She’s gone, and I’m sad.
I lost her a month or so ago, and I’ve been holding off on writing this in part, I suppose, because I was hoping I’d get her back. But it seems I won’t. At least not immediately.
For the better part of two years, Sofia filled my inbox with photos, videos, sound files. Of her, of her surroundings. Of things that turn her on. Of things that turn me on. Of things I’ve asked her for and of things she intuited I would want.
I’m difficult. I want what I want, and nothing else. My usual mode of dominance is constructed, in part, to give me precisely what I want, yes, but also to avoid my getting something I don’t want.
As pervasive as my desire is, it’s at least as fragile. Say the wrong thing? Touch me the wrong way? And my desire vanishes, in an instant.
Sofia is – was – magnificent in her understanding of the workings of my desire. It’s very rare for a woman not, occasionally, to stumble on the tripwire of my fragility. One misplaced word, the wrong unbidden photo, shit, even a typo can make me and my wilting cock recoil.
This never happened with Sofia.
What’s more, many readers assume that the relationships I form with women are empty, unemotional, two-dimensional. Tinder women often glance here and conclude I’m not for them because I’m looking for “hookups.” Closer readers know this is rarely true. I’ve had hookups, sure, and I have nothing against them. But I’ll take an ongoing affair over a one-time hookup any day.
And Sofia – though far away, though we never met – was a longtime affair. I came to know much not just about her sexuality, but about her life, her family, her friends. I got to know the inside of her head as well as the contours of her body.
And this all was good. I really like, and grew to care about, Sofia. For this reason it was painful for me when Sofia decided – and I agreed – that it would be best if we stopped interacting. Which we have done, reluctantly.
I miss her, trust she is doing well, and hope one day we can pick up where we left off.