Girl on the Net

My bedsheets smell like last night’s fucking. Well, fucking which lasted the whole of yesterday if I’m honest. Then once again this morning at roughly 5 am. We barebacked: my favourite kind of fuck. Rock-solid, exquisitely-shaped, diamond-hard cock sliding inside me, bare. Leaking precum. I could feel every single atom of his dick against every ridge of the inside of my aching cunt. His flesh meeting mine, stretching me out. Sensing, as he slid into my body, just how desperately and urgently wet I was. We bareback fucked to a soundtrack of tunes that he selected and I utterly loved while I clung to that man like my life depended on it and begged him to never stop doing what he was doing. He looked into my eyes and whispered: “you’re fucking incredible” and kissed me with a kind of gentle awe. This is a real thing which happened to me yesterday. This man fucked me like he meant it. And oh God, put me out of my misery now please: if this man turns out not to mean it, I will shatter.

This guy has a fetish for intimacy, I think. That’s what I’m going with. That’s what it feels like. He gets off on closeness. Which is, in itself, an extremely sexy kink.

At the same time, it also feels like he is genuinely into me. That he likes me with the same force and power with which I like him.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it too: he cannot be real.

He’s extremely sexy, I’ve told you that before. Tattooed. Beautiful. Simultaneously intense and soft. Eyes that are bright sometimes and dark at other times and always compelling to stare deeply into. I look at the side of his face in profile and want to lean forward and brush my lips against the exposed skin just above the collar of his t-shirt. I cannot get enough of running my fingertips up and down the nape of his neck.

Shortly before he came into my life I remember tweeting something along the lines of: “I’ve just rediscovered the song ‘I Will Follow You Into The Dark’ by Death Cab for Cutie so now I need a hot punk guy to obsess over.” Well. A hot punk guy rocked up in my life, people, and suddenly every nerve ending in my body is vibrating with abject need for him.

This is a man for whom it is impossible to explain my feelings to my own mother. I genuinely (this is true), when describing him to her (I am so ashamed), uttered the words (please forgive me for this): “We just kind of… pulse with the same rhythm?”

I KNOW.

Later I have refined this, so to my sister I used the phrase “resonate at the same frequency.” But even that is far too sexual – too MOIST – a thing to say to a relative.

Seeing this man’s name appear in my phone (especially if he pops up to say anything even vaguely sexual or affectionate) gives me a throb of physical yearning. Kissing him, and feeling his hands tremble slightly when he touches me, is an intense sensation reminiscent of my first ever teenage fumbles. I haven’t felt it as an adult for anyone I’ve known for such a short time: it happens rarely, during really beautiful moments with men I have known for years. This make-up fuck, for instance, had that energy. This break-up fuck had it too. It usually only washes over me when the kissing and touching is built on foundations laid down by feelings and history.

And yet… this is a dude I have known for only six dates (so far: there’ll be more. We’re both extremely confident that there’ll be more) so we’re only just getting started. We’re in the early days of getting to know each other. I haven’t even learned yet how to properly make him a cup of tea! I know how he takes it (milk, one sugar), but not for how long he likes the bag left in, or which type of mug he prefers. I haven’t even really had guidance on milk quantity, for fuck’s sake! This man is essentially a stranger to me!

I know so little about him. So… what is it that makes me trust him when he tells me “I’m SO into this.”

Yeah, oh yeah. He says that sort of stuff. Last night’s fucking was punctuated by so many moments of incredible, powerful connection. Heartfelt, intense, meaningful. Like we’re both trying to put our finger on whatever this weird thing is that we feel.

‘We’… hmm… I definitely feel something pretty great. But is he also for real? He feels… not real.

He feels like a miracle.

Like magic. He’s a magic trick. This guy feels like a trick that’s being played on me.

When I was at school, probably between the ages of 13 and 14, more than once a boy asked me out as a joke. I don’t think this man is joking. I don’t think he’s mean. He seems really nice. But if something seems too good to be true, it probably is – that’s how the saying goes, right?

Oh sorry, I should also have mentioned: this guy seems kind and lovely and interesting. He has a lot of friends and he talks about his feelings and it seems like he is quite emotionally articulate. While I’m doing this I should also tell you that he’s funny. He makes me laugh.

I shouldn’t doubt him when he’s this nice, right? I think he’s nice. I think he’s in earnest. When he says this stuff to me, I believe him because I feel the same. But that is irrational and bizarre and an extremely weird thing for me to be feeling. If he has the same thing going on, that’s a fucking coincidence, right? So he has to be some kind of a scam, or illusion, or I’m being a stupid stupid stupid stupid twat.

Right? One of those things.

Except… hmm. This man’s hands tremble when he touches me. He looks into my eyes and tells me I’m fucking incredible in this voice that sounds honest and real. It’s such an intense sensation.

This guy is really into intimacy, though. Perhaps this is just what it’s like dating someone who has that kind of kink…

…who is also super into you. Because honestly, when he says it I believe him. I should pay attention to that, right?

And then there’s the bed, of course.

The bed still smells like last night’s fucking. That’s what I’m clinging to, as I try to sort this into the right place in my head. Am I mad or is this genuine? Is he a trick or is he a miracle? Why would this guy fuck me the way that he does if he doesn’t fucking mean it? I’d have shagged him for less than ten percent of this… whatever this tone is that he’s summoned. What could possibly be in it for him, to conjure so intense an illusion?

The bed still smells like last night’s fucking. I remember clinging to this man like my life depended on it, begging him never to stop. I can picture him staring into my eyes and telling me I am incredible as he slowly and firmly stretched out my wet cunt with his diamond-hard, precum-leaking, pulsing bareback dick…

So I’m off to bed now, to lie face-down in it, while I masturbate to the memory of this man shaking his head from side to side and saying “I’m just so fucking into you.”

The bed still smells like last night’s fucking. This guy is either a miracle or a magic trick.

And God, how I want to believe.