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[desire-isalovelyword]

We got in touch on one of those websites where you look for people to hook up with.

He just looked for a good time and expected the same from me.

I had been deliberately vague in my description, but when I had separated the wheat from the grass and ended up with only him left, I gently let him now exactly what it was that I wanted.

He hadn’t expected this. He told me that, and I understood it, but God if he didn’t react to my strange request in a way I only could have dreamt about.

It took a few emails back and forth, and he listened to me while I tried to explain, trying not to sound like a creep or a weirdo, and slowly he realized that this wasn’t just another booty call.

He was nothing like so many of the other men I had tried talked to about it. “Yeah, I’ll wear panties if that turns you on! You think it’s sexy? I don’t mind, I’ll find some and wear them in bed with you, it’ll be hot!”

No. No, that’s not at all what I want. And he wasn’t like that, was not like them.

For him, wearing women’s underwear was a private thing, a very personal thing. Something he’d never told anyone until I asked him about it.

He told me that he had done it only once. That they had been red and that he had felt really good wearing them and that he didn’t have any pictures of it.

Pictures was one of the things I had asked for, but the way he tentatively told me about his experience made me humble and thankful for even getting to hear a single word about it. I didn’t want nor did I need any picture from him, after getting the gift of him open up about it to me.

He spoke about the memory with such a fondness and a soft ring to it. My encouragement made him want to try it again, because it felt nice hearing that it wasn’t necessarily as weird as he had scolded himself for.

I never got any pictures. He didn’t dare to send me any. We ended our conversation shortly after and I never contacted anyone else about it, because his memories and words about it were enough for me.

[desire-isalovelyword]

There’s this boy. Well, obviously he’s a man now.

He was a boy, going on a man, the first time we met, at a party in a cottage high up on a hill.

There was this weird attraction between us and I remember feeling some kind of remorse that I was with someone already, when we met.

We sat in a hallway for forever that night, talking.

I think he felt it too, the attraction.

Because when my boyfriend came to pick me up, hours and hours later, the boy-going-on-a-man told my boyfriend that he should be happy to have me.

We have met a few more times since then. Always this weird attraction.

The last time we met, years ago, 2 am at an outdoor party that were closing up, it was just me and him in a big tent. I stood in the bar, chugging water like my life depended on it, he came in through the entrance.

He raised his beer to me. I raised my water glass to him. We moved closer to each other, we started talking, I said some weird shit to him that fried our conversation and I will forever beat myself up for it.

I want to meet him again. Or at least see him. My eyes need to see his face, they miss it. It’s been too long, it usually don’t go this far between our encounters.

If we also can chat for a bit and I won’t say weird shit this time, that would be an amazing bonus.

[desire-isalovelyword]

I used to chat with boys, online.

I altered between a number of different chat rooms and a number of different names and ran an advanced system where I made notes about who I had talked to, what my name was at the time, and what we had been talking about; to keep them all apart.

Some of the boys I would chat with were clueless, too young and boyish, too bad at spelling.

Some were too cocky, too sure of themselves, too pushy.

Some were the perfect middle ground. Kind, soft, polite, good at spelling, could keep a conversation going.

And some of them were the perfect middle ground and then some. Those were the ones who among all that good conversation and well spelled words also managed to steer the conversation into a perfectly balanced sex chat.

Those boys, however, were rare and far in between.

One of them, I had for one night. The way he explained to me what he was doing with himself, was something extraordinary. Sure I had sex chats before. But this. They way he told me where and how his hands were touching himself made me lose all my words and become a silent chat partner, only waiting for his next words while touching myself.

I knew I was being selfish but it was like being read a live sex novel, enchanting and capturing and I just wanted more and more, not at all wanting to work for it.

He reminded me a few times to write too and I tried, I really did, but I really just wanted to be a bystander to his amazing words, and to this day I am ashamed for my egoism.

Many of the people I would chat with, I came across again another day.

This particular one, I looked for forever, to apologize to and to maybe get to experience again, but never found.

It’s weird what kind of memories will stay to haunt you.

[desire-isalovelyword]

Sometimes my mind hands me fantasies. Detailed, dirty stories that are planted in my head all of a sudden and all I can do is to hear them out, accept them as a part of me and keep adding layers to them because otherwise they won’t shut up.

They are detailed, dirty stories about quick fucks in alleyways, about being submissive and humiliated, about slaps across the face. And I take them and to make them understandable for me and my way too faithful mind, I turn them into fanfiction.

Now it’s not me sitting on my knees under the gaze and cock of a stranger, it’s that boy from that band. It’s not me getting fucked in front of a mirror, being forced to look at myself until I cry from the feeling of being so wonderfully humiliated. It’s him. It’s not me riding a man that tells me to stop unbuttoning my shirt halfway because I look more slutty like that. It’s him.

That is a good middle way. I can still live in those fantasies and really enjoy them, but then I let other people enjoy them too, and I get love for it.

It’s a win-win and a good middle way. For now.

But one day I would like to be the one getting slapped and fucked in front of a mirror.

[desire-isalovelyword]

The lights were dimmed. Some people were snoring, other just sat there staring out in the void, drunk, with heads that were spinning, concentrating the best they could to not throw up.

I sat next to him. He, who were no one really. Just this guy, that I ended up with probably only because his friend hooked up with mine.

We had been kissing in the woods earlier that night.

At one point we were interrupted by his friends calling him to know where he was. While speaking to them in his Ericsson flip phone, he looked me deep in my eyes in a way that I think was supposed to be romantic but tragically enough did nothing but making me want to laugh straight in his face.

I didn’t though. I smiled, sweetly, to him. I handed myself the role of the patient maiden, waiting for her lover to be done lying about his whereabouts. Smiling, playing a part in the scene.

With his friends still talking to him, he hung up. He closed his phone with both hands in that dramatic way that can’t be done with phones these days.

“Oh. The call got cut.” he said and I wanted to laugh at him and tell him that that line was the most cringe worthy thing I have ever heard, but I didn’t want to hurt his ego so I just kept smiling and let myself be kissed again.

I was 18, he was 16 and it was probably my first real making out session. I was a late and shy and too-careful-for-my-own-good bloomer.

We kept kissing on the bus that would take us home from that party in the woods.

Amongst drunk and snoring people we made out, and I was horny and wanted to take it further. He had his hands on me and I wished, wished that he would get a little brave and risky and exhibitionistic with me but he never did and I was so disappointed.

[desire-isalovelyword]

I was always the freaky one in my little group of friends growing up.

I would tell my girls about my thoughts and fantasies, and they would stare and laugh and look a little shocked and a little curious, and they would ask me to tell more.

I was the freak and I liked the attention that being unashamedly me got me. I was among friends and safe and they all loved me no matter what weird things I’d tell them.

I was so sure that they would all grow up to be the normal, vanilla people they all were like in our teenage years, and I would grow up bringing all my weird fantasies to life and I would love it.

I was right about my friends. Normal, non freaky, vanilla lives, they live now.

But so do I.

Where did it go wrong?