If this were a category, I suppose it would a “romantic”. It would also be a nonfiction and a history book. A short story — not quite the length of a novelette but not just a mere musing either. If the bookstore somehow sold it, I think it would probably be next to the candy bars because nobody would know what the hell to do with it.
I guess above all — it is my heart — on display, for whoever wants to give me their time and attention for a moment, for however long it takes you to read this.
“I’m fairly new to Tumblr”, were the words she started the conversation with.
Not the affectionate phrase you’d expect to be the first words conveyed to you from the woman that would later become the love of your life. Yet still, when I sit back, break it down and really think about it, it nonetheless is special in its own right, or at least it is to me.
You see — as a middle-aged and relatively normal guy, albeit that’s a debatable statement, I discovered social media later in life than those around me. Still, once I did discover it, I wore it well.
I developed a substantial following of frequent readers on the Tumblr platform in about 15 months of activity. My follower community skyrocketed in excess of 30K people in less than a year and a half and considering I’ve run a blog of written content on a platform designed and tailored for graphical material, I would say that is not half bad. I found my niche; it caught on with a certain group of people. Correction: it caught on with mostly women.
I grew this base through writing erotic musings; my prose, unique, in that my inner monologue was my pen. A naked heart in anonymity, appealing to the core elements of what makes us human. Speaking directly to those oft unknowingly aching inside, in some ways I presume for a passion counterpart in their lives, to voice they were hearing coming out of me. That passion yearned for, be it their significant other who has let them down, a hopeful new romance, or even within themselves.
Often something was dead inside, somewhere. They felt it like we all have at times — and they came there, to remember life didn’t have to be so colorless and drab; that the storybook romance is real and you don’t have to settle for a vanilla passion to have it. Remembering, for just a moment, that our inner passion is something that is to be embraced, and that our inner voice crying out should be free to shout out as loud as it needs to.
Through words, as I do now, I crafted a landscape of lust and love with deft precision, telling anyone who would listen to me — that my heart — against all odds, was not dead — and yours too didn’t have to be either. Mine was alive and well and it was thumping like a bass drum with a resounding thud through the words I’d scribe each and every night on my patio.
The response was overwhelming. A hundred new followers a day became commonplace. I absorbed private messages in droves, all that started similar to hers quite often, as well as everything else under the sun, from “hey, TRD, check out my boobs”, to “would you review my personal writings for me?”, to just a grown-up version of “Hello TRD, I really appreciate what you are doing here…and, oh, by the way, I am totally soaked”. This may sound like I am boasting, and if honesty were present, I probably am a little, but that doesn’t change the fact I am truly grateful for every person I’ve known there.
Every single person that has read my words; they gave me their time, for just a moment. They shared a thought with me. An intimate thought, at that.
I always will, and always have seen my readers not as followers but as friends — for that simple reason alone. That is, that we share thought pattern intimacy; I am the guide and you are submissive, but we walk together.
Unlike many other writers, I have had little desire to develop a fiction, with the exception of certain times, when I do, so I am full of shit a little bit. But pretend storytelling is just not my forte. In no way is that a knock on the other writers; their creative engine is just different than mine. I need a journal of sorts for my inner passion, not a plot. I got very good at articulating in the first person how to express this passion too. I’ll write, in most pieces I develop, not with John, or Bob, or Bill, but myself as the protagonist.
Common are the ideas written by me, with a unique and rare marriage between my libido and heart, aimed directly at my readers. These words would read as something kindred to, “I will kiss you, Miss Tumblr, to make your knees buckle. I will flood you with sex and foreplay so overwhelming you’ll forget what direction is up and what is down. The orgasms will be so relentless your ability to decipher right and wrong will be askew. If somehow you could have a coherent thought during this moment in which I am owning you, it would be one where you recall what always missing before me. You will realize you cannot live without me, now that I have had you. You will be afraid for this need but as soon as you complete that thought, you will remember how good this feels, and ‘why ruin the moment now?’. You will witness the deepest want any man has ever felt staring right back at you, the feeling of selfishness in me will subside, and the glory of the desire felt for you visible in my hazel eyes will encompass what strength you had left. You will see the depth of my soul as a man as I give it to you, take your body, worship it, and make it mine.”
As I continued to write, my words just got better. Vivid and graphic depictions of where our hypothetical body parts would collide in passionate unison, my Miss Tumblr became my proxy to each and every reader as I wrote to only one. Passionate lust, existing in only our the erotic fantasyland within our minds, funneled through our retina via an iPhone.
Writing this narrative became my bailiwick.
As I continued to write, the blog grew. More people came; more words. More messages, more inquiries, more posts, more notes, more followers.
More desensitization — which became a price of admission I found, from hearing the repeated plight of the neglected American housewife, holed up in the prison of her own heart and mind as once Mr. Right invested his free time now in the excitement of SportsCenter.
But I had no idea that those five words — the ones at the top of this piece — spoken from her, amongst a sea of other words; well, those ones would ultimately change me as a man. Forever altered for the better, no matter the eventual outcome.
I will now — always — be a better man because of her.
In my arrogant, confident yet honest fashion, my retort to her initial outreach was a tinge of flirty with a facade of humble, engaging her a little bit but not too much, of course. Had to keep that “cool guy” thing going. But make no mistake — the wheels were set in motion quickly, and I was starting to sink rapidly. Why would this be any different than that of the hundreds, probably thousands of other times I heard, “Hi, how are you doing?”.
Even now I can’t say, other than, it just was.
I believe in God and I believe in the unexplainable — so I just see this as one of those things. Maybe I was primed to hear her; maybe she was just so exceptional that my defenses had no chance in the first place. Maybe it was both, but it doesn’t really matter now.
Now — right now — all that matters is her.
My voice must strike a chord otherwise missing elsewhere and I often say it’s because I write in a first-person tone, but it’s more than that I know it. I speak honestly, about being a man. About passion, love, desire, aching, vulnerability, and sex.
I speak — about what I honestly feel inside.
The only commitment I have when I write is to myself, not even her. My internal handshake is that I say exactly what I feel — no matter how sexual, sad, loving, and sometimes downright pathetic it may look. People who read my blog know me, personally — though they don’t actually know me — although, they kind of really do. For they know my thoughts; the most intimate side of me. For some reason, this emotional intimacy resonates with people far past anything I ever thought to come to pass. It is the only gift I can really give, and I give it, like nobody else.
This one quality resonated with her, and now that she is the muse, sometimes I wonder the thoughts she has as she reads my love for her. What does it feel like, to see, this kind of honest lustful want for you, in public, my love? What does it feel like, to know I ache for you, Miss Orange Sky? What does it feel like, I wonder.
When I started writing I had no plans or motives — just personal expression and I sure didn’t consider myself a writer, yet here I am, not even a few paragraphs removed from where I subtlety elevate myself amongst my peers with a quite gloat. Skillfully, making you wonder now where I even shunned them, as you follow me along through a sequence of characters in a sentence, pulling you along for the ride while you find me arrogant yet honest. And oh, by the way, I should probably point out to you it’s where I said “otherwise missing elsewhere”, which unfortunately is far more often true than not.
A marksman with expression oft felt by us all but not spoken aloud, yet I do it like clockwork. My prose, completely in your face and between your legs, intended only to just be me, but in effect, I soak your panties, make you clutch your heart and giggle when I do it. Go ahead; hate me right now. Just read that next post, and all will be forgiven.
For when I write, above all else, I am honest to a fault. Or at least I am so with my inner monologue. The sincerity I expose in pen builds a bond with my readers. Unlike many others, I do not give two shits about building a sexual D/s scene for you to touch yourself to. Rather, I craft a scene with my heart on my sleeve, showcasing the feelings that are boiling deep within me, cascading across the page as you see my thoughts evolve, all culminating in a physical display of our dominant and submissive passion — yes — in a D/s erotic scene.
There is a difference between those two stories, and it is called vulnerability.
I come at you with everything I am and with the motive to crush your ability to consent, as you well up, hate me, love me, soak yourself, giggle, and ultimately discover that touching your kitty feels like a good idea.
My writings are longer than that of musings, and I believe this singular aspect of extensive word count has sifted out the dingbat demographic. Long gone are the impatient women who just didn’t have the tolerance for ten to fifteen whole long paragraphs, and wanted a “He said, She said” plot that they could rub themselves to while holding down pause on the Bravo network. There are droves of shitty writers with that impersonal story for that unaffected reader; that is not me. Fuck that. I’d rather write Terms and Conditions legalese than half-ass my passion in pen.
My readers, on the other hand— they above all, are the smart girls.
But enough about me and my astonishing ability to write about how astonishing ability to write. What about her? Or us? I think that is where I started this off before I went down the literary self-adulation rabbit hole.
When she reached out, something magical happened, and the big bad wolf found his house of bricks, completely weakened in the best possible way. I was so unable to really control anything that what was going on inside myself. She cut right through me like glass; engaging me with her business acumen, 144 IQ, inner beauty, and possibly above all the rest, it was her loving heart, which did me in. I sensed her goodness. Long before I ever saw a photograph of her beautiful face, I was taken, rolled up, and stuffed in her pocket.
The magic of it all was the reciprocity because as I reached down, I found my pockets were full too, with her vulnerability and ache for me.
She was as much mine as I was hers, on a level playing field; there was never any sacrifice made that didn’t have a counterpart in the other. No one person felt it greater; no one person felt it less.
It was the math of love in its infancy, and goddamn was I happy to find it.
Investing every moment of my mind’s day became essential. Every second I spent not thinking of or speaking to her felt adjacent betrayal. And besides, I didn’t want to experience even just a mere thought without her being a character in my mental storyline. If she wasn’t there, I pretended she was.
I just could not get enough of her; nor her me. Our phone calls averaged the length of full work days at times and as soon as we hung up, I wished we hadn’t. After eight hours, I could have taken another eight. Sleeping became optional. Waking early, essential. We spoke of everything two educated, smart, and yes sexually-driven people could communicate about.
We touched. We played together, orgasming with one another’s voice as cannon fodder in the war of erotic words, setting forth the beginning of a sexual foundation to come that would feel like the most intense and indescribable ache for one another I would ever know. We knew then, that only one thing could satiate our desire and it could not happen soon enough. The “I Love You’s” came with honesty soon and our need for a relationship formed into a whole new type of bond — one of dominance and submission.
D/s — as the kids are calling it these days — I fell naturally into my role as leader, and she, the Type A alpha, ached for the release of her own dominion. I caught her like I was built for nothing else. Her most honest and vulnerable feelings spilled into me and nothing could have felt more natural. She journaled her most vivid thoughts as I gave her mine in barter.
I never knew two people could actually be this close. Two people who knew everything that the other was thinking. It should have been terrifying but it was by me giving myself and my inner thoughts to her, I was able to fall deeper into her because of it, and this was how she was able to give back.
The physical union was the lynchpin. Closing in on me as she crossed the brick pathway, splitting the grass at the home I held for us. I was bottled up with nerves while appearing collected when our mouths met, but once it happened there was no turning back.
I know you are reading this, my love. So I am not writing this for anyone else, anymore.
Now I am writing this to strike a chord in your heart, as you journey with me through our memories, biding time until we carve out some new ones.
Do you remember what it felt like, that first time?
I remember kissing you and pulling you in through the doorway, debating on should I carry you into the bedroom — because how heroic would that look? And then finally deciding that “no, I need you right here and now”. Promptly tossing you onto the sofa to find myself within one of the best moments of my life, beginning to make passionate love to the one I’ve been most passionate about.
Devouring your sweet pussy, I owned you like you never knew was even possible. The orgasms poured out of you so intense I could see you were being devirginized in a sense — by pleasure. Taken, for the very first time like this. Never again in your life would a moment like this happen to you — where you have that feeling of “oh my God, this is what I’ve been missing my whole life”. I could have stayed between your legs forever.
Driving my fingers inside you, I remember the thoughts that crossed my mind as you bucked and I knelt on the floor in front of you. You felt different than anything I’d ever known. Physically, you just felt different. It’s as if your insides curved in a distinct way. You bent — where I needed you to bend.
I looked up at a woman disheveled and in love with me, wrought with adoration and struck down from my ambition — but one message was clear above it all.
You needed me — inside you.
We spoke of this moment beforehand. How we’d skip all the D/s roughness and even the foreplay, though I couldn’t help myself with the latter, and I would enter you, becoming one with you. Just being inside you was what we ached for what felt like a lifetime but was hardly a page on the calendar.
As I slid my hardness inside your wetness, I knew — that this is the woman right here — she was the one that I was meant to fill. No way was my conscience wrong; nothing felt more right since the moment I met you and my love for you was culminating in pure heaven on earth. What was happening before me, seeing you in a frenzy of endorphins flushing you was my ego boosting me into the stratosphere. Giving you an experience unlike anything you’d ever known was my pride at an all-time high, but it was more than that.
It was my joy, to serve you. To somehow make you feel during our time together that the world and everything in it revolved around you.
You — no matter what — have made me a better man.
I love you, into the dark.
Also published on Medium.