the muse

I'm sceptical of talking about this woman I'm getting to know, because as yet it's all on a screen. Sharing little fantasies, talking nonsense, discussing Belle du Jour for crying out loud, and getting to know each other. It's nice. No, nice isn't the right word. Exciting. Terrifying. Fascinating. They are better words. I'm excited about the sex we could have if we ever decide to take the leap.

I'm fascinated because she is just so fucking fascinating. I'm fascinated how attracted and sexually compatible I feel towards somebody that isn't my usual type at all. I'm fascinated that there is someone out there who is the same kind of dirty as me. And I'm fascinated by her apparent fascination with me.

And I'm excited because her perversions match mine so closely, and she could so easily bring out the absolute worst in me... something I have ached for for far too long. She wants to do the things to me that I want her to do, and that is something to definitely be excited about.

But then, I'm terrified for more or less the same reasons. I don't know what the worst in me is yet, and I don't know how far I'll go... all I know is that it's pretty fucking far and pretty fucking bad. And I've not met anyone for a long time who could push me further than I think I could go, but I do think she could. She's done it already, in a way. I've told her things that I would ordinarily be far too ashamed to say in different company, things that are undeniable disgusting but get us off. Things I just can't say here right now.

I'm permanently tortured by my perversions, you see. The good side of me (and yes, there is one somewhere) is completely ashamed of the filthy whore side of me, but the filthy whore side of me gets off on the shame and argh! It's such a viciously horny circle, I can't even find the words.

And considering I was sceptical about writing about her, that didn't seem to stop me at all, in the end.

Bollocks.

I'm going to call her my muse.