What is it that heats your blood? That fires your imagination, that makes your heart palpitate, your knees weak?
What is it? Tell me.
Maybe you want to be watched. For your prowess? Or your depravity?
Does the idea of others’ eyes – watching, appraising, desiring – make you wet? Make you want?
Perhaps it is the opposite, voyeurism your secret salacity. Do you want to stroke yourself to orgasm openly observing? Or remain hidden, hands-off and dripping, controlling your breathing so as not to be found out, only to relive what you’ve seen hours and days and weeks later, alone or with another?
Perhaps that is it.
Who, I wonder? Someone local? Famous? Off-limits? Taboo?
The bank teller who flirts so outrageously when you make your weekly deposit? The woman who lives across the street? The mail carrier?
A singer? Actor? Writer? Politician?
Your best friend’s spouse? Or someone even closer?
Perhaps you’d rather not know who you’re with. No name of consequence, no familiarity of face, no history, no future. A bar-found stranger with nary a first name? Or the “who”-less lips, teeth, and tongue on the other side of a wall, your only contact through a glory hole?
Do you want to be one? Use one? Be used like one? Dominate one?
Maybe you’d like to pay for it. Or be the one to charge…
Have your choice of whores.
Do you want to play pimp?
Hmmm… So many roles to choose.
Mountain climber? They’re excellent riggers, you know. Perhaps you’d like to play with rope.
Do you want to be tied? Spread? Bound? Vulnerable?
Maybe you’d prefer to be the one who ties the ropes that bind another.
Or would you rather play with other equipment instead?
Do you want to face a fear? Overcome one? Eroticize it?
What land do you visit when your flight of fancy takes you abroad? Tell me.
When you close your eyes, what do you see? When you touch yourself, whose hands do yours become? Are you the recipient or the giver of pleasure? The orchestrator of erotic attentions?
Whose? Someone else’s or your own? Both? More than two?
Do you wish for more? More hands, lips, tongues? More bodies, writhing in an erotic ballet?
Mmmm… Does the image of a sexual dance entice you? On a stage, elevated, performing?
In front of a window, backlit for the world to see?
Someplace else entirely?
Do you want it down and dirty?
A night bus.
A dive bar toilet.
Sweet and seductive?
A swank hotel.
A deserted island.
Public or private? Foreign or familiar?
Improper? Forbidden? Banned? Unthinkable?
So many thousand directions to go.
Dreams and wishes, images and ideas and speculative thoughts. They swirl and drift and morph over time, abstract and illustrative, vaguely defined in abstruse detail.
Paint me a picture in roughly detailed broad strokes, write me a story in smudged-ink clarity, weave me tale in recursive vaguery.
Leave me an impression however you will.
I want to know your fantasies.