Dear My Mr. Grey,

Following on from my two days of complete kinky fuckery, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a little bit in love with My Mr. Grey, AKA Number 27. And by a little bit, I actually mean a lot. Don’t get me wrong, this is a common emotion for me to have after one of our little rendezvous’, and it happens every couple of years or so. I’m familiar with it. But this time, it’s different. I’m actually pining. And it really sucks.

Today was my first full day of being completely smoke-free. I’m quitting smoking. Correction, I HAVE quit smoking. I wasn’t sad or angry, stroppy or pissed off. I was fine. I spent most of the day talking to My Mr. Grey. I think I’m still on a major high after our last little meeting, but I noticed something. Our text conversations have started to divert away from the usual sex stuff. We’re talking. Like, actually talking. Talking-talking. About real stuff.

He told me that he felt good around me and that being around me felt good. Better than he remembered before. So, does this mean he’s thinking about me in the same ways that I’m thinking about him? Are we both having this post-fuck(s) lovey-emotion? Or am I reading far too much into this? Has the good sex played havoc with my brain and made me think that there is more to our ‘situation’ than there actually is? It’s not like it would be the first time it’s ever happened, right? Maybe the sex hormones really do cover my eyes with rose-tinted spectacles and I’m not even that into him at all? The latter is probably not the case, but you can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?

I feel like literally screaming right now. On one hand, I have this truly amazing fuck buddy that I only see every now and then, which is probably the main reason why our sex life is so good. He ‘gets’ me. He understands my body. He pushes my boundaries and drives me fucking mental. But then, on the other hand, he’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met, with just the right amount of badassery about him. He’d probably rock my world if I ever dared to speak the truth and we actually tried to have a REAL relationship. But is it a risk that I’m willing to take? Would it really be wise of me to sacrifice the best sex I’ve ever had – that I probably will ever have – for a relationship that, statistically, probably won’t even work. My track record isn’t really that great, is it?

We’ve been doing our thing – the friends with benefits thing – for close to a decade now. It works just fine. It would be really stupid of me to make a mess of it all by saying something stupid like: “I love you”.

So, instead of telling him that I love him, I decided to write down a few words instead.

Here they are:

Dear My Mr. Grey,

You’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met in my life. You’re so respectful towards me – towards women – that it genuinely makes my heart melt. At the same time, you treat me like such a whore, slapping my ass and pulling my hair and doing all the things that no one else will do with me. You are the right combination of all the right ingredients. Your wacky dress sense and innocent ways, with your sexy interior that not many people get to see … I love it all. I love you. I love you like a girl loves a pair of shoes that she used to wear all of the time, but threw in the attic and forgot all about, before finding them again and remembering just how amazing they were. I know it’s a bad metaphor, but you know my relationship with shoes … and you know just what that statement truly means.

Deep down, I think I’ve always known that you were the right guy for me. I actually think that everyone else has known it too, which is why every guy I’ve ever dated has always hated you with a passion. You challenge me. You fuck me like you mean it. You spoil me while simultaneously making me work for your attention. I love that. Almost as much as I love the way you put your hand flat against the base of my back as we’re walking along. It turns me on immensely despite it being such a small, insignificant touch, but it makes me feel protected too. Like you’ve got my back. It’s our little gesture. Our thing.

I know you’re never going to read this, but in the small chance that you do, I hope and pray that by some miracle you happen to feel exactly the same. And if you do, please tell me. Give me a sign. Let me know so we can stop scooting around each other like two sex-obsessed teenagers with very similar kinks and finally start living the happy-ever-after we should’ve had all those years ago when I married the wrong guy.

I adore you. In every sense of the word, I adore you. And not your greying hair, your funny and weird dress sense, or the funny way you giggle when you fart is going to put me off.

Now, if you could only buck up your ideas and tell me that you feel the same, maybe we could stop being so bloody unlucky in love …

All my love,

Me

Xo

𝕊𝕚𝕩𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕖

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