The Uncle

What is it about him? Not even just about him, but him- the very nature of who he is, what he is, his fiber.

I felt it, latent, a hint, the first time I met him, my husband's uncle, at a family wedding. Someone that lodged in my mind, leaving me intrigued. There was something about him that magnetized and attracted me. He possessed a certain kind of raw virility, an essence, a mental brilliance, an unmatched personality. I was in awe of him, fascinated, but afraid to even try to know him. I didn't think he liked me much, even though he did record some radio shows, gave them to me on a set of discs. It mattered, considering he's not a person who gives much away. He called me sometimes, starting a couple of years ago. At first I always thought he only called me to reach my husband, who didn't answer his phone consistently. Then I began to think he actually did want conversations with me, personally. I can remember many of those talks, remember where I was, what I was doing, things he said. He could make me laugh, unlike anyone I've ever talked to. That powerful, complicated mind began to captivate me.

But then came last summer.

I felt it that July trip in such a real way, felt a magnetic kind of pull, cellular, instinct. I'd been excited to go there, spend time with him, talk to him in person instead of just over the phone. I'd heard the stories of family adventures with the Uncle, and I wanted to experience him firsthand. I'd gotten used to that voice over that past couple of years, chocolate velvet, rich, leather. I wanted to really see the person behind it, to have the chance to get to know him now.

When I walked in his house, immersed in that scent of wood and man and mountains, saw the camouflage hanging, the boots lined up, the shadows on the rich wood walls, it was like I'd always wanted to smell this, stand here, know the man who lives here. And later, when he came home, in his brown uniform, and I happened to be alone there, having stepped in to look for something in our luggage, a switch went on in my head, a spark deep inside me flared up, a dominating something I didn't know I was waiting for. After that, everywhere he went, I wanted to be, I hung on each word, I noticed if he wasn't around. I would try to not stare at him, but I just couldn't help it. I would intentionally not sit near to him half the time, because all I felt was the urge to be on him, in him, closer than possible. No one had ever made me feel so much of anything. I would subtly try to graze his fingers when handing him something, I brushed mosquitos off of his neck in a boat, anything, anything to feel closer. That canoe ride was a picture I keep in my mind, the ease and laughter we all three shared, the sunlight on the water, the feeling of connection.

He liked to tease me, call me "Olive Oyl", because of my "spaghetti legs." I remember once, sitting at a campsite looking across a lake. We weren't alone, we were sitting with my mother-in-law. he reached over, he wrapped his fingers around my ankles. Considering he doesn't often touch people, it felt significant, and strangely natural, as if a familiarity was already in place. It surprised me, especially since, at the start of the visit, in a fit of some kind of anguish over a trivial incident, I'd attempted to hug him, and found him a stiff board, shut off, unresponsive.

I would remember his jokes, the vaguely inappropriate ones. Things like "Maybe we get to see what's under that skirt." Even, and ridiculous I would even notice, sayings used without any context, like "I'll show your mine if you show me yours." Maybe that kind of ragged, subtle edge of obscenity excited me, and appealed to me. He was one of those men who just wear their sexuality like a musk, and you can't be around them without being aware of it, raw and enticing.

At the end of the camping trip, the only reason I was happy to be leaving the lake was I knew I would get to sit in the middle of the seat of his truck, between my husband and him. For the two hours back, I soaked up that feeling of his body next to me, the warmth, every movement, the scent. It was delicious, filled me with a sense of well-being and enticement. Just riding in his truck was like some kind of honor, but being close enough to have my hip and thigh pressed into his was like a drug.

He didn't notice me much, I was sure of that. I kind of wanted him to, but was overall, just happy to follow him around like a puppy, trying to conceal my ardent admiration, but not doing a very good job of it.

When the visit nearing the end, and it was time almost to go home, miles away home, I could feel a pain rising, something unexpected, a sense of agony. The night before departure, I was starting to writhe inside, screaming in my head, no, no no, I don't want to leave. The last night, none of us went to sleep. We sat in the living room watching movies, and I f could stay sitting in one place, couldn't get comfortable because I was feeling the urge to climb up on his lap. But of course that wasn't even remotely possible, or rational.

On the ride to the airport, the air was thick with pain. My own pain, shocking, surprising; His pain, something I'd never seen before, almost controlled but seeping out. The goodbyes began, I gave in to the need to be close, sat beside him for a moment. I couldn't believe he would let me, it took my breath. He was like something wild, a bear, that lets you stroke it, wary. I put my head on his shoulder, he rested his head on my head, I felt his ear, smooth soft, vulnerable. I was shaking, he was shaking. Then, at the security line, that tragic place where all the world comes between, there was an embrace like nothing I've ever felt. It tore through me, electricity, heart-wrenching, a pounding, pulsing, trembling earthquake of a hug, ripping at my soul, like some kind of spiritual copulation. I pressed my lips to his neck, I whispered, maybe out-loud, maybe silently

"I love you Uncle John"

And then we pulled apart. A couple of moments later, he came up behind me, and laid his arm across my shoulder. I reached up to grasp his hand for a fleeting second. But it was time to cross that airport line of separation; I watched him through the security line, looking over my shoulder, waving until he was out of view, with the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt eating me up from the inside out. I carried that pain with me, on the flight home, the rest of the day, all night. I woke with it, heavy inside and on and all around me.

But I couldn't believe it when, our first morning back, states away, he sent me a text, a picture of his face. I was all anguish inside, but somehow, that broke through, a beam of relief. And from then on, every day, he'd call me early morning, maybe evening too, and he'd send me a picture, a picture that would stir something deep in my belly, between my legs, under my ribs. Just seeing that face, that face that represented that magnificent mind, housed in that stunning body, was enough to buckle my knees sometimes. I dared not analyze my response, all I knew was a warmth rising from between my legs, a whirling in my brain, something outside me control. I would be in the middle of some activity, and find myself lost, just gazing at a picture of him, following the curve of his mouth, captured by the brown of his hands, the place where his black hair met his neck, the way his clothes fit around stomach, shirt open at his chest. It felt like a world, like a universe, pulling me in. I always sent him a picture back, something vaguely creative, but never seductive.

I remember one interchange. I sent him a picture of Kix cereal in a bowl. I asked if he wanted some. He said, yes with some "special milk". This made me laugh because I was currently breast-feeding my son, and that topic was a line of humor. But it did more than make me laugh, especially when he sent a close up picture of his face. It aroused me, an instant physical response I would barely admit to myself.

I couldn't help the dreams. Half awake dream of him laying on top of me, dream of sitting next him, his arm around me, dream of just touching his hand, even dreams of him calling, or me waiting for him to call. Dreams of his voice. I couldn't help the dreams.

There's a saying "Laughter is an orgasm of the soul". We liked to laugh, we could laugh about anything, everything. A portion of our humor hung on sexual topics, because we both live without those filters of "appropriate conversation"; but there was never motivation, simply fun, a natural interaction of minds. Our conversations grew longer, I'd never talked to anyone who could understand me so well, who could literally tell me what I'd been thinking, who could grasp at least some of the way my mind works, could be with me in my dimension.

Three weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, I missed him so much, was so full of something I didn't comprehend or try to define, that I found myself in my parent's bathroom, jerking off to a picture he'd sent me that morning, a crazy picture with his tongue out. It was just too much, somehow my body, even without my mind's permission, was imagining that tongue doing things to me, imagining that full, sensuous mouth pressing against my skin, moving between my thighs, consuming. I gave myself over to the urge; masturbating was something I rarely indulged in anymore, since after my marriage, I generally always climax during sex with my husband. But this, this was it's own category, a fantasy pleasure with a different flavor.

Maybe I was having a premonition, because, that was the last day he talked to me for weeks. His wife saw a text, and literally exploded. He wasn't someone who usually texted people, and that text contained reference to orgasm. Ironically, at the church we visited that morning, the preacher mentioned orgasms in his sermon. Ironically, the Uncle had earlier that morning sent me a link to national orgasm day. Ironically, that was the one text she read. And she made him go away, disappear suddenly. He later told he didn't mind, it didn't cause him any pain, in fact, it was a relief to him. He could avoid getting close to me without having to make the decision. But for me, it was excruciating, and confusing, mind shattering.

He'd warned me he'd be backing off at a certain date: four weeks after our trip ended. But this came a week early. Monday morning, no call, no text, nothing. I panicked, what I had I done? Here was this amazing connection with another human being, followed by a sudden loss, what looked like rejection, and I didn't know why. I presumed it was me, something I'd done or said or just something about who I am. I don't get close to people easily, usually it takes a long time and a great deal of hard work, but with him, it was effortless, something I couldn't hold back if I'd tried. The impression my mind embraced was that he just didn't like who I was, or he'd gotten tired of talking to me, that I was somehow so flawed that he couldn't stand me anymore. He did send me one reply email that Monday morning, after I actually "broke the rules" and tried to initiate contact, in more than one form.. "I told you I was going away." His wife called me that Monday. She messaged me, she told me to leave him alone, that he didn't need me around, that she felt left out, like he and I had our own little world, and even when he was home, he was talking to me. I respected her feelings, tried to see her perspective. But following that, the pain I'd felt three weeks before, at the airport and on the trip away from him, pain I didn't know could be any harsher, escalated into something literally overwhelming.

I found myself in a dark place, hard to breathe, hard to think. Grief, like death. Anger, that would rise up, then turn into longing, then settle into more grief. We talked to him on his birthday, my husband and I together. And was it a week, or two later, when he called me? I was shaking, couldn't see right, had to sit down when I picked up the phone. Just hearing that voice, knowing he was there, washed through me and made me weak. I'd tried telling myself he was dead, just in order to cope each day. But it hadn't worked.

So began a strange, one sided interaction. I didn't know why he'd "gone away", didn't know his wife was upset. He wouldn't let her talk at me about it. So I continued to send him occasional pictures, funny quotes, emails about the cacophony of peculiar notions that are always shooting around my brain. I anguished over missing him, shared songs, some of them inappropriate by most standards, but only shared in humor, because I thought they'd make him smile. He finally told me to think of that kind of communication with him - the emails, texts - as a "black hole", something filed away until I might die and then he could have those glimpses of my brain and emotions to share with with my husband. So I pulled out all the the stops, so to speak, I let it flow. I'd send anything and everything, never dreaming that, his wife was reading all of it, every single crazy thing my head. He would call me once in a while, but anything I'd sent was never discussed, and I presumed he probably didn't read anything, so never worried about how what I said might be perceived.

In September, I became suddenly very sick, nearly died, was hospitalized for a few days. During that time, he started talking to me a little more, even texted me a couple random pictures. I continued my "black hole" correspondence. Underneath a muffled surface, the pain of being separated from the person I holistically craved was there, but it wasn't inhibiting my life quite as much, as long as I didn't touch up, lift the edge of the blanket and feel the sharp edges. He gave me a beautiful gift of a long, personal conversation shortly after my illness, and explained some of the mysteries of what goes on in his head. During that call, he said the words "I care about you, I care about what happens to you."

I felt like I was holding my breath between phone calls, living for them. When he wouldn't call after a week, I'd start to panic; thanks to that initial sudden departure, I lived in fear of a total loss of his existence in my world. But overall, I was doing alright, had begun to accept the fact that I would always live with the pain of missing, of wanting to be close to someone that was out of my reach. His presence in my world didn't seem to take away from the rest of my everyday life, it just overshadowed it. I would think of him constantly, even when thinking about other things. He was like the ultimate human, a superior being, and any acknowledgement he gave me was elating.

I never had any ideas of trying to seduce him, it wasn't like that. I tried to define it as hero-complex and avoided analyzing it much, and would just joke about trying to "be like Uncle John." That was the only way I knew to try to explain to myself the instinct I felt to somehow be a part of him, to merge, be cellularly connected. I had no intentions of trying to be noticed as a sexual object; in fact, I would've said that was impossible. He was an impenetrable fortress.

But then, one day, I got a call from his wife. It was the same day I got a six page letter from my mother-in-law condemning me for a long list of perceived issues, most of them nonexistent. The Aunt said, in essence "Whether you mean it or not, stop seducing my husband. I don't care if you talk on the phone, but I don't want you sending him pictures, or texting him or emailing. He barely even texts me and I don't know why he would text you. I don't trust him. He's had his issues." Too many things went off in my brain, a kind of explosion, a sort of breakdown. And through it all, the Uncle was the only other living person who could comprehend me and what I felt, and they pathways of my thoughts. So he began to call me again, to help me work through it all, to sort out and mend the damaged in-law relationships and somehow, it felt like our minds began to intertwine even more, it felt to me like we'd found our own psychological reality, a place where we were the only two humans, a place where I was understood, not condemned, free to just breathe, to talk about anything. I could make him laugh, he could make me laugh, make me feel better no matter what. The ultimate universe of escape.

In order to keep his wife, who was irrationally (at that point) paranoid, he simplified our lives by deleting calls and texts with me. The motive was reasonable, protection of a woman who lives in lots of physical pain and has to take medicines that alter her personality.

I could talk to him about literally anything. We would talk on Friday evenings especially, when he was relaxed, and share funny stories, random interesting facts, a level of dialogue and communication that was refreshing and exclusive to him. The time would pass so quickly, an hour felt like ten minutes. Then, something began to change a little, I'm not sure how. Maybe the sexual humor got more explicit? Maybe I talked more about my sex life?

He made it very clear around this time that he harbored no feelings whatsoever for me, that the only reason he talked to me was because I amused him, that he would very easily live without me in his life, but did enjoy the amusing conversations. I'd posted a craigslist ad selling high-quality, slightly used lingerie. It sold quickly; in my sheltered world, I never given thought the fetish industry, wasn't even aware of most aspects of that. It amused me, but at the same time, aroused me, and the power of the arousal frightened me. I was a "good girl", loyal to my spouse. Perhaps my sex drive is higher than his, my appetite never quenched, but I thought that was normal part of being a woman. I told the Uncle all about it, and was amazed how well he understood, found out his life was similar. He told me I wasn't "normal". He liked to tease me after that, about being a little whore. I'd say "Not a whore, just a nymphomaniac. There's a difference."

He was going to help me figure this out, help me be safe, as I encountered the urge to meet up with strangers and sell them my dirty underwear, to send pictures to men in other states who saw my ads and contacted me. he told me about his past, some of his haunting fantasies, his fetishes, comical but sexy stories. I remember that evening, remember how hot it made me feel, how the details lingered in my mind, settled in my pelvis, made me ache. "I could do this for him, help him conquer these ghosts by experiencing some of these things he's imagined." It was a subconscious passing thought, more of an urge than any logical rationalization. His pantyhose fetish completely intrigued me, considering I'd grown up in a strict religious environment that encouraged women and girls to wear skirts, and often hose. I'd accrued quite a collection, and joked about it.

One morning, I sent him a picture of a box of pantyhose. I think by that point, he was beginning to feel something sensual; I was too, some primal urge rising up, something that for me had been there, buried, not yet acknowledged, but was now emerging. I took a picture of myself in black patterned pantyhose, and a short skirt. I changed to another pain of pantyhose, pink, a wrap skirt, open almost to the waste. A few others, different outfits. They were really intended as a joke, something to make him smile, laugh, be amused by crazy me, "spaghetti leg Olive Oyl". Later that day, I uploaded them, sent him links. He wasn't going to look at them, both of us were fighting this surprising, rising primal urge. But he said "I bet these are just pictures of bunnies, so...." "Puppies", I replied, since one picture included me holding my little dog. When he opened the link saw the picture, his response was, well, utterly astounding. I could hear it in his voice, the arousal, the surprise, "oh my, oh my word, puppies, I've never seen, oh my...." He went on and on, I knew he was excited, his body was responding. I wasn't alone in the house, but hid in the laundry room, my pussy literally dripping down my thighs, aching, blood pulsing. I was almost bursting into orgasm without even touching myself, just hearing him. It was like, a delicious, unbelievable surprise, like tasting something I didn't even know could exist, caught in a moment unexpected, feeling a kind of connection I never imagined was remotely possible with this person with whom I already had a strong intellectual connection.