anon~girl: I need to tell you the truth about something.
unknown*user: Oh gosh, what?
anon~girl: After you told me what cologne you were wearing yesterday, I did what I suggested to you: popped into the perfume shop and got a tester so I could smell it.
I almost didn't send the message, but I bit the bullet and did it anyway. I don't really know why I felt the need to tell him I'd done such a ridiculous thing, or what felt like a ridiculous thing at the time, but something inside me compelled my fingers to tap out those words.
unknown*user: Why did you do that?
anon~girl: I wanted to know how you smelled.
unknown*user: And how did I smell?
anon~girl: Nice. I like it.
unknown*user: That's not very enthusiastic ... ?
anon~girl: I very much liked it. That's all you're getting out of me.
I wanted to say a lot more. I wanted to tell him how the fragrance sent my heart racing; how I treasured the little paper tester stick like it was my most prized possession for the entire day, keeping it in my pocket to smell it when I had a moment to myself at work; how it had been the catalyst for my outstanding orgasm the night before – but how could I?
unknown*user: No, come on. It's starting to feel like you're dodging the question. Did you not like it? What words come to mind when you think of it?
I thought back over the way his scent had made me feel as I was reaching down in between my legs and admiring the image of myself climaxing in the mirror. There an almost spiciness to it that made it a very exciting fragrance, and a passionate and sensual one, but there was also an underlying 'grownupness' to it that made me feel safe and protected in a strange kind of way. The scent was definitely a dominant one. It made me wonder if that was the kind of man he was: dominant, silently strong, masculine. My vision of him was certainly starting to come together that way.
I could think of just one word to describe Fahrenheit.
anon~girl: Intoxicating. It has an intoxicating smell, I think. It's the kinda fragrance you get fuck-drunk with. Once it's associated with a sex memory, that's it; that's all you'll remember when you smell it forevermore.
unknown*user: I actually laughed out loud at "fuck-drunk", but I know what you mean when you say that. It's definitely a thing.
anon~girl: It is! What fragrances get you fuck-drunk?
unknown*user: I don't want to talk about other fragrances. I want to talk about you being fuck-drunk over my cologne.
anon~girl: Well, I didn't actually say I was fuck-drunk, did I? I said it was the kind of perfume one might get fuck-drunk over.
unknown*user: But you wouldn't have said that if sex wasn't on your mind somewhere, right? Is sex on your mind?
I was shocked when I read his message, and then double-read it for good measure. Good-shocked, but still, totally shocked. After his usual skirting-the-subject, respectful responses whenever we talked about anything remotely sexual, the bluntness of his question really took me by surprise. There was no denying the direction in which our conversations were starting to go; they were getting increasingly steamy and flirtatious, each evening taking us a step closer to whatever imaginary boundary we hadn't yet agreed upon because neither of us knew we would get to this point. I didn't mind it, of course, and I was assuming he didn't, either.
unknown*user: You're taking a long time to reply?
anon~girl: Yes, sex is on my mind.
I threw in the metaphorical towel. Fuck it, I muttered under my breath, chucking my phone down on the bed like it were a bomb about to explode. I almost stopped breathing, I was so nervous. He was making me nervous. It had been a really long time since a potential lover had given me those kinds of butterflies. When you have a habit of going back to the same old and tired men you dated before, the nerves don't really enter the equation anymore. They're replaced with a comfortable familiarity that, although comforting at the time, would whip up every other negative emotion within you soon after, like a spin washer buried deep in your gut – regret, annoyance, disappointment.
unknown*user: Do you want me to tell you the truth about something too?
anon~girl: No ... wait, yes. Yes. That's my final answer.
I dithered between the two responses for a moment, because you never really know what someone is going to say when they make a truth-telling declaration like that — and especially with the way our conversations had started to steer.
unknown*user: Are you sure? You don't want to phone-a-friend?
anon~girl: Just tell me your truth, quit playing around. Are you married? Spanish? An undercover investigator about to bust a case wide open?
unknown*user: I can't stop thinking about you. I have sex on my mind, too. I think I do have some Spanish in my family somewhere, though.
His message completely stopped me in my tracks, cushion in hand, midway through removing the ridiculous decorative pillows that we all seem to have on our beds these days even though they take about twenty minutes to remove each night to make space to actually sleep.
anon~girl: Me? Really? What about me?
I almost didn't dare ask for more information, but I was too far down the rabbit hole to just back away now. I knew my question would be open for interpretation and there was a chance he'd turn into a sleaze ball right before my very eyes, but I felt somewhat safe with him; like he wouldn't do that kind of thing. I sensed he had more respect for me than to randomly throw a sext-starter into the conversation.
But, well, you know, I've been very wrong about that before.
unknown*user: Everything. The way your voice might sound, the way you might smell, the way your skin might feel.
As I read his response, I could tell that we were both doing the exact same thing at that moment: staring at the screen, waiting for the other person to stop typing and hit send, holding a breath in anticipation of what might pop up in the message box next.
anon~girl: Not what I look like?
I was surprised that he hadn't brought up my looks in any way. In fact, he hadn't really asked about my appearance at all. Not that I wanted him to, of course, but it did make me wonder why. It was usually one of the very first queries to ping into my inbox: height/weight/dress size/bra size/shoe size; I'd been asked them all.
unknown*user: Well, yes, that too. But that's not important here. You're so much more than whatever you look like, though I'm sure you're beautiful.
anon~girl: Hahaha, flattery will get you nowhere at all, Mister ... what shall I call you?
unknown*user: What do you want to call me?
anon~girl: Right now? Annoying. Just answer the question without giving me your actual name.
unknown*user: Do I get a name for you too, then?
anon~girl: Sure.
And we went back-and-forth for a little while, pondering the names we would give ourselves if we had the choice. It was surprisingly tough to come up with one when you could pick any name you wanted. What did I want this intriguing man to call me? Did I want to sound cool, or sexy, or exotic? Not that a name can make you any of those things, of course, but I was just an overthinker, overthinking.
In the end, I settled for Iris.
He decided upon James.
I wondered if his actual name might've been James, or if the name had some relevance to him. My new name had relevance to me: a relative on my mother's side. Was James the name of this man's father? Or grandfather? I rolled the name around my tongue for a moment. James. James. James.
Iris and James.
James and Iris.
It's a shame they weren't real people; the two names went together in a lovely couple'y way.
unknown*user: So, Iris, it's nice to meet you. Tell me a fun fact about yourself.
anon~girl: Ummm ...
unknown*user: The first thing that pops into your mind.
anon~girl: I have terrible taste in lovers.
unknown*user: Ha! I'm the exception, obviously.
anon~girl: How do you know you're to my taste? And you're not exactly my lover, are you?
unknown*user: You're talking to me non-stop, aren't you?
He made a good point. It's not like I could deny how much I was enjoying talking to him; he was the first person I spoke to in the morning and the last person I spoke to at night.
anon~girl: I don't really know you, though.
unknown*user: What's been so bad about your past lovers? Don't get too specific, obviously; we don't want to overstep the boundaries.
anon~girl: Well, I have a habit of pursuing people based on looks or superficial, shallow things, rather than their merit and who they are as a person. As a strategy, it has consistently failed me. I should probably switch things up.
unknown*user: People?
anon~girl: Yes, people.
unknown*user: I know what you mean, though: chasing the same old superficial relationships based on sexual attraction rather than intellectual compatibility.
anon~girl: Exactly.
unknown*user: So ... you're bisexual, I'm assuming?
anon~girl: I am. You?
unknown*user: 100% hetero, but in a let-everyone-marry-who-they-want kinda way. I've always found it rather odd to put laws on love.
anon~girl: I've never thought about it that way, but you definitely have a point. Being bi has never really been a 'thing' for me. My friends and family never made it weird, and I never had to do the whole 'coming out' business. I just sometimes took home men and sometimes took home women. No one ever talked about it or asked me about it. I know I've had it easy.
unknown*user: That's how it should be, don't you think?
anon~girl: Well, yes. My sexuality doesn't really have anything to do with anyone else.
unknown*user: Apart from me.
anon~girl: You?
unknown*user: One of these days, you're going to put me in charge of your sexuality, too.
anon~girl: Ha, fat chance.
But I did take a moment to consider what he'd just said to me. There was something quite erotic about putting on clothes that he'd specifically picked out for me, or spritzing myself with a bottle of perfume that was to his choosing. Someone having complete control over me was very slowly - but also very surely - turning from a practical approach to avoid making terrible decisions, into an act similar to foreplay. Not that he had complete control over me, of course, or that what we were doing was foreplay ... but when I was asking him to pick outfits for me, or perfume, or anything else, it definitely didn't feel as though I was just asking a friend. It felt like a lot more than that. I'd never been controlled in any kind of sexual way before, not even with a little light bondage, but learning that he was thinking of doing something like that sent a shiver down my spine. It made me wonder what tricks he might have up his sleeve, and what kind of lover he might turn out to be.
unknown*user: You don't think you're going to want me to?
anon~girl: You think I will?
unknown*user: I *know* you will.
anon~girl: You're very sure of yourself.
unknown*user: Maybe, but we'll see what happens, shall we?
anon~girl: I guess we will, James. I'm still planning on walking away on day 45.
unknown*user: A lot can happen between now and then.
And those words rang in my ears for the rest of the evening — as I did laundry and whipped the vacuum cleaner around, as I made myself yet another microwave meal that I'd grabbed on the way home, and even as I chatted to Sarah about the appointments she needed to prepare for over the coming days. It was like a tiny seed had been planted and the roots were starting to sprout out, each of them spawning a brand new sexual desire I didn't even know I had. Not once had I entertained the idea of being controlled before, or tied up, or taken-charge-of, but how would I have reacted if one of my lovers had attempted to try it? Was it the idea of being controlled that I was in lust with, or was it the idea of being controlled by him - James - that was ticking all of my boxes? I wasn't sure.
But I knew I wanted to find out.
anon~girl: So ... what does "in charge" of my sexuality mean, then?
unknown*user: Why? Are you interested?
anon~girl: Just curious.
unknown*user: It means just as it sounds: I'd be in charge.
anon~girl: In charge of what?
unknown*user: Of everything.
One of my eyebrows raised as I dared to dip my toes into whatever world he was introducing me to. I wanted to ask so many questions, but I was also somewhat wary about what his responses might be. I liked the guy; I didn't want it ruined by learning he was into something that I most definitely wouldn't.
But, then again, did I even know what I definitely wouldn't be into?
anon~girl: Well, as much as I'd like to learn more about this subject, I've got some stuff to sort out for work before bed. Shall we reconvene in about an hour or so?
unknown*user: No can do tonight, sorry. I need to get an early night for ridiculously early work in the morning. I hope you get everything done and sleep well, though!
I was disappointed. He'd become a bedtime habit for me, snuggling up in among my blankets and many cushions, eagerly watching my phone and waiting for a reply from him. It felt alien to put my phone down on my nightstand, right next to a pile of abandoned books, and not pick it up again once I'd climbed into bed. I must've laid there for about an hour, just staring at the ceiling, wondering what kind of bed linen he'd be all wrapped up in. I even tried to read for a spell, but the words were just dancing around on the page and my mind was processing anything from what my eyes were scanning.
Eventually, I fell asleep ... but the faceless-but-not man filled my dreams.