We've only had a few dates so far, and she already seems to know me. I like to think I know her too. She is alive in all the glowing ways I want to be, and when she's next to me she makes me feel that way too. She never wears an entirely dark or neutral outfit, there's always a pop of color. She tells me it's because she had a goth era that has now ended, and over the years she has stocked her closet with color, resulting in a mix of dark basics and bright accents. She listens to soft folk music and loves long hikes, during which she can't focus on a conversation for longer than a few minutes before she is veering off the path to look at a plant or a bird she's found. She loves pasta and Italian food, but will always say yes to a good burger smothered in toppings. She is beautiful, with freckles that each feel perfectly placed to draw your eyes towards hers.
And she's here, next to me, on my couch. My roommate is away, per my request. I want to watch this stupid movie (her words, not mine) with her alone. She's laughing at the main character's diamond advertising campaign slogan "frost yourself" which she thinks is quite possibly the stupidest slogan she's ever heard. She's commenting on how this whole movie is about a man who takes on a bet to prove he can speak for women better than women can, and somehow he's the hero and ends up winning the bet. But she loves it anyway, and I can't stop looking at her.
"Tell me a secret." I say. I want to know her better than anyone else does. I'm terrified that there's nothing left to learn, because I love every new discovery.
"Like a... 'I've never told anyone' kind of secret? Because I don't have those. Everyone knows a different part of me. I have secrets from everyone, but there's nothing about me that no one knows." I want to know everything. But I can't say that.
"Just a secret. Any secret."
"Fine.... Did I ever tell you I write smut?"
Apparently I look surprised because she says "Everyone's always shocked to learn that. I think because I'm fat people always assume I've never had sex, or that I don't experience sexuality the way they do. But it's all the same really." I pause to think about this.
"Is it good?" I ask.
"The smut?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. Sure. I think I'm a decent writer. And I know what I want. I have plenty of mini fantasies that make great fuel." Oh. I want to know every fantasy. I want to make them all happen for her.
"Can I read some of it?" She looks at me like I'm out of my mind, and for a moment I think I might be. But then she smiles, and sits up, disconnecting her shoulder from mine and leaving my arms. She pulls her phone off the table, opens an incognito tab, signs in, and hands me the phone. Then she settles back into my shoulder and watches the movie.
As far as I'm concerned, the movie doesn't exist. Her page is filled with long, extraordinarily detailed descriptions of various imaginary relationships, each with very detailed descriptions of sex built in. Most of them, shockingly, are simple. They are almost... PG. She doesn't fantasize about any wild kinks or seem to want any unconventional or unusual men, but there are similarities between the stories and I go after them like they're lines in the bible. I'm looking for her, her sexuality, in her writing, and I find her. I also find myself. Or snippets of me. She's written my mannerisms into several of her characters, and I am both surprised and strangely honored.
By the time I'm done reading, the movie is over. She's looking at me when I look up from the phone and I realize she's been looking at me the whole time. The movie became inconsequential the moment we started this conversation. I'm hard, but she doesn't seem to be focused on that. She's reading my face, looking for my approval.
"Your turn." she says.
