Her lips are full. Her eyes, doe. Her body, banging. Her intellect, captivating.
She expects me to set aside my desires in my every interaction, and I do. Or at least, I try to. But it’s hard. I’m hard.
It doesn’t help that much of what we discuss is sex. All I want to discuss is sex. And/but I’m afraid. I fear my envy and jealousy. I fear my desire. Not because I will act on them; I won’t. I have very good boundaries.
I fear them because emotions have a way of finding a way out. That could well be here. Or elsewhere. I’m writing in hopes that here can be the sum total of the venues in which they do.
I crave her service, her devotion. I long for her desire to please me. And I have it.
Just not in all the spheres. Not, alas, in the one in which I most crave it.