CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing
The fantasy had been running through my head all day like a buzzing film projection on a loop. The images were smoked and fuzzy around the edges and the sound dipped in and out depending on where I was and who I was with. Every so often, in the moments when I found myself alone, the playback froze and I could indulge that particular still in more detail.
I stepped into the screen and really felt myself to be there. My lips tasting the lipstick of your kiss. The whisper of your delicate sighs. The irresistible urge to feel you melt deeper into my embrace until our edges became flowing silk.
My body carried the sensations all day long: an invisible ache that wrapped me in a promise of later, later, wait ‘till you get home, respite will be waiting for you there.
The final bus ride was near torturous as the vibrations from the engine magnified the buzzing hum I’d been carrying in every cell. I walked the last block home without feeling my contact with the ground, my senses now overwhelmed with their own inner kinesis.
Finally, in the shelter of my apartment, I locked the door behind me, stripped off my outside trappings, and lay down.
My hands travelled over my skin as I replayed my favourite fantasy scenes. After the day-long build there was sure to be a thunderous climax.
Except there wasn’t.
There was pleasure. There was heat. And then there was a quiet peaking: the molehill to the mountain of sensation that I’d been feeling throughout the day.
As I gazed at the ceiling through resigned eyes I realised that the true pleasure of this experience wasn’t about the orgasm, it was about savouring the hours and hours of tingles and throbs and aching that had led to this moment. It wasn’t about ‘one moment in time’; it was about the capacity and the pleasure of my body all the time.
And the fantasy?
It’s not over either. The film projection can be rewound, replayed, even rewritten. I can spend a moment or a lifetime. It’s not about the perfect ending after all.