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My retreat lasted only a day as I grew a fresh yearning for him again. I wanted us to speak suddenly. I had fallen in love with his voice and did not want to be cut of from its supply. I guess it was he and not me that cast the spell in the end.

I encouraged myself to reconcile with his countenance. . .this trajectory was all too familiar.

It was akin to the moment when in my moment of lonesome weakness I lapsed and donated my number to him via mail. He called and I was too nervous to speak. His voice was intimidating and mischievous; it enveloped my thoughts.  He bellowed "Hello". It took me a while to compose myself and when I finally greeted him he was taken aback by my soft London accent. He told me I sounded "sexy". I told him he must be "crazy", privately immersing myself in his compliment. With each phone call I was leaning towards his voice, basking in his deep, unrefined, sexy New York accent. It was foreign to me but I eventually felt safe each time his exotic voice echoed in my ear. His voice-box was another Pandora, he had levels too; he could really turn me on with his urging utterances. Sometimes he seductively dragged his drawl, other times he whispered or simply breathed - all done for effect in order for me to melt in his oscillating ranges. Via his voice he caressed my body and breathed his own breath of sinful life into the gaping of my mouth.

Oh how I ached and longed to hear his voice again. .

I reasoned with myself that if I could bond with his words, eventually fall in love with his voice then surely soon I will appreciate his austere surface.

As I repented from my vanity and finally embraced the package of my Prince he did the reverse and grew detached. Our liaison was supposed to be evolving instead our connection was fading. Our dialogue digressed back to mail and even then he was slow to answer. Initially I refused to accept the inevitable outcome but later briefly resigned myself from this parallel reality.
He promised that he'll call me but days passed yet the silence grew deafening.
Hmm he has finally forgotten me at last, I wondered. The pain of what I prematurely perceived as a subtle rejection interfered with my sense as I grew paranoid. I searched for several ways to vent my growing anger. Still trapped in my moody spirit I haunted the website where we first met and spied some foul words directed at my bruised nation. Inspired by wrath I spat out a fiery venom setting ablaze the country he shared with those abusers. In secret, despite my reflex reaction I hoped that such obscene words will finally draw his attention. My hope was realised and he read the unkind words I poured in disbelief and admonished me for my rebuke. As stubborn as I was, I broke my resolve to never make the first move in order to portray how sorry I was. On the surface he appeared to forgive me but his hollow words betrayed otherwise. In the following week the last phone call I would ever make to him (unbeknownst to me) he carried on in an insensitive tone. He discounted my being from my present to my prospects. I thought maybe I needed to undergo this humiliating exercise to purge me from my guilty conscience.

I requested we set up another video chat believing he will soften once he saw me another time. He obliged hoping that I'll be clad in something rather inappropriate. At this time I was too exhausted and so purposely chose not to submit to his request. I was desperate to talk but as soon as I saw him again, I wanted to exit.
I felt disconnected from him as he misconstrued all my signals. He mistook the disgust in my eyes as s[b]e[/b]xu[b]a[/b]l hunger, and my questions as subtle f[b]o[/b]repl[b]a[/b]y. I finally locked eyes with him for what would be the final time (this time it was known to me). My heart began to minister to me that I am not his kind despite my obvious fictional character role I had beguiled him with. He does not care for me at all I reasoned. He does not even know me at all I remembered - my internal identity remained a secret to him. I was not so generous as to share everything with him. So why did it affect me so much that he did not have feelings for me after all? ah the vanity of being desired I thought. I am not who I presented to this guy, and he is not who I pictured in my mind. We both were prolonging the inevitable outcome. . .

He surely would forget me first as my character was only an illusion, I would forget him last because he was a figment of my imagination imperfectly re-incarnated. My stray comment had invited a distant stranger however through my undercover guise, one thing I learnt is that I can never again become a victim of lust. . . .

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The blackness faded and I was confronted with his countenance.
I inspected my once upon a time imaginary friend through the lens of the monitor. . .his clothes were weathered, his room gloomy. The only memory I had of him was the list in his vague description.
"Chocolate complexion"? hmm much darker I pondered. His natural body was sprayed in a coat of undiluted black coffee (no milk, one sugar )
His "cropped hair" hidden beneath a cap. .I wondered if he was shielding something too.
His lips "succulent" and scarlet. The red of his lips was oh so penetrating. . .
"Tall". . he gave me a demo by getting to his feet so I could get an idea of his true height, he appeared as tall as me but then his body was trapped in the monitor so my judgment was only limited.

He matched his own description more or less but failed to live up to mine. He doesn't fit the criteria I painfully pondered. Well, I had constructed my phantom prototype perfectly for a very long time and he interrupted my life for a very short time. I hadn't had enough time to tailor my liking to his composition.

My shy nature never allowed me to appreciate his mask for long. My eyes kept on darting whenever he had his sight firmly set on me, I guess I did not want him to see what was hidden in my heart.
In my heart was marked disappointment and I hoped that my eyes did not betray such thought. I was also a little fearful of him beholding me for long in case he traced the lies I spun him all this while. I wanted the fantasy to continue and so I perverted much of the truth. I failed to tell him my correct age. I even led him to believe that I was sexually superior when the reverse was the case. I was a prude if truth be told and hoped he could not sense my untouched exterior.

Only the screen of our monitors posed as a barrier between the senses of touch and smell. I continued averting my eyes, staring at other random objects consumed by shy-guilt as I was slightly underwhelmed by lover-boy's appearance. I had fallen in love with his voice and verses yet I couldn't reconcile those beautiful components with his rather plain visage.
The fantasy was pierced as the potrait that I stored of him was now proven to be false.

In my head I deleted all the earlier footage and took my time to privately study this fellow; eagerly searching for something to captivate me, something for me to love. His mannerisms, movement, apparel and image eroded my mirage. The realisation of this alternate reality I had been dwelling in suddenly hit me. Alas I have no control over my once imaginary lover. He has diffused from my mental uterus and born instead was a sullen looking male. My labour had been in vain, I silently sighed again.

He finally spoke, piercing the silence and frequency of my thoughts. He credited my long legs and my slender frame. Despite his flattery I knew he had not found me attractive either, which was a relief in a strange sort of way. Our words had been the only source of chemistry, our attraction borne out of prose. My lips were sealed, for the first time I had no words to offer him. The older our conversation got I repelled slightly the more.
I guess deep down, subconsciously despite my initial reservation I thought that our first physical encounter would cement the climax of our connection, instead I felt disturbingly deflated. I felt some of the magic evaporate.

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