desire

I enter his world the way one enters a dream. Willingly unmoored, seduced by the feeling that something ancient and out of my control is unfolding. I know I’m not chosen. I know this isn’t intentional. I’m triggered. And I fucking love it.

Instant desire feels like divination, it feels like knowing something before I am allowed to know it and I trust the first language of the body more than the mind. The connection we have is immediate, electric, almost preordained. It’s recognition rather than discovery. As if two inner worlds brush past each other and instantly remember past lives.

We meet in person, my body moves faster than thought. I offer myself without hesitation. No innocence, just appetite. Faith, yes, hope, maybe but it’s mostly relief. The relief of giving feelings like these somewhere to land.

To love someone without brakes feels like the most reckless thing a woman can do. It is the most beautiful violence I know how to commit against myself. God, I love the way it wrecks me.

The rush is the point. The acceleration. The way my mind quiets and my edges soften inside physical sensation. I surrender before doubt can interfere because doubt slows everything down. Hesitation contaminates intimacy. To pause is to thin the feeling, to let air into what wants to stay dense and consuming. The fantasy itself is irresistible. The fantasy that intensity is love, that immediacy is intimacy, that if something feels this consuming it might be important. My nervous system lights up. My sense of self loosens. I disappear just enough to feel alive.

Its beautiful. And psychologically convenient.

Time moves, and repeated experiences revise the dream. Softly at first. Then again. And again. My faith meets absence. My surrender meets disappearance. Not all at once, never completely, just enough to teach the body something new.

The rush starts carrying a faint ache. The pleasure acquires an aftertaste. Eventually, it hurts too much. Not because I feel abandoned. That kind of pain can go the distance. No, the hurt that hurts the most is the fact that it got boring.

Predictable, cliche, and painfully exposed.

I don’t stop wanting him. I don’t want to stop. But I start holding myself, tentatively, unevenly, without the same abandon. And the conflict arrives. It’s not a conflict between desire and fear, but between desire and understanding. Between the urge to dissolve and the instinct to remain intact.
He pulls me forward with heat; discernment asks me to shut it the fuck down. One speaks in sensation. The other in pattern. They don’t cancel each other out. They circle like hunger and memory.

I tell myself I’m in control now, which is exactly how it starts….and maybe I am, like I always am…

but where’s the fun in admitting that?