Confessions of a libra

Visionary | Credit: Here

19.06.25

I can’t stop thinking about him and even worse, I’ve conjured a timeline in which he is mine. Mine to command. Mine to hold. And mine to lovingly ravish. I’m scared a little bit. I’m scared about what it means to have admitted this to myself. To finally give into the consequences of my praise and devotion. I’m frightened of how much my spine tingles in merry bliss at thoughts of him. There’s a raw animalism to him. If only you could watch him, you too would see. He coils like a cobra, he stalks with predatory precision. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s just in my sight which sees into realms past and present.

I see the tightness in him like a coil ready to spring. I want to make him spring, for me. He presents a certain archetype of man that secretly grips me. The catch. It’s so public. You know attentions from a man like that carry a heavy weight. He only does it big and he only goes hard. He’s charismatic and that’s how he’s survived. He’s charmed, but underneath it all is this depth I sense. Underneath it all is the electricity that always hums in close proximity. It’s the subtle way his chest puffs out when I ask him for something. It’s the way he’s watching me when I socialise and I pretend he’s not. I’ve normalised it, he’s normalised it.

He’s happy to skirt the current, almost like it’s what he thinks he deserves. He’s the kind of man everyone looks at and says, I want to be more like him. When I see him, I think just let loose on me. I can take it. I’d rather take that than whatever torture session you have conjured for yourself. I’m respectful, so I skirt the lines too. Always keep it polite. Pretending I’ve never seen the sparkle in his eye. The way his body shifted to match my body language. The frown when he thought I was giving his admiration elsewhere. But he’s so controlled. That’s what gets me. I hate that I love it. It is my achilles heel. This is my whole tortured poet kink playing out again, isn’t it?

I’ve been so worried he’d disappoint me. I was worried that he would fail the test and choose his ego over me. Yet I have been shown that he is changing, he is thawing. It shouldn’t excite me, or maybe it should. I don’t know why I give myself such a hard time where he is concerned. Other people I go, oh yep attractive – love. With him I go, he is kinda hot especially when he’s heady on me. On my proximity. When he moves his body without abandon, when I can hear the crackling flames of sexual devotion licking at me between his every word.

I know he questions himself. If I’m real. Why I destabilise everything he’s ever known. Why he wants to do for me what he’s never dared to do for anyone before. I want to toy with him with my fingers in his mouth while he’s on his knees. I want to slip him my underwear at an inconvenient moment just to see his flush. I want to shake him loose of all expectation, and help him breath the deepest sigh. I know he wants to win me over in a smoulder, but I need him to say it. Just once. Break the dam and save us all from this retched torture. Let me claim myself reborn for accepting the delicious little secret I really want. I’ve never wanted to be just like anyone he’s ever met. So it felt like liking him openly would contradict that, with the level of reach he has. Be steady my heart. I will get through this. The day he’s on his knees, know this. You are about to be sick of us.