conversations made the world seem so big and so small. All I’d done was spoken to a handful of the millions of people across the planet who were searching for sex. Sometimes it felt like I was chatting to the same man again and again. So many of them shared a fantasy that BDSM play was me dressing up as a maid, letting them lightly spank me before sucking them off. Which was fine. But it wasn’t me.
All the hot, steamy, X-rated talk, all the imagined hard pounding and thrusting and screwing, was nothing more than killing time before my body was exhausted enough to fall into sleep, usually at about two or three in the morning.
And then there was all the urging and persuading and demanding. “No” seemed to be transformed across the internet. It left my computer as a point blank refusal; it arrived at their computers as a playful, coy tease inviting them to keep on asking and asking. Their requests were similar: a photo of my tits, a photo of my arse, a photo of my cunt, to cam with them, to give them my phone number, to meet with them, to fuck them.
Although maybe a tiny part of it was me: all delicate and vulnerable, my whole sexual personality based on submission, I was too polite. I kept talking to some of them when I should have ignored them, all the hurt and rejection making my body ache. I was reluctant to pass a fraction of that on to another person.
I didn’t seem to be aware of the basic rules of handling men. Like, for example, don’t fuck someone you work with. Especially if that someone tells you he’s in love with you.
Joe was fine. As fine as you can be, when you’ve put your heart out there and had a “return to sender” message stamped across it. The problem was I noticed him more, and he appeared to possess some superpower that always mysteriously manifests in these situations, of being all the places I was, involved in every project I was, attending every meeting I was, to the point that he was even at the cafe I went to at lunchtime to avoid seeing him in the canteen.
I varied between what I suspect were awful, pitying smiles, to joking within him as if we were best buddies, to being all business talk. Sometimes I acted as if nothing had happened between us, but then I made inappropriate remarks such as “the sex was great”, and “you have been amazingly lucky in the trouser department, some girl is going to be incredibly happy”.
All the time I was embarrassing myself at work and murdering my evening finding people I didn’t care about on the internet, all the time I was creating detailed sexual scenarios with total strangers, I thought of my lover. I wanted to be on his doorstep, kneeling, begging, asking him to have mercy and keep me safe from myself.
I made up mental speeches.
‘My body aches for you. Truly it aches; throughout the day I am in physical pain, my head, my stomach, my limbs, my heart. I feel every fibre of my clothes chafing against my skin, a constant irritant, and reminder that you’re not touching me. I need the warmth of your hand on my naked flesh. I need to spread my thighs and feel my body mould around you. I need to be bound, blindfolded and gagged, my muscles tense as I listen for the swish of the cat o’ nine tails in the air before it lashes against me.
‘I need your guidance. I need your order. Without you nothing feels right, nothing can ever be right. I don’t need to be separated from you to know this. It is the truth of my life. It is the centre of my soul.’
And that is where I always stopped, before my mind drifted off into song titles as if all the music that had been playing on the radio in the background throughout my life was now my only means to communicate.
I just died in your arms tonight.
Take these broken wings.
How can you mend a broken heart?
Don’t leave me this way.
Against all odds, take a look at me now.
How am I supposed to live without you?
I want you back.
Etcetera etcetera.
I resisted phoning him. Not because I
All the hot, steamy, X-rated talk, all the imagined hard pounding and thrusting and screwing, was nothing more than killing time before my body was exhausted enough to fall into sleep, usually at about two or three in the morning.
And then there was all the urging and persuading and demanding. “No” seemed to be transformed across the internet. It left my computer as a point blank refusal; it arrived at their computers as a playful, coy tease inviting them to keep on asking and asking. Their requests were similar: a photo of my tits, a photo of my arse, a photo of my cunt, to cam with them, to give them my phone number, to meet with them, to fuck them.
Although maybe a tiny part of it was me: all delicate and vulnerable, my whole sexual personality based on submission, I was too polite. I kept talking to some of them when I should have ignored them, all the hurt and rejection making my body ache. I was reluctant to pass a fraction of that on to another person.
I didn’t seem to be aware of the basic rules of handling men. Like, for example, don’t fuck someone you work with. Especially if that someone tells you he’s in love with you.
Joe was fine. As fine as you can be, when you’ve put your heart out there and had a “return to sender” message stamped across it. The problem was I noticed him more, and he appeared to possess some superpower that always mysteriously manifests in these situations, of being all the places I was, involved in every project I was, attending every meeting I was, to the point that he was even at the cafe I went to at lunchtime to avoid seeing him in the canteen.
I varied between what I suspect were awful, pitying smiles, to joking within him as if we were best buddies, to being all business talk. Sometimes I acted as if nothing had happened between us, but then I made inappropriate remarks such as “the sex was great”, and “you have been amazingly lucky in the trouser department, some girl is going to be incredibly happy”.
All the time I was embarrassing myself at work and murdering my evening finding people I didn’t care about on the internet, all the time I was creating detailed sexual scenarios with total strangers, I thought of my lover. I wanted to be on his doorstep, kneeling, begging, asking him to have mercy and keep me safe from myself.
I made up mental speeches.
‘My body aches for you. Truly it aches; throughout the day I am in physical pain, my head, my stomach, my limbs, my heart. I feel every fibre of my clothes chafing against my skin, a constant irritant, and reminder that you’re not touching me. I need the warmth of your hand on my naked flesh. I need to spread my thighs and feel my body mould around you. I need to be bound, blindfolded and gagged, my muscles tense as I listen for the swish of the cat o’ nine tails in the air before it lashes against me.
‘I need your guidance. I need your order. Without you nothing feels right, nothing can ever be right. I don’t need to be separated from you to know this. It is the truth of my life. It is the centre of my soul.’
And that is where I always stopped, before my mind drifted off into song titles as if all the music that had been playing on the radio in the background throughout my life was now my only means to communicate.
I just died in your arms tonight.
Take these broken wings.
How can you mend a broken heart?
Don’t leave me this way.
Against all odds, take a look at me now.
How am I supposed to live without you?
I want you back.
Etcetera etcetera.
I resisted phoning him. Not because I
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