L has lamented (chuckled at?) – or is it lamented (chuckled at?) – my “flock of tweeties.” Currently, there are exactly three women with whom I regularly exchange sexy e-mail. One, I’ve been doing it with for about a year. To the best of my knowledge, she doesn’t know about the blog (although she may – she’s a follower of my Tumblr, which links here, but we’ve never mentioned it). The other two are direct results of the blog. One is laconic, purely sexual. The other, verbose, thoughtful, intellectual. And purely sexual, too.
The latter and I have been engaged in a discussion about precisely what it is that she gets, that I get, out of a relationship such as ours. We don’t know one another’s names (though actually, I know hers. I think.). We know next to nothing about one another. (Well, she knows a lot about me, because she’s read my blog.) We’ll likely never meet. And yet… somehow, it’s exciting for both of us to trade pictures, words, movies.
Last night, she sent me a gorgeous shot of her arm across her breasts. I gazed at it for a moment, and typed: “You know what I want now? Precisely this same shot, only first in a bra, and then topless…. Please?”
And then, today, she sent them to me. Precisely as requested. (Well, not precisely the same shot, but hell – close enough.) And they’re unbelievably hot, in that totally generic way that pictures of a faceless body can only be to a person for whom they have a unique, special meaning.
Why do I want to direct her, to tell her how to pose, to receive her pictures? Why does she want to comply?
I have tried to answer for myself: compliance, to me, is exquisite. When a woman – a woman whom I have come to know, even virtually, does as I wish, responds to my desires with appreciation, compliance, WETNESS…. that medicates some deep, dark wound of mine. It makes me feel a delicious, redemptive pleasure. When she sends me whatever I ask – whether what I ask for is something I’ve asked for dozens of times before (from her, from others – like her orgasm, produced for me, recorded for me) or something I’ve never asked (as in the case of the troika of photos I asked my distant buddy of last night for) – when she sends it to me, when I receive it, it gets me hard not just in my cock, but in my brain, and my heart.
I have an infinite, insatiable appetite for such compliance.
And for her? I don’t know. I’ve asked. She’s ruminative. Pondering. “You make me think,” she writes. “You make me wet.” She asks me how long these relationships “typically” last. I tell her: none has ever ended. Except one. She seems skeptical that I really can mean it when I effuse over the latest gift she has sent: how can I really be so excited about photo #126 of her ass? But I do mean it. I am so excited.
But is she excited? She knows she likes it, but she isn’t sure she likes that she likes it. Maybe she’s scared that she likes it, how much she likes it. She keeps telling me she doesn’t care about, isn’t interested in, the fact that I have done this, or something like it, with others. But she keeps asking me what they get out of it. As if she might find her answer in theirs.
Whatever, I don’t care. I’ve long since stopped doubting, questioning, my desires (though I do like to understand them). I want her to send me pictures, movies, recordings. I want her to produce orgasms thinking of me. I want her to do things for me, to wear things for me.
I want her to want me.