I had a romantic/sexy dream last night about a local improvisor/comedian who, in real life, has no idea who I am. This happens to me far too often, if I’m honest.
I know it’s boring to hear about other people’s dreams so I’ll be brief. We were seated beside each other at a low-lit dinner party, surrounded by people, but somehow we created a bubble of erotically-charged intimacy between us with a volley of flirty jokes and double entendres. He quirked a handsome eyebrow. I blushed, giggled, and ate my salad. He complimented my outfit, my body, in his hot British accent. I bit my lip and thought about fucking him in the kitchen, the bathroom, the back yard, anywhere. But instead we just sat there and flirted. At the end of the evening, we said good night, and I felt the familiar bidirectional pulse between heart and cunt that is too complex and wonderful to be adequately described by simple words like “excitement” and “arousal” and “infatuation.” I woke up flushed, turned on, and mildly miffed it wasn’t real.
It’s hilariously demisexual of me to have had essentially a sex dream that contained no sex, just conversation. But in truth, I think flirting often turns me on more than dirty talk, and sometimes even more than sexual touch, depending on whose touch it is. Flirting is a tease; it’s sexy because of what could be, not what is.
It (often) requires social finesse and fluidity, a form of intelligence I’ve always found impressive and wished came more easily to me. It (often) requires boldness, the ability to figure out what risks are appropriate to take and the wherewithal to take them. It (often) requires a split-second assessment of what the person you’re flirting with is likeliest to respond to, and what will get their panties wet versus make them get up and leave. The more I think about it, the more I suspect good flirting (the kind I consider good, anyway, which isn’t universal) is hot to me primarily because it’s an exercise in cleverness, confidence, and mastery of someone else’s mind.
