My muse is gone.
Well, to be more accurate, my muse is still there only now, from afar. (Okay, more afar.) I’m sure that, active participant in my life or no, he’ll continue to inspire naughty thoughts for quite some time.
He is so sensual. I don’t know if he even realizes it. The way his eyes moved over me. The curve of his lips when he smiled. His wrists (don’t ask – I have a thing for hands and wrists and arms). His cockiness. His cheekiness. His vulnerability.
Oh, I wanted (and still want, truth be told) to do so many naughty things to that man. Things I’ve barely had the nerve to admit to myself, much less anyone else. Darkly sensual things too, not just the sweetnes and light involved in “romantic” sex. I knew – don’t ask me how, I just knew – that he could inspire me to greater heights (and greater depths) than any lover I’ve ever had. And I so wanted to explore those depths.
Why, then, is he gone? Because hope is a dessert, not a main course. It is sweet and tempting and rich. It can call to your senses and close your eyes in bliss, but eventually you want something more solid. You want the reality of a man’s arms around you, his lips on yours. Two is a much more promising number for a tango, and I want to dance. If he called, I know I’d run and throw myself in his arms and to hell with what’s possible and what’s not. I know the call won’t come, though.
I have to be strong. I’m all I have, in the end, all I can count on to be with me all my days. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living with a weak woman, especially if she’s me.
Yes: I lost my heart. Cardinal sin for future divorceés, I know, but it’s an overrated organ, the heart, yes? The body seems to function quite well without it. (Good thing.)
I’m reminded of a passage from one of my all-time favourite love stories, Love Song For A Raven:

She looked around at the broad beach and the savage perfection of the land. “A pity this is Eden instead of the Ark. Two was a magic number for Noah and getting across water was no problem. But this is Eden and I have a ferry to catch. I bet the captain’s name is Charon.”

You’d have to read the book to understand.
To refocus here, since the diary is supposed to be an exploration of sensuality….
I wonder what the hell he’d planned to do with that riding crop?

About the author

Vikki McKay
By Vikki McKay

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