I was having six orgasms a day.

It could have easily been more. In the dark bathroom with the phone in my hand, I played his videos again. Again. And again.

I paid attention to his black t-shirt; it was a perfect fit. He wasn’t too muscular, nothing like the textbook narcissist, only caring about his body fat ratio and how much he can bench. I felt the pain still bubble somewhere deep underneath, “he should die”, I heard my friend Natalie’s words. Mistaking abuse as love. I quickly directed my thoughts back to the video and to my new acquaintance.

He in contrast looked fit, and what turned me on most, was that he looked normal. I craved normal like nothing else. My eyes glanced down from the t-shirt; it was perfect for me; the size, the form, the way his hand went up.

I was suddenly full of life, wanting something in a completely irrational way, in my ‘situationship’, messaging and face timing every day with a man on the other side of the world. We didn’t discuss past relationships, and it suited me fine coming out of an extremely abusive one. He worked in a bank and seemed so normal after what I had been through. He called me “wifey”, and I called him “husband”, terms of endearment.  It felt good being called wifey by him, in contrast to my past when a sick feeling would run through me every time my ex would call me ‘wife’ after hurting me in so many ways.

I liked talking to the banker. I felt safe. He seemed articulate and handsome, and soon our chats became sexual.

I imagined dropping my white silky underwear on the floor, lifting my leg over and slowly squeezing myself into him. My eyes lit up as I measured his size. It wouldn’t all go in without some pleasurable pain, gently tearing my skin. I felt the tingling in my fingertips as the excitement took over my body once again. I would press my tights onto him, throwing my head back, enjoying every inch of him.

“Stay, right there,” he would whisper in my ear.

He would look me in the eyes, pressing against me.

The urge I felt was almost painful, the cold air pushing me to any secluded corner to touch myself, and to think about him. I was dripping sweet thin honey, gasping a little louder.

I would kneel in front of him. ‘Open, let me use it,” he would whisper. “Wider,” and I would almost smile ear-to-ear because this felt like the most normal thing in the world.

Intense, but normal, I felt like a lioness, being fed.

He would be making a mess on my face, and I felt warm red hues bypass my heart, my head spinning as I came, thinking of his black t-shirt, his hand squeezing himself. Breathless, and hardly on my feet, I licked my sweet-tasting fingers.

Maybe I started to love myself again slowly. I leaned on the wall and massaged my round breasts, feeling my wet fingers leave a sticky mark on my nipples.

The time had flown by when all I did was cry with the pain shaking my core being, piercing and twisting my heart. Now, it was being slowly replaced by incredible breathtaking pleasure. I knew I had been extra sensitive to emotions and energies around me ever since. I never expected to feel the intense euphoria zoning me out like this. It was as if my soft pulsating lips were whispering a little thank you, sending it to the normal guy behind the phone screen, my banker.

Some days I felt like I was tripping, my thoughts getting beyond inappropriate.

We played many scenarios and when he said “I want to see your belly grow…” I was turned on so much. We were curating imaginary life for us. My mind was going wild, but my imagination was bringing me happiness. All in contrast to my ex who even had a vasectomy without discussion and robbed me of so much in life.

“What would you do if I was in front of you?” the banker asked.

The distance didn’t feel painful, it influenced attraction. I felt his substance, the greater intelligence. What would I do if he was standing in front of me?

I imagined my acute loneliness would be gone, my self-confidence would be inked on my heart forever, he was smart and handsome, and I felt more than excited. I felt the need to pull him close, rip his clothes off, and moan louder than Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle.

What was more important was that my capacity to feel love, lust, and sexual energy was now equal to my capacity to feel pain. I had moved on, and healing myself this way was attractive, like electricity running through my body powering me on.

The nightmares of my abusive past shifted to vivid dreams travelling multiple dimensions with my banker. Some nights I slept with my phone on my chest, holding it close to my heart until it vibrated with “I miss wifey” I felt the movement of energy, my sadness uplifting to love.

I don’t know if we will ever meet in person, and how this all will end.

I am forever grateful for the distraction he gave me and how he pushed me to love myself again without even knowing it, and for that I truly loved his sudden presence in my life and being the imaginary “banker’s wife”.