3 min read

fantasies fulfilled & fantasies anew

Solar Eclipse, Carleton Watkins, 1889. Scholars doubt the attribution to Carleton Watkins and of the legitimacy of this photo. Shout out to the Public Domain Review

My apartment – all to myself. My apartment! This place does not need to cater to anyone but me and my whims. My internal spills out into the material realm and the material realm seeps into my mind. The walls I’ve spent years building are coming down. Nothing can protect me from devastation now; nothing to protect me from being brought to my knees, from laying on the floor for hours and hours and crying. The unadulterated joy, the previously theoretical fantasies come true, too, though. The only thing separating me and the rest of the world is the flimsy chain lock on my hundred-year-old apartment door  — if I can even remember to latch it.


I’m a giant woman and the entirety of you fits in one of my hands. I look down at you and you look up at me and your eyes are wet and dreamy, pleading. I gently place you in a tiny box lined with velvet and I shake you around for a bit. I lay the box down on the bed and wait for a while so you can catch your breath. When I open it up, the light from the room leaks into your little box, the light from the curtains that are parted just enough so that the room isn’t pitch black, they fill the box you’re in. You lay there, shaken up, breathing hard, and thrilled. I ask if you’re okay and you nod.


I am phone banking for a good cause and you are resistant to my canvassing, worried that I am a scammer or a bot. You Google me and your tone shifts. I feel you leaning in through the phone. A month later you ask me for an update – it’s a transparent excuse to talk to me. You’re a little annoying and you say all the wrong things – but you lay it on thick, your interest. I ask if you have an ounce of cool in your bones, and you say you’ll get on your hands and knees and beg for me to believe that you do. You’re annoying, like a cat that doesn’t know when to stop playing. I reach through the phone and kick you in the head. Later that day I meet you for the first time and you pay for our dinner. You’re better in real life. Your crooked nose leaks a drop of blood on the check as we leave.


I ask you to come over and you come immediately. And then you do not cum again until I am satisfied.


We are laying beside each other in my living room, under piles of blankets because I am collecting them for the winter. I wrap you up in the biggest duvet and roll it tight so that you feel your own hot breath against your face. Your arms are bound against your torso, but I’ve left your lower half free. I watch you struggle and kick your legs around. After I fuck your lower half, I unwrap you and your face is red and sweaty and you are smiling a big dumb smile and you inhale a sharp breath of cold living room air.


I turn you into a bird so that you can perch on my windowsill while I cook. You talk to me aimlessly about all the trivia you know while I feed you bits of the vegetables I’m slicing. You don’t mind that it’s taking me two hours to cook this meal. When it’s ready, we sit on the floor at a low wooden table and marvel at all the dishes I made. I turn you back into a person and we share the meal together, gasping at all the flavors and textures. The meal stays hot, even though it takes us forever to eat it all. 

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