My life, in the last couple of years, has featured more boundaries, more of the time, than it did when I started this blog.
Back then, my time was my own. Not all of it, of course, but vast swaths of it. More recently, I have almost no unprogrammed time. This results in less writing. In two ways.
First, of course, because I simply have less time in which to write. But more powerfully, because more of my stimuli are within my boundaried existence. Far more of my interactions are with people with whom I have relationships that come with boundaries.
It’s not that I don’t fantasize about those people. I do. (Oh, do I.) But it’s one thing to objectify a stranger. It’s entirely different to objectify someone with whom I have an ongoing relationship with edges, parameters, requirements. To whom I owe things. Who owes me things. Including respect. Fairness. Kindness. Objectivity.
With all those things we owe one another, and with sex and sexuality explicitly excluded from what we owe one another – or even are permitted structurally to contemplate, in some instances – it’s a challenge I haven’t yet solved to share my fantasies here.
Fantasies about D. Stunning. Brilliant. Fascinating. Married. Flirty. She and I are engaged in a bit of a dance. I think – I think – we each want to take things in a different direction. Or that we at least both want to play with that possibility. But I don’t know that. And the not knowing, in this context, in this relationship, makes exploration dangerous.
About Ivy. With whom there was a brief and explicit flirtation. But who turned it off suddenly. Dramatically. Forcefully. When she got pregnant. By her husband.
About Leanne. Who all my radar tells me is submissive, longs to submit, in all the ways I crave. But with whom circumstances make it at least trebly impossible to pursue.
These are just three of my current impossible objects of longing. Impossible not just because of the contexts of our relationships, but also because of the moment – because the meaning of objectifying a woman without her explicit consent has been, for better and for worse both (I think) shifted, perhaps irrevocably – I simply don’t dare.
Or at least, I haven’t yet worked out the ways in which I might dare.
Beyond the anodyne way in which I just did.