This thing we might do

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

I should probably not get into the habit of telling you stories that haven’t happened yet, but something about the thrill of this was almost – almost – hornier than having actual sex. It started with a conversation at a party, one that involved me whispering something in someone’s ear. Something that started with ‘this might sound weird’ and ended with the words ‘…please ruin me.’

The next time we hung out, we talked about it some more. Fleshed out a few little details. In messages, hints were dropped: “I was chatting to X about that hot thing you said…”

‘That hot thing.’ This thing we might do.

Those texts led to a phone call. An awkward, fun one during which I fumbled my sentences and cursed the fact that words are much harder to command when you don’t have time to edit. But sometimes, even if the words don’t come brilliantly, it’s worth letting them fall out of your mouth regardless. You just have to hope that your meaning (please ruin me) is conveyed, even if it the presentation is sorely, sadly lacking.

It didn’t work because I sold it well, it worked because the person I was talking to already had similar ideas. I don’t know if there’s a perfect way for someone to receive your sexual fantasy, but it’s got to be something fairly close to the following:

“Fuck! I’ve always wanted to try that!”

I’ve been thinking about our plans a lot since then. Hugging them to myself when I’m horny and bored. When I let my mind wander, it inevitably settles on this.

This thing we might do.

Please ruin me. 

A week or so later, sitting on the sofa with coffee and blankets and plenty of time, we discuss it a little more. Kick ideas back-and-forth like we’re playing tennis instead of planning a fuck.

Hinting. Offering. Asking. Elaborating.

As I say, I shouldn’t get into the habit of telling you stories that haven’t happened yet, but for me this build-up is a story in itself. It’s been so long since I planned something like this: since I gave myself permission to ask for what I wanted, of someone I couldn’t be sure would say yes. It’s been a while since I gathered my courage (and cocktails: many cocktails), and whispered ‘please ruin me‘ into a willing ear.

But now I’m on a roll with it, and so much of my sex life exists in this current state of drool-worthy potential. Plans I’ve made with a dude on a very specific date, for a very specific reason. Meet-ups with people who have told me they might, and whose ‘maybe’s feed my hunger for time to pass. Ideas and fantasies and the suggestion of a game so creative, so devious, so beautifully horny that I could never have dreamed it up myself. This is my life right now: potential. And potential is so fucking hot.

All these things I might get to do, if promises and plans bear fruit.

On this occasion, this particular thing we might do didn’t happen straight away, for reasons that’ll become clear at the end of the story. But that kind of makes it better, I think. It means I have to wait, and hope, and dream, and fantasise, and itch for the day to roll round. And all the time it throbs in the background of my life: the idea of it.

This thing we might do.

Later, after the whispered conversations and the phone call and the sofa chat, we’re hanging out with a few friends. They don’t know that we might do this thing, and I sense that it would be impolite to have that discussion in front of them. To acknowledge the pulse of adrenaline and horny excitement that’s thumping through my veins.

But it’s there – the anticipation. It’s there in filthy looks and raised eyebrows and the fact that I’m sitting on the floor so I can look upwards into people’s eyes and feel subby. It’s there in a casual ‘good girl‘ when no one’s listening, and in the stories I tell to show off about strap-ons and submission and this one guy who gagged me with a belt.

Please trust me. Like me. Fancy me. Ruin me. 

I get nervous: drop shot glasses on the floor and make terrible smalltalk. My hands shake a little bit, as if I’m scared. But this isn’t fear, it’s delight. My hands shake because I realise that until now I’ve been unsure. Until now it’s just been a fantasy: this thing we might do.

But now, suddenly, it’s solid. Real. Possible.

The evening continues, and things start to wind down. People say their goodbyes and head home: one more drink, a quick toilet break, checking of train times or night buses or booking taxis. And all the while I feel this hum of anticipation, knowing that at some point we’ll be left alone together, and I can properly, actually ask: will this happen? And then add, perhaps: ‘please ruin me.’

When the room is almost empty, and it’s only us left in it, I look around and break into a grin.

“I know not tonight, cos it’s late and we’re tired but I just want to check… are we doing this?”

He grins. So does she.

And they both say yes.

And I’m so excited.


Update: we fucking did it.


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