A part of me hopes you read this. If you do, let’s never talk about it.
You’ve been running through my mind since our most recent rendezvous, where one intended hour melted into six. The moment I stepped through your door, you decided I was to stay. When I asked why, you answered in that mellow tone: I was a gift, a slice of caramel cake to mark a special occasion. My heart opened. For the first time in so long, I felt seen. Real. All I’ve ever wanted to be is a gift and in that moment, you made me believe I was. Even now, as I write these words, my throat tightens and my eyes blur with tears.
In the simplest, most cliché words, you make me feel special. Something shifted last night between us. A path opened. I am awake now: to your energy, to how your hands trace me, to how patient you are with my body. I find myself holding my breath until I see your name appear on my screen. I rush to you. I will you to reach for me. Even in the shower, when soap slides over my curves, I surrender to the water and hope you’ll call, asking me to attend to you.
Do you remember when I asked to keep my jewellery on while we played? It wasn’t vanity. It was my way of holding on to you, of marking the moment. I’ve never allowed such. I hide pieces of myself to avoid attachment — but for you, the walls crumbled willingly. The sound of my jewellery clanging served as the melody to our lovemaking. Somehow, you always know how to fill my cup, how much to give, and in what way. As we lay on the clouds of your carpet, while you listened to me ramble, I marvelled at the creation before me. I stroked your limbs, praising the way your bones connect, the way your skin shields you.
It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? That you found me through my writing. And now, I can’t help but write about the angel you are.
Perhaps even courtesans are allowed to fall.
courtesan love confession
courtesan love confession