dirty little secret

I like being your dirty little secret.

I like that you don't share me with the world. That when I am with you in those stolen moments I am just yours. There is something about knowing that we only exist in our own space, in our own minds, that draws me in completely.

I like that I am in your head, that you think of me and smile to yourself, that during the day I come to you in fleeting moments. I like stealing into the fringes of a life that I will never be a part of: smiling at you from the outside, whispering dirty nothings in your ear, distracting you from your life with my fantasies for us.

I like having a dirty little secret. Something that belongs to me. Something that I don't need to share. Something to amuse my mind and make me smile...something to plan for and imagine while life whirls around me. I revel in the the clandestine moments of connection: the brief email and text - and in the long delayed, long imagined rendez-vous, the pure escapism of removing myself briefly from my life.

I like that we don't exist in reality. That we are fantasy alone. It is magic, isn't it? It is almost too simple to feel bliss in spaces that are separate from the mundane and the routine - that are uncomplicated. It is easy to get excited at the prospect of a stolen afternoon, a stolen moment, a stolen kiss. There is nothing here that is real: it is pretend, it is imaginary - a place for desire to be fulfilled and secrets to be shared.

In your bed I am not your partner, I am not mother to your children, I do not share bills, history, obligations, housework or routine.

In your bed I am your mistress, your concubine, your confidant and your whore. Something you could not resist, the woman you just had to have - reality be damned. In your bed I am your lover, your fiction, your dirty little secret.
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