From the beginning, he filled my ears and my imagination with his words.

First I read his words elsewhere, appreciating them from a distance, like watching a rock star performing for others, not for me. When he looked past those screaming girls in the front row, and tossed me the leftover scraps of his verbal attention, I gathered them to me eagerly, not believing but accepting happily.

The flirtatious sparring moved forward quickly then… from black squiggles on white screen to furtive phone calls. He played me so well, protesting that I was the seductress, he the hesitant innocent. I remember bringing the phone so close to my cheek, leaning in, feeling my power and his, listening, melting, caring. I recall his voice now, can still hear it… soft, caressing… a fantasy made real. He fucked me with his words. He made me want more than was good for either of us.

Then he disappeared, for the first time, but not the last.

The disappearances rarely lasted very long, and were always followed by reappearances, not surprisingly. And each time I was assured and convinced that he retreated from my charms only from fear that he couldn’t stop himself from going further, feeling more, than either of us could handle. Over the months, there were more words, more pictures, more phone calls, more approaches and retreats. The last time, I was … resigned. I remained open, not damaged, not abandoned. And I was rewarded with other joys, other loves, other experiences.

And then yesterday… there they were again, in my inbox, his fucking words… ‘erotic’, ’desire’, ’passion’. For what it’s worth, I believe the words are real. The question is not whether to believe them… the question is what to do with them. Any advice? And hey… he reads my words, too. Perhaps he’ll be as good at giving advice as he is with the rest of his fucking words.