Some time ago, I wrote so there’s this guy at work. I talked about how he wanted me and how I wanted him. I used different names, I played with different ideas. I became what I was – and wasn’t – and only told half of the story.
What a gentleman he is. Holding back, letting me do the falling. Letting me make each move, calculated as it is. He lets me pursue and manipulate when, in reality, he no doubt just as involved. He feeds me stories, incomplete but true nonetheless.
We have a nice banter, I’ll give us that. Sexy and non-confrontational and completely non-threatening. We know our limits, but we also know those limits are flexible. We don’t know how flexible though. Not yet.
Given that I’m in a… relationship… long dead, that the man I live with is too interested in another woman to notice the one living with him, I feel no guilt as I choose the clothing I wear, what is seen as well as unseen. There’s no guilt as I play with fire.