Fantasy At The Door.

What I wear is one of those things that matters a lot more to me in fantasy than in reality. In the fantasy of that moment I've been in many outfits. I've opened the door in my little black dress with the racer back because I feel that dress most accurately depicts something horrendous, it most accurately depicts that you may be coming into my house to touch my partner but he is still exactly that, *mine*. I couldn't wear that because I don't want to encourage even the tiniest percentage of myself that actually does feel that way. I don't want to put on a dress that says I own a man, I don't own anyone and I don't want to. I want that as little as I want to intimidate any other woman ever, because that is not my place. It's not even my place to share him because that would insinuate that he is my thing to share but he isn't. Loving someone isn't the same as owning them and my love doesn't come with dreams of possession.

Then I thought I would just greet her in pants and a shirt but the problem with that is I really loathe pants, I would get rid of them all with the exception of yoga pants if I could. I can't open the door to someone I intend to let all the way inside me dressed as someone I am not, I mean I could in reality but in fantasy I like to entertain the notions of wearing my identity. But who am I? Am I pants? I'd really rather not wear pants at all ever. I wear shorts but i'd rather not. I wear dresses, but I'd rather not wear those either. I like the idea of cute little outfits with belts and boots but in actuality I just feel uncomfortable in pretty clothes. I figured later I should just open the door naked since that is where this was all going to lead anyway. I liked that idea best of all, I liked the idea of just being there as I am meant to be there right from the beginning.

But in reality I just answered the door in *whatever I happened to be wearing at that moment* and it didn't matter even long enough for me to retain what that was. In reality I really don't care what the fuck I wear but I like to entertain the notion of clothing and style when I think about things. I liked what she was wearing. In reality I enjoy watching what people wear a lot more than I do in fantasy, in my sexual fantasies everyone is almost always naked from the beginning. Maybe it's because I actually lack the creativity to dress everyone in the room, and it would take a lot of time because there's usually at least a bunch of people and I have to give personalities to all of them too. It makes me wonder if anyone can actually fantasize about sex with one person. I don't dress people in fantasy because it's tedious but I liked watching how she was dressed probably because I don't have to dress her. I may have stared at her too long in the doorway because she snapped her fingers to bring me back to words. I lose myself in reality sometimes, there are so many more details to take in than in fantasy. There were so many details to her clothes.

I wondered what he would take off first. I couldn't imagine those high, high heels were coming off at any point. Silver. I can't do that, I cannot put on silver shoes under any circumstances and then walk out of my house with confidence, go to someone else's house, sprawl all over their bed and have that obnoxious colour reflect the light into my eye so that for all eternity my memories of that day are marred by flashing silver. I figured he would always go with the skirt first, he's that kind of guy. He needs to see your pussy first. I don't know why. He won't necessarily fuck it immediately but he's got to see it. I wondered what panties were under her skirt, I knew I would get to see them later after they were done or maybe after she left. He always keeps those for me. I would never wear them, not over my hips anyway.

I didn't offer her a seat but she sat down almost as soon as she entered. I enjoy, sometimes, the recognition that I don't have a seat to offer here. I don't even have one for myself if it's that kind of day. I brought her some water because, well, that's just how I was raised, it didn't matter what someone came to your house to do, you offer everyone some water. My mom would tell a robber to put the guns down and have a drink before the plundering. It amuses me to bring water to people in strange circumstances because as uncomfortable as I am supposed to be with the situations meant to cause me pain, I am now an experienced degenerate. It's all cool, whatever you're here to do after all I'm here doing my weird thing too, let's all have some water first. I wouldn't want her to feel dehydrated when he inevitably tries to stick his foot up her mouth. It tickles me very much and very unlike the reality of tickling when I think about him seducing other women. Putting on the shiniest version of his brand of sickness and charm. I would never have talked to her about that, that seems a tad improper.

Instead I asked her what she did.

She looked at me way too long then, but I would never snap my fingers at a person. I only like rude behaviour when it is coming at me from a source that is given to understand that it is okay or from complete strangers in fantasy. In fantasy it doesn't matter that there isn't any consent or understanding because it doesn't hurt real people. In reality we make so many considerations in advance it's like we're sending scripts to the cast to be able to understand one another before they arrive at the theatre for the first time, already in character. It fantasy it is seamless, in reality so clumsy because we are people and people are never directly going to talk about how wet they hope your husband makes them by the end of the night. I would but I stopped identifying as a person a decade ago.

"I'm a nurse," she told me finally.

I like nurses very much. I think nurses deserve so much more than the appreciation they get. I've always felt they are the ones who truly run hospitals, the ones who constantly are there in contact with the sick and the ailing.

"Nurses are cool," I said to her.

"What do you do?" She asked.  

I wondered for a moment trying to choose a profession out of my vault of fantasy. I have no obligation to tell the truth outside of my job ironically.

"I clean toilets." I told her with a straight face.

"That's your..job?" She asked, clearly a little suspicious.

"Yeah," I told her with a splash of disbelief in my face, "Why would I lie about that?"

At that point I could just tell she would rather talk about how I would probably eat cum out her ass later. I didn't want to, though. That's one of those things I enjoy talking about a lot more in fantasy than I do in reality. It's also one of those things I'd much rather do than think about. Why would I want to think about how wet it makes me to eat cum out of an ass? That's one of those things I can just figure out on the job.

I let us sit in silence for a while, I looked out of the window, as I felt her look at me. I let her without interrupting her with movement since it's only fair that she be allowed at least the same level of curiosity I have and perhaps a lot more room to objectify me than I had to objectify her. I don't want to objectify anyone. Objects are objects, people are people. In fantasy, at least. In reality people are so often just things to each other. Things that fulfill dreams and fill roles and service fantasies. Alarmingly in theory I can't live with that, in practise I manage just fine.

"So...where is he?" She asked, finally, "Is he running late or something?"

I was surprised she got to it that fast. I can't imagine it's entirely comfortable sitting with the reality of the fantasy of a silent, cuckold partner that talks but I usually get to include a few other nonsense lies before they get to it.

"Oh no," I told her quietly gesturing towarfs the doorway, "He's in there, he's been waiting for you. I guess you're late now."

She stood up before she had decided what to say. I remained sitting even though it felt wrong. I was raised to stand up when anyone stands up. In the robber situation my mother would be most upset about being caught lying down when they came in. She looked at me, confused and a little alarmed. I tried to hold in a smile but only half-succeeded so I probably looked like my mouth was crooked.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me then?" She said turning to walk away in a slight huff that in reality she would feel a lot worse about later than she did in the fantasy of being allowed to treat me like shit, "What the fuck."

I like to piss them off a little. It just makes pretty girls meaner than they are in their fantasies.