The Most Intimate Affair

by jenkapotente

I have imaginary affairs with authors. It only takes a paragraph, sometimes a strong sentence, for me to vow loyalty for a temporary union. It is a monogamous union, for whatever blip in time. I am usually faithful for several days, sometimes weeks, and if they are particularly good verbal lovers, they will hold my fancy for, what I imagine to be, my lifetime.

Though I call it monogamous, it isn’t really, as I did pluralize affair. I occasionally wander off into relationships with others. Sometimes I return, others I do not. I can’t fathom being any more faithful to monogamy in a three dimensional union as I can an intellectual one. I can’t fathom being loved any better than when words are woven so magically I am unconsciously persuaded to give my undivided attention to one mind projecting its thought. My libidinal physical urges seem a hindrance. They seem base, perfunctory, and their climax, a momentary jubilation that is only perceptibly invaluable upon incline, yet quite calculable in afterthought.

I find myself through my lovers. Or perhaps it is more apt to say I define myself through my lovers. They are better than I at this craft. I engage them in hope they will leave a bit of themselves with me, that I may become better through them. I worship them in a sense and in saying this I suppose I reveal myself as a Submissive. On a rare occasion I have enough false bravado to play the opposing role, but my general lack of self-esteem maintains me as the former. Our union leads me to believe I can love like they can merely through our engagement. The critical me knows this is a load of bollocks. But please, let me have my fantasies.

What is more intimate than being penetrated through minds? Turgid flesh inside flesh seems so superficial. As effective as a blade beneath epidermis. Sure, contact can be made and there is probing, but it is met with limitations, limitations of the corporeal form–how anticlimactic. I seek more. Language can sate me in ways I did not know possible, for there is potential for discovery in every sentence, sometimes single words. Knowing this makes every line a pathway toward adventure. And in words, all forms may become majestic. Uttered silently or with sound, infinity becomes the only limitation.