The Simple Pleasure of Being Seen
I like how he watches me. Consistently. Intently. Curiously. I know he is paying attention. He watches me as I frown in front of the mirror mumbling about the impact of our afternoon play on my already chaotic hair. He watches as I add lip gloss and pat down my hair with concern, as I cast about the room for discarded clothing. He smiles and hands me a sock. Waits while I bend down in front of him to retrieve my jeans. All the time, he watches. Earlier he watched with intent as he used his fingers to slowly make he buck wantonly on the hotel bed, as I ran my tongue over every part of him. He held my head gently and moaned as he watched me take him in my mouth.
I am not sure where the joy in being watched comes from, but I wonder if it’s not partly about how deeply validating it is to be seen, just as we are. In watching another perhaps we are providing a very specific kind of mirror. Perhaps in his watching I can see a glimpse of what I am unable to fully see in myself, except when reflected from another. The capacity to give and receive pleasure, to be an actual vehicle of it.
I want to replace every mirrored surface with this look of him watching me.