v u l v a l i c i o u s
Lines between fantasy and reality become more blurred, but I remind myself all is never lost
I'm back to imagining things now that she is far away, and all other doors and windows have been shut tight to keep out the heat. The faces I can see are not the ones I want, and so I close my eyes while driving from here to there so that I can feel her imaginary hands sliding up over my breasts, up my arms, holding my wrists tight over my head so that she can take me.
I'm back to seeing double and triple where there is one single me, alone in a car with nothing but two hands that should be tight on a steering wheel, but that are instead wrapping themselves around a vision of some imaginary naked her, gloriously imperfect, wet with the sweat of sex and blanketed body heat. There are my hands, and her hands, my legs entwining with hers as she presses against me, I against her. Rhythm, movement, our breath together and separate, our mouths open or closed, biting, soft.
I'm back to wondering if I look my part, or if, perhaps, I do not. If she'll pass me by, thinking I cannot be what she's looking for at the moment: Too young, conservative, sweet. If she'll decide with a look that I am those things, can be no other, am incapable of fucking her well or loving her better, or vice versa.
I'm back to planning imaginary escapades with nonexistant grrls I've yet to meet, those who do not exist, or do not live here. In some ways, it's better than thinking of her, with her dark eyes and half smile, setting her inside a fantasy with silence and water and her small laugh breaking the heat to bring things back down. In some ways it's worse, because it breaks up the solid ground of her, her reality, my reality, replacing them with immaterial visions of grrls who aren't real.
I'm back to visions of her cunt and mine, and the cunt of one as yet unknown, floating around one another, dancing. Dancing the way she might if she were real.