I get wet when I write. Hours pass like minutes as I imagine my characters knowing one another. She sucks him, he fucks her. The details are all-important, like heady brain-perfume, and the seduction is never complete. For hours, days, weeks maybe, I get wet. Embarrassingly wet, ready-to-be-plumbed wet, so wet that I swap my practical cotton underwear for another pair just as practical, but less lust-enhanced.
I touch myself through the crotch of my jeans, a trailing finger along the heavy denim or a quick squeeze to feel the twinge. Not enough to make anything happen, but enough to lead me on and make my vagina hungry. It’s wintertime and damp panties are a necessary evil, but the private tingling is a warmth that makes up for the chill. Words mingle with my mind’s juices and before I know it I’m edgy and fuckable. But I don’t want to fuck, I want to let the alchemy steep and simmer between my thighs, let my lust ripen through the words. I’m not me; I’m every letter and every word, phrases twine and twist, tight as brambles, digging lusty thorns into my flesh. I’m trapped in a horny prison of literature, hemmed in by the slavering wolves that yip and snarl around my bare bottom, ready to devour me from cunt to clavicle until I’m nothing but bleached bones and the ghost of fuckery.
When I can’t stand it any longer (many times days later), I let myself find relief. My husband takes the edge off, tongue-dipping into my juicy slit like he’s diving for pearls, barely coming up for breath until I’m coming breathlessly. But it’s not sex I’m looking for, or not the kind of sex found in a bed. It’s the weird word sex I really desire, so I find a place I shouldn’t be (the library bathroom, in my chilly car in the corner of the IKEA parking lot, or who knows where?) and my hands tremblingly unbutton my jeans, slipping them down just enough to slide clammy fingers to heat. Rubbing, digging, clawing at wet hot hunger, cheeks flushed and heart fluttering, breathing life in sharp gasps, hoping that nobody sees me, wishing somebody would see me and make my weird agony complete.
I twitch and clutch, pleasure inside-out, a welcome gasp of furious release and a low moan of shame and bliss as my thighs tremble. At that moment, I want the whole world to fuck me raw while I watch myself in the agony of consummation, terrified of the torture-desire that haunts me. Anything but this is the path that leads to death. My orgasm only locks me into my cage of lust, it is the words (these very words you are reading now) that release me. You, gentle reader, complete the circuit that connects my heart and mind and the snarling pussy-hunger, freeing me from the enchantment for a few meager heartbeats. So it will be until I’m dirt-dead and cold in the ground, but until that dire wasteland is upon me, let me feast on the words of wet and fertile imaginations.
And so I write, and get wet, and the cycle begins anew.