M, and our never-ending drama

For some reason, I just can't shake this desire I have for M as the object of my desire. I finally understand the idea that smokers have related to me in the past of "I know it's bad for me, but I like it. So I'm not going to stop. I don't even want to stop." I know that I should leave it all alone; I know that he needs to protect his happy home; I know that he would only be trouble as an affair partner. All the signs are there to just drop it, yet each day I go to work and look forward to seeing him, his eyes, his lips, seeing the bulge in his pants, hearing his voice, imagining the touch of his hands, and just thoroughly enjoy basking in his company. I love the easiness we have with one another at that floated level of getting along, and I love that tension of balancing on a precipice, on that lower, deeper level of intense physical attraction -- the quaking, vibrating earth just below my feet, ready to burst at any moment.

He taunts me by reeling in the line of sexual fantasy, sparking the fire that burns deep inside my ribcage. I find myself holding my breath, moments when I don't realize that I'm not breathing anymore, my body heats up and suddenly an outburst of exhalation. And this is what happens when I'm not near him.

The pressure is mounting steadily for me because I know that at any moment one of us will get transferred to a new location, and I really doubt that I will ever see him again.

The irony of this situation just kills me. The very man, audacious enough to introduce me to this pleasure-filled world of infidelity, denies my advances daily, advocating the virtuous path, yet teasing me along down the sidewinding trails skirting the dark forests. It's enough to drive a girl absolutely mad. We are addicted to each other, madly attracted to one another, and yet somehow it's not the sex, since we still have yet to consummate this torrid affair. It's not the sex, but the potential of it. It's the chill that runs down the nape of my neck, that settles in a pool of vibrating hairs down the center of my back. It's the non-touch contact of our imaginations that run together, wild and free -- but solely contained within our minds and our words. When the little touches do come, it's enough to boost my libido for weeks at a time.

But the reality of addiction is that withdrawl is a terrible terrible and so-very-imminent thing. To have become attached... leads to a death like no other. I carry a heavy sadness, lurking in the recesses, for when that day comes and I know our beautiful little thing will be gone forever. This strange sensation heightens the level of my desire to see him, to feel him, and to smell that wonderful sweetness of his skin.

I think for my sake, I may have to end this dance, in order to preserve what few limits I might actually have. Could I "fall" for this guy? If we just had sex and got it over with, probably not. But this extended cat-and-mouse play is the kind of torture I might just get a little too deep into. Maybe tomorrow I'll tell him I'm too weak to keep fighting these urges. That I will be implementing an out-of-sight out-of-mind rule, that I'll "just say no!" to temptation, that I'm finished with seducing, finished with being a temptress, finished with chasing and being chased... or is it finished with being chaste?

Who am I kidding? I love the games we play.