Reciprocity (Slow Burn)

Fantasy. Something into which I gave surprisingly little thought, until you. It's a riddle dressed as a word, when you think about it. A single word that, in a sense, can mean anything. Three syllables exempt from all rules; a word without limitations, caveats or boundaries, yet once defined, nearly always inaccessible.

Technically, fantasy has been defined as an idea without basis in reality, the activity of imagining something impossible or improbable, or a mental image upon which a person dwells at length and/or repeatedly, which reflects their conscious or subconscious wishes or desires. A fantasy doesn't have to make sense or be explainable, describable, ethical, or even legal. It doesn't have to be anything or do anything but satisfy whatever part of your soul happens to be whimpering for a treat or a tummy-tickle.

To me, a fantasy is a token of self-love from that mysterious part of the brain that knows us better than we know ourselves, a mental vacation to indulge in the things we want but don't have. By design, fantasies are extremely personal, which makes them vulnerability points, secrets to be closely guarded and protected from the scrutiny and judgment of others.

I therefore do not take it lightly that you have shared with me fantasies previously untold to anyone, or the openness with which you have invited me into such private thoughts. I know that trust is not a currency in which you trade easily. Some people hand it out as though it costs them nothing, seemingly drawing an endless supply from the bottomless well of their own naivete. But that's never been your economy, where trust is a rare commodity and therefore of great value when paid in even the smallest quantity.

You trust me enough to let me see a part of you the rest of the world doesn't, and that is a gift as humbling as it is arousing. I am curious how long you've had these cravings, how often you let yourself imagine the flavors and textures dancing on your tongue, and when the focus became less about what you want to taste, and more about what you want me to feed you.

Perhaps you don't even realize you present these scenarios as "Us"; they surely didn't originate in your mind as such. Or maybe your words are in fact chosen very deliberately, as you know too well the power you have over me. I think it amuses you to have such a visceral impact on me so easily, and from so far away. My equilibrium is shattered every time I hear you say my name; I drown when I dare to look directly into your eyes; I lose my breath every time I remember your touch. Every. Single. Time.

The memory of your hand on my waist, the warmth I felt emanating from your body as you stood so close behind me, knowing you could feel me trembling with the effort of resisting the urge-no, the need-to let my body relax into yours...I cannot revisit that moment without panting like a dog and feeling the heat stain my cheeks.

But the more intimate recollections: the exquisite relief of finally, finally, finally feeling your skin against mine, holding you close enough to breathe in your breath; the primal trance from which I wanted to never break free, when you held me so tightly beneath you, your eyes penetrating me with as much intensity and barely-controlled force as your body, no longer able to see the room around us or hear the music playing, everything just obliterated into nothing as my senses ceased to register anything but you. These memories reclaim me involuntarily and often, and sometimes it is almost unbearable.

You already know that I will deny you nothing. I will do and give anything, everything, as much as you want, and I will still want to do and give more. And I know that this gratifies you, but also leaves you unsettled at times. You want me to love you; want me to say it when you slide into me and truly mean it. But I suspect it makes you uncomfortable and even alarmed at times to speculate just how much I do mean it. A slippery conundrum, as you have stated more than once that you have no inclination or interest in sex without love. You do not see loveless sex as an antidote to sexless love, and this is not a perspective easily found through the fog of sexual deprivation. This only validates my love for you, and makes me want you even more, thus creating further complications. Having you inside me was the closest I have ever felt to absolute perfection. This is not the exaggerated prose of a sentimental wordsmith; I know you felt it, too, or you wouldn't have been so burdened by immediate regret conflicted by the overwhelming desire to have that again, and again, and again. Instincts of self-preservation simultaneously screaming at you to run and begging you to turn back to claim what's yours.

Had I been able to store my love for you forever inside that moment, wrapped around you and locked up for safe keeping in the vault of memory, perhaps it would have been easier for us both to recover, to move on, to find that mythical closure you sought, which turned out to be as elusive as the concept of perfection itself. But what am I supposed to do with the love and longing that has no place in reality; feelings which, while adding nutriment to the creation of this perfect moment, subsequently manifest as problematic leftovers? I can't freeze them, throw them out, or hand them out to my neighbors. So instead, I try to hide it in the ever-simmering stew of my sexual desire, as I know my lust is easier for you to regularly digest than my love.

I think ours is a challenge of reciprocity, or at least perception of such, and the struggle of trying to reconcile what we each want to give and what we each are unable to take. I've always told you that you do not owe me anything, that what I give is given freely, with no strings, expectations or anything else attached. Of the many feelings I wish to inspire in you, obligation is not on the list. But I understand and appreciate that you want to reciprocate, that you aren't comfortable with the notion of giving less than you receive. I love you even more for this, as it not only demonstrates that you are a man who wants to earn what he has, but that you value me as someone actually worth earning. And I think you underestimate the value of what you have given me, what you do give me, to believe yourself anything but generous. Of course, you don't realize that a taste of you is far more satisfying than a banquet of anyone else.

Occasionally you ask me what I would like from you, if I have any requests, as though I'm the 9^th caller and you're broadcasting live from the part of my brain that seems to be permanently occupied by the overwhelming urge to drop to my knees and beg you to fuck me. I recognize that this is part of your love language, offering what you are able to, allowing me to vicariously worship your body using your own hands as my proxy, to convey that you want me to feel as loved and desired as I've made you feel, and this is where I fear I disappoint.

Surely you anticipate a more titillating, explicit, or at least inventive request than me wanting to hear you say my name when you cum, or asking for something you can't even demonstrate. Think of me, know how much I wish I was there to receive you and savor every drop...

As creative and descriptive as my imagination and mouth can be, it seems they fail me every time I try to put to words what I desire most, to pinpoint something tangible I identify as my fantasy. I say that I want you to fuck me hard up against a wall, or that I would love to be your submissive, to dedicate a minimum of 24 hours solely to proving what an obedient little fuck toy I can be for you. And yes, I very much desire these things, so much that even typing these words makes my pulse pick up and my clit demand to be squeezed.

But the truth is that I can claim none of these as my fantasy. They are scenes intended to demonstrate how badly I want you and want to be worthy of your desire (I too prefer to earn what I have), how all-consuming the ache to belong to you again, even for a minute. But there isn't any one scene or scenario to which I can award this ranking, because my fantasy is just You; any way, every way, always. You are my most fervent desire, and everything else is just background. Insistent, intoxicating, inaccessible yet impossible to ignore: you are my fantasy defined.

So if I seem indecisive or complacent when it's my turn to order, please don't mistake it for lack of hunger or interest. I want to devour everything on the menu and all the specials, but only if you serve it. Nothing can diminish my appetite for you, but it feeds my soul to imagine that you are as hungry for me as I am for you, and I will suck the juice from this for as long as it lasts, wishing every drop that hits my tongue was you.

I hope you will continue to let me star in your fantasies, and to divulge them so your fantasies can become ours. I hope you will continue to hunger for me and crave the taste of us. I hope you remember that, for every delicious confession you make to me, a promissory note is issued, non-transferrable and never to expire. And above all, I very much hope that someday you decide that you're ready to redeem them all.