you, in the secret place of my words and your attention, could you open to me? Trust me.
To help, I’d reach for something comforting, almond oil, perhaps. Make my hands slick so that I can slide easily over your skin. Sweet, woody, slightly cherry, you will remember this scent, and maybe you will remember this innocent, charged moment.
It would be so good as I rub the oil into your skin, when I moan, helpless in my desire to know you. I bring your hand closer to my lips. Hover near your skin, not yet touching, but drinking you in.
Give it to me. Please, darling. I crave the difficult, the valuable—the intimacy of knowing you. It is a lot to ask a stranger, but I promise I won’t hurt you, I won’t trespass where I am unwanted.
We breathe together. In and out. In, out. I watch your throat move as you swallow, to see the flicker in your eyes when our gazes lock, to hear that wonderful sound when you trust me enough to let go, because that’s when the rainwater of your constant raging storm becomes warm, becomes something that sinks into me, connects with me, energizes me.
God, I want that. Just as your strength is in your hand, so is your vulnerable, your surrender. I know you never think to let go, to let anyone carry you, but you work so damn hard. I know you do. Could you let me do that? Pause and imagine it?
You are amazing. I want to map the contours of your being—your spine, your ankles, the curve of your wrist—until every inch of you knows my care. I don’t write this letter to you in an effort to take, but to give, to see you as you are: beautiful, raw, human.
It’s okay to feel the deep things with me.
Your presence is a gift, and I am greedy for it—not for your body, not your manhood, not this time, I want to connect with the soul that rages like a storm, trapped in a man shaped cell.
Still rubbing at each pad on your pam, I take your hand in both of mine, and use my thumbs to explore the rest of that hidden, ignored hurt. I am not afraid of what I see. You are safe here, with me. Let me touch you, learn you, love you in the quiet spaces where words falter and only breath remains. I am yours, in this slow unraveling, and I ask only that you let me see you—truly see you—before the world calls us back.
And then I’ll leave you, let you go having touched something wonderous, the hand of a man.
Yours,
Izzy