Wanting More
Val called me his Asian prince, and I never doubted his sincerity. His tribute-gifts were black silk sheets, and I would stretch out in them each night, imagining that their soft caresses were his own, quietly talking to him, spilling my words to him through the ether, a slow, sensuous seduction from a thousand miles away. Later, when I bought toys, to warm the cold nights, priceless bringers of pleasure in glass and stone and soft, fleshy silicone, I would share their joys with him, whimpering into the night as I writhed there, feeling the comfortable fullness and the tiny droplets of sweat beading their way over my flesh, disappearing into the all-consuming blackness of the sheets.
I don’t remember how I met him, or when, only that it was very long ago, and that I had not yet learned the hunger for men. Somehow we seduced one another, like heroes of old, two horsemen, each circling the other, endlessly jealous of the other’s smooth, effortless movements, until anger and fear bled into lust and admiration, and the four became two and the two became one, just as earth and horse and man and steel once blended into one seamless force of dangerous beauty. We talked for hours across the ether, staving off the loneliness of the world with our desire. He taught me to love my body, wiping away my shame at the soft-edged, almost-girlish curves, and I loved him for it, returning his quiet tribute in bright Kodak color and regal, epic language, my best imitations of the hot, just-barely-innocent styles I adored best.