Words as Eroticism
I touch myself and then I touch her, in the dark.
I have no idea what I am feeling when I reach out to her. Because if I am feeling anything, it is not her. At best, I am one of the blind men holding onto different parts of the philosophical elephant.
Without hands or lips or anything wet, this is the sexiest thing I can think of doing: Touching her only with words and letters. Not with flesh and body. And my throbbing sex. My lips.
She does not know this, when I write her: That I touch myself. And I’ve never said it out loud: that I am touching her. I can only guess and assess from what I’ve felt with my eyes closed, that I am.
In our correspondence there hasn’t been one thing that was sexy – everything about it is sexy. This is the cleanest dirtiness I have known. In all of our words, shared in-person and in letters there has not been one audible: fuck. There has been no mention of naked bodies, even though they are between us. And only now am I finding the bravery to tell her that I want to devour her. But: shhh, don’t say this too loud. Secrets can disappear.
And this is as secretively erotic as I can conjure. Do conjure. Because as long as my arms are, they are not long enough to wrap themselves around her.
I am weak and hungry with anticipation. Aching with eroticism when she courses through me.
She is danger. She is safety. For as much as I want to give: I cannot. Her heart belongs to another. In this I am letting myself go. Because I am safe. Because there is an elevated wall between us that I cannot crawl under. Will not crawl under. Here, nobody can wrench what cannot be given.
However much I may crave when I am with her or apart, my reach and touch will ever only be as long as:
The adjectives and verbs that is my only tongue and soft pads of lips and palms and fingers. The nouns that are the throbbing and fiery sex rocketing from my pores. And the punctuation that is all the orgasms we’ve never shared. Shared, together.