Last Friday, after almost a week of no contact whatsoever, I get a message at 8:48 in the morning.
“Show me your underwear.”
Of course, I do. It’s striped, black and turquoise, and when I lift up my skirt you can see my tattoo and the tops of my stockings.
He tells me to show him what’s underneath.
He asks me to put a couple of fingers in my pussy.
I don’t stop. I don’t care that I’m three feet away from my coworker, and my boss’s office door is open.
He asks me if I’m getting wet.
I know exactly why I’m doing this. I no longer want the same things I did before – I don’t trust him enough to fall apart. But sex? I can do sex. Pure desire. Teasing, open, gluttonous, and I love it.
Tonight, Ginger Dude reappears. He asks for pictures, and I send him the one from my office bathroom – the one where the cardigan is barely covering my nipples, with tank top and skirt gone and panties and stockings fully exposed. I usually don’t send fully naked picture to anyone who hasn’t already seen me that way, and this still works for me. He says he could get addicted to me and that he wants me.
It sets my skin on fire.
Desire makes me feel alive. It is by no means the measure of my value, but I like it. It does not fix the hurt and heartbreak, but I don’t want or need it to. It simply reminds me I am here, that fantasies are meant to be realized, that chemistry is like fireworks and that just like the song goes, life “is just an instant”.
Oh, and I also know there is a very small chance I will (want to) see him after next Tuesday. And I like it this way.