I’m not as sex driven as I once imagined. The truth is I could have a long distance relationship where we seldom have sex. One relationship in particular comes to mind – my time with Rick, the photographer from California. We met on Instagram. His breathtaking photos were always accompanied by bare bones poetry on some emotion. He made me feel even though he wasn’t beside me.

Before we met, I was a fiend for him. I craved his attention, all his words, his name across my screen with a soliloquy for me. We talked so well. I was high on it. Giddy. Girlfriends and I called it strong romantic chemistry. But when he was actually near me I didn’t enjoy his company. Sitting on my balcony smoking and eating pie with me he was less animated. You see, I could read his words with my own idea of him. His dark hair, his caramel lips, I held parts of him in my mind. Parts like little photographs enhanced to my liking. I didn’t really know him, so the idea of him was intoxicating. Me captured by the man behind the beautiful images, doped up on his words more than my weed.

Lately I’ve wondered what it would look like to be poly solo. No longer lay with men. Be bound and fucked by toys on sticks. Put distance between my partner and I so I can have more play, more life. More of the things that bring me joy without compromise. Sex with no attachment to a person at all. Literally detached. So next time I cum with someone I don’t accidentally end up staying longer than I could ever dream.

Maybe just for now, what I need is to have closeness without nearness. It wasn’t romantic love with Rick, but he set ablaze something in me that affected the same part of my anatomy. We were fire as friends and I miss that form of company.