E-mail

Every time she sent a message, it was awkward. Was he flirting with her? Did she want him to be flirting? She was certain that he found her weird at best, irritating and stalker-like at worst. She kept meaning to just drop it, leave it alone, but every time she was on her computer she checked if he was online, sent him a message. She couldn’t seem to help herself. Every message had the same subtext - “I want you. I want you. I want you.”

It shocked her, but on the off chance he felt even remotely the same, she kept sending silly messages. I want you, I want you, I want you. She couldn’t go more than an hour without imagining him. Imagining him kissing her, touching her, pushing her against a wall and having his way with her…

She was married. She loved her husband, and her husband was a good man. Their marriage was mostly comfortable - they didn’t have sex often or well, they fought a lot, but it was the way it was. Normal. Routine. She thought she was okay with that, okay with her sexless life and the predictability of it. She hadn’t been looking for anything, but she had definitely found it.

Since meeting L. her dreams had become vivid and erotic. Her stomach flipped just thinking about him. She came up with plan after plan for how it would work out.

They would go for coffee. His foot would find hers under the table and she’d catch her breath, look down at her cup, slowly feel inch after inch of leg sliding between hers. In her fantasy all it took was one brief touch and she was melting into her chair. Then his hand would brush across hers. Their eyes would lock. They would both breath deeply, continue talking, his thumb stroking her hand, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, both thinking the same thing… and then they would be in the parking lot and his hands would be on her waist, her arms around his shoulders, her hands in his hair, his tongue in her mouth, probing, pressing, his body pushing her back against the car…

They would go to a movie. Their knees would touch in the crowded theater, and then their hands just barely brushing past each other… an accident, and then not an accident, and then his hand on her leg, his arm around her pulling her close, brushing the top of her head with his mouth, taking a breath, nibbling at her ear as she tried to stay quiet as a mouse, her hand sliding up his leg…

They would meet in the park. Walk for a while. Stop to observe the scenery or tie a shoelace or just… stop. He would be behind her, she would feel him there before he even touched her, his hand resting gently, hesitatingly on her waist. She would lean back, inviting, and his arms would slide around her. Quiet and slow and delicate, testing the waters. They would keep walking, holding hands, talking. When they finally kissed, it would be electric and unstoppable…

She ran over each scenario time and time again. Sitting at the table for lunch or dinner she would suddenly have a flash of desire and suck in a deep breath. In the shower she imagined him walking into the room, seeing her, wanting her.

It was all fantasy, though. She sent him e-mails and hoped for flirtation but just got blunt and impersonal responses. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Sometimes his responses seemed to have some subtext… he called her “hun” and “babe” and every so often a message would catch her sideways and she’d feel the now-familiar flip and be pulled into a fantasy of sex and passion.

She thought maybe she was addicted to the fantasies. Her fantasy life had been so barren for so long - the arousal lasting only as long as the story or movie, seemingly incapable of inserting herself into even the most simple daydream. But this… this was heady and overpowering. She couldn’t pull herself out of the fantasy, and she loved it.