I'm not sure now which of us found the other's Tumblr first, but he followed mine and I followed his and then we were commenting on each other's comments and then the string of comments were so long that they became almost poetry in their one-word-per-line staccato pitch and yaw, the occasional "fucking" somehow leaping out at me as I scrolled down, like fishhooks down those black lines signifying quotes, signifying thought and intent.
We wallowed comfortably in language that would have been inconceivable thirty years ago, as in a ball room, throwing the red ones at each other, sinking under the words and coming up for air a little closer to each other, using pornographic images as compass and map.
Would I Skype? He wondered.
Of course I would! I would love to! I would love to see the face behind all those magical words and laugh-and-squirm moments.
I didn't want to negotiate, I just wanted to jump in, but he made me think about my boundaries so that he could respect them. So that he could be considerate while he flirted shamelessly. So that he could say goodbye a good ten minutes or so before I would have been ready. So that he could leave me wanting more. So he could be merciless and I would be grateful for it.
Of course my Tumblr page suffered. My apartment suffered. All that time I used to spend on other things were now spent on (too short!) digital trysts. Wherein I laughed and smiled and whimpered and moaned. Wherein I stripped in silence, at his request, removing each item as he asked, as slowly or as quickly as he asked. Wherein our video call was connected to expose me, already self-tied, as he'd asked. Because I would do anything he asked. I was that happy, I was that enamored.
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