I shared things with him that I’ve found it difficult to share with other people. Well, only one other person, really. And that was years ago. I don’t feel like I’m in the habit of allowing others to see inside the parts of me that are hidden.

But I told him things. Things that I’d be embarrassed to say to anyone else. Mostly all sexual. That I like watching certain types of porn that scratch that itch for me. That I don’t necessarily want to actually do those things but that it felt nice to think about.

I told him there were certain words that he could say to me that would make my heart beat faster, that get me excited.

I told him things that I wanted him to do to me, with me. I told him that I could picture him saying those things to me, that I did picture it, that I thought about him and I doing those things together.

And it was scary and exciting at the same time. Especially because it sounded very much like he was committing these things to memory. That he was taking stock of what excited me and making a plan for when we were next together. And I liked it.

I liked the sharing of it. I like that he listened and took it seriously, that he asked questions. I liked the unspoken promise of it.

And then I knew enough about myself to know that I would manufacture any sort of argument or reason for us to have some distance. Because it was too scary for me, sharing those things. Sharing parts of me that I’d probably never said before, that I’d never shared with anyone. And as much as it felt good to do it, it also felt shaky and uncertain.

What if I’d just shared these things with someone who didn’t appreciate what I’d just given him?