Okay—forget about the pathetic attempt at turning into poetry the utterly filthy, rough and deliriously hot fuck the Teacher and I last had. When my mind drift to thoughts of our debauchery in the midst of my three hour long 18th century novel class, I’m certainly not thinking in verse. And though we’ve been texting about the Marquis de Sade (whose work, ironically enough, is part of recommended reading for another one of my classes) and speaking in eloquence, as usual, I doubt he’d be thinking of it in lyrical images either.

But so there’s that—belt buckles and bruises everywhere and both him and Bad Idea’s total, aggressive dominance and dirty kinks and my favorite sort of libertine mindset, and then there is the Poet.

This boy, who warrants his title in every sense of the word. Who sent me long messages with language that make me stop and stare, just for a bit, because it’s intense and real and scattered and beautiful, and words are the only thing that can make me believe it, in this other, transcendental world and language of touch and taboo as being possible outside of a bedroom. Who sends me texts that sound like poems and who is a poet, of course, who looks and talks and moves like one.

This boy. When I saw him at the teahouse we were to meet at my heart fluttered relief. Better than relief, really, because I had seen photos but it could not have captured this, his angelic white blond hair and the way it fell into his eyes, the slope and angle of his bare shoulder, the way the slipped off jacket just fell at the shadows and outlines of his slender arms. His facial tics and mannerisms, the slight half smiles and twitches of his cheeks, the delicate nature of his bony fingers and god the things he says. Like, after a few moments of pause, are you gathering your thoughts? Yes, sort of. What are they about it? Well…right now they’re about. Kissing you, and such. I think, as of this moment, I’ve actually begun perspiring.

And then, oh, holding my hand when we walked outside and it started snowing. To a bookstore where he couldn’t find the book he was going to get for me and then to seek warmth and to cross off his goal, of kissing me, until we finally wandered into the non romantic dark corner of a Ricky’s with tacky music playing overhead. He dropped his Muji notebook (and his books of poetry tacked inside) on the floor and looked down towards me, him a whole 10 inches taller, standing close and smiling and nervous while I’m used to first kisses that start and end in bed, without question of the fucking to follow. Was he nervous?

I was never good at waiting and so I clasped my cold cold hands around his neck and he said he liked my cold hands on his skin so I stood up on my toes and kissed him. Slow, soft, unsure. So so different from anything I’m used to.

He didn’t want me to have to say goodbye, but I had logistics and obligations and my own concerns about him and headed home alone at the end of our night. Mostly I worry that someone this adorable and sweet simply can not put up with me—no, I’m too much of a slut, too obsessed with my kinky violent sex and delicious degradation. I couldn’t picture him playing rough at anything. And anyway, I certainly don’t plan on stopping my fun with the Teacher or Bad Idea.

But I can’t quite say no when he sends me incredibly endearing texts about how much seeing me would be a delight, either. And his angelic presence/words are a bit inspiring—I’ll have to find out how long the charm lasts after we spend some time doing more than adorable gestures of poetry.