Stroke to women I know but I can’t have
I have to admit something that’s probably obvious by now: I get off the hardest to women I know in real life, but who are just out of reach. Not just the untouchable ones, but the ones I know I’ll absolutely never have. My best friend’s older sister, the married barista at a coffee shop I frequent, my boss’s ironclad, no-nonsense wife. Sometimes girls I used to know in college who moved on, or moved away, or got serious with someone else and are basically living in a different universe from mine. I get obsessed with them, but only inside my own head, and the more impossible they are to actually have, the more they glow in my own private world. Porn can’t even come close to the heat of these fantasies, because porn is a thing you can buy, a thing on-tap, but these women are the holy grail: visible, tangible, but always and forever withheld.
Part of the thrill is the secrecy, the agony of wanting and knowing that it will always stop at wanting. I’ll run into one of these women at a party, or just catch her on the street, and there’s a jolt of hunger, a desperate, silent yearning that I have to swallow, and then I go home and let it all unfold in my imagination. Sometimes I make up elaborate scenarios, sometimes I just fixate on a detail: a stray hair curling at her neck, the way she laughs at a joke I’ll never make, the flash of her thigh above the hem of a skirt. My body knows the difference, and the more forbidden it is, the more violently I get off. It’s like the old cliché—wanting what I can’t have, except it’s not about hope. It’s about hopelessness, and I think that’s why it’s so fucking hot.
I stroke to them with a fever that porn never gives me, and after, when I’m spent and my pulse is quiet, I linger in the fantasy a little longer just to savor the impossibility. Sometimes I feel pathetic, like a pervert with a shrine made out of missed connections, but mostly I just feel alive. Wanting without getting is its own high, and the ache is the point. I could never tell these women, but I worship them nightly, and maybe if they knew they’d be repulsed, but maybe—just maybe—they’d understand that it’s a kind of sacred devotion. The kind that burns even harder because it has nowhere to go but in circles, around and around, forever denied.
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