As you sit there and scroll through Reddit searching for something that catches your eye, perhaps I can remind you of that fantasy that you’ve had before. The magic of a stranger. Meeting in a coffee shop or bar. The noises of the patrons makes no difference. And I suppose, if a man is reading Melville in the corner or reading an advertisement for gutters and siding before putting his paper away and making his way out to your table, it makes no difference to the fantasy. It doesn’t matter because his eyes flash when he makes you blush. Perhaps you could tell me exactly what you’re wearing and how you got his attention, but I’m not concerned with such surface level details.

There’s something darker that sits just under your skin. Our largest organ is for hiding away our insides. I don’t care if you believe in a God, but it is no accident that we’re covered in leather to keep folks like me out. So I can’t peer out into the room and see your secrets leaking out of you. The fear and doubt that runs through your head. The anxiety that makes you feel heavy as the day grows longer.

If you spoke to your friends about this fantasy, they’d tell you that you should turn that man into a husband and father. To settle down with the mysterious man from out of town and maybe see a little slice of life you haven’t seen before. That’s the magic they imagine.

We both know there’s more to your sense of magic than just what some chemical-fueled daydream leaves coating your brain. You don’t want him to show he cares with a 1/2 soup and 1/2 salad lunch date in a couple of weeks. You’d rather he show you in a dark alley exactly how rough the walls of a brick building are as your face pushes against them and your thighs tighten up to push back against him.

There’s a certain tone in my voice that you need to hear, but not all at the same time. You worship the way I make you feel dizzy and confused and every feeling you feel comes from somewhere outside of reality. The way I can make you feel shame and guilt for putting on your shoes wrong and then turn around and make you feel proud that your fingers are still sticky as you drive across town.

If you’re looking for feelings you’ve thought you left behind, I’ll probably bring them out of you. That is what makes me dangerous. It’s an honesty about how I’ve turned women like you inside out and the promise of doing it to you makes you tug at your clothes hoping I don’t see more than you reckon I should.

If you’d like to know what I’m into? Mostly making you feel all the things a woman like you has kept hidden and contained. There’s a freedom in what I offer. It’s an escape. It’s a return to reality. It’s both of those at the same time. If I have to explain it, we’re a less than ideal match.

For those of you that need some ideas of the types of things that I enjoy doing: imagine you’re sitting alone on a Friday night with nothing to do. The walls echo back whatever is playing on Netflix. You consider responding to this post, but it seems like perhaps this is too much or that maybe someone better has already responded. You respond anyway, and then we start talking. Slow at first and then you convince yourself that you can slip your hands down between your legs and start to touch yourself. You come clean and we both know that you must repent for your sins. The only way to do that is to pray, but this type of prayer you’re about to make involves continuing to touch yourself while you pray for forgiveness to whatever God you can recall. The humiliation of being unable to stop as you pray for it to end. It’s all your own doing. You caused this and yet you can’t make it stop.

You’re a smart woman. I ask you to walk around your house and count all the pieces of furniture that have hard exposed edges. You tell me 23. I ask if you’ve lost count and then ask you to count again. It turns out you can count to at least 23 and I accept that you’re at least partially correct. I tell you to pick your 15 favorites and then to rub your clit and cunt on each one until you’ve covered it in cum and are about ready to orgasm. There’s no shame in the mess you’ve made, but you should lick it up and taste yourself mixed with oak from furniture passed down and cheap pine board purchased last week.

If you’re looking for that feeling you can’t describe and searching for something more than what you have now, we should chat and see if maybe leaning into it won’t create something more for you than you already have.