My Sir and I have always had a literary relationship. My first inkling of interest in him was due to the discovery we had a love for the same authors. He is the only man I've known who can make me drip merely by writing a sentence or two. My heart beats faster and skips when I see his name in my email box. This is how he owns me first, and always has.
It makes me wonder, though, at how common this could be. As it happens, although we write to each other a great deal, we met in person first, and fell in love with each other's minds through our correspondence.
What if I'd never met him, didn't know the face and voice to match the words would it have been the same?
His "voice" - his writing voice, is what lures me and makes me love him so fiercely. He compels me to obedience with it, pulls out tears and laughter, consoles and comforts, controls and dominates me without once needing to lay a hand upon me. Is it any wonder I fight to not drop to my knees in his presence? The intensity of the flesh incarnation of my Sir, the carnal and weakening effect his presence has on me is difficult to endure. I feel such an idiot at times, unable to think or be as clever as I feel I sometimes am when we only write. My wits are entirely gone when I see him. I wonder, does he miss the woman he writes to, question if she's even the same person? I'm so much more flirtatious and intelligent when I'm not under his actual influence.
I've never experienced this kind of involvement - the pure lust I can be driven to by the least mention of what he'll do to me when I see him. The sweet aching and painful longing that accompanies our good-byes, whether in person or apart. The miracle it seems to be when we're together, as if I've invented a lover in my head who's been transformed into flesh by some magic.
His words echo in my mind when we're apart, memories of things he has said or written that can make me blush in business meetings. They contribute to the feeling of being his, as if he's within my head, an active part of my smallest moment. I rarely ever feel truly alone or without him. I invent conversations that never happen, little things I must remember to say to him, sigh over missed viewings of pretty skies or funny events he will miss. I try to silently communicate all these lost moments when we're together, pressing up against him, an effort to melt into him as long as I can.
For all the words that pass between us, our times together are much more silent. We talk and visit, but there's also so much communication only with looks or the awful inability to look into his eyes for too long. Because we spend so much time writing to each other, it improves our nonverbal abilities somehow. We sink into the silent moments, initiated often when I'm in mid-sentence, unaware, my guard finally down and becoming comfortable with him. His possessive touch that undoes me, and renders me once again mute.
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