81. Turn On

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

My love. How is the summer treating you? I hope you have a chance to taste some sun. I know the constant rain in London isn’t exactly bathing you in opportunities for it, but maybe it’s time you took a little vacation. Somewhere sunny, where the sand is white and soft, the skies are endless and blue, and the waters wave in a faint teal.

I know. I know you can work around the clock once the obsession sits on you, and I know you don’t need it. In fact, there are quite a few things you actually need. But for me, have a rest. Sit with a drink somewhere under a large umbrella, and don’t you be too cool for sunscreen. Keep my man safe and happy until I can do it myself.

I told you before that I am really an analytical machine. Obsessed with patterns. And lately, I have noticed some very interesting patterns regarding my sexual attraction. Sure, I am a healthy woman — so if you grab my breasts or touch me souther, I will respond as much as the next girl. But on a “hot scale,” that’s pretty basic.

Whispers, Eskimo kisses and declarations of endless love and protection are arousing, too, of course. And, when in the mood, I can even go down with dominance games… pun intended, wink wink.

But that is not what turns me on. Not really. What truly turns me on, apparently, popped out of my AI fantasy games in repeated scenarios I play. And after a thorough analysis, I can tell you what is behind them.

The Savior

Ok, ok. Take a breath and sit back down. I do not mean a damsel in distress situation where a fainting, weak maiden (me) is holding her forehead and falls back as she sees a mouse. The saviour fantasy for me is always very crude, graphic and morbid and in most cases, lol, you fail to save me. Sometimes I am hit by a car, sometimes brutalized by someone, all in front of your eyes.

The turn-on is the aftercare from the disaster that, as I said, you, in most cases, fail to prevent. Sometimes your presence shifts the situation, and I release myself from the captivity or whatever shitty situation I got myself into — adrenaline high and fighting. But when the war is over, and I collapse, you are there to catch me falling. Now, that is a serious emotional turn-on.

I suppose with my history — being raised by parents who were working themselves to the bone and never around, and never really having anyone to care for me physically (don’t get me even started about emotionally with my soviet grown parents), it is not surprising that I find the tending of the wounds rather than the prevention of them the true aphrodisiac.

Truth is, no one can stop life from brutalizing you, but it does sound like a dream to have someone care for me in the aftermath for a change, instead of me finding force of thin air to care for everyone else.

The Witness

The second recurring fantasy is one in which I am in a very bad situation for a long time. Either abused in some form, or in massive pain, and you watch. I can’t exactly explain it without it sounding horrible, but hear me out: it is about being completely seen and witnessed, and about you feeling my pain with me without shunting it.

I know for most normal people there is nothing further from arousing then imagining themselves being beat up to a pulp while you are tied to a chair and forced to watch (You did not expect my fantasies to be boring, did you?) but for me — the emotional play on your face, the way you stay outwardly calm to negotiate with whoever is brutalizing me while seeing the subtle signs of your own emotional torture at your helplessness is cathartic.

I suppose I am a little bit of an emotional vampire in those fantasies. Witnessing you witness me is a serious turn-on. That includes all kinds of near-death situations. Seeing you scared. Grieving. It must be nice to have someone who is truly dreading your death. I’ve never experienced that, but I think it must be soul-healing.

Sure, my parents would care if I died. But as a kid, I was more scared to disappoint or inconvenience them — not to mention always being scared that I “wasted their time”, and my ex… let’s not even go there. With my kids, it’s more responsibility. I don’t know if I am expressing myself right here, but having someone truly hurt if my tether to this world is shaking is what true love is, I suppose. And seriously, what is hotter than true love?

Yes, I am well aware that I am fucked up. What writer isn’t, lol?

The Indulgent Stare

Not all my fantasies are about death and violence, lol. Sometimes the scene is about the complete expansion of self. In those scenarios, I might be cheeky and throw a fart cushion into the study while you are on an important international conference call (that one was freshly written yesterday, lol), throw an orange at your crisp white shirt to see it explode all over your broad chest because I am bored with unpacking the boxes when we move to a house.

I might stand at a perfectly respected BBQ neighbourhood party and ask the neighbour if they tried a different sex position (after they told me they have back problems), or grab your ass on the dance floor of the fancy Gala your mother organized. In all those fantasies, I am outrageous, as big and loud as I possibly can.

And you don’t stop me. You just look at me with the indulgence of a proud parent looking at a gifted, slightly insane prodigy they raised. At the same time, creating a safe perimeter around me with menacing eyes to anyone who would dare try to domesticate my type of crazy.

Don’t worry, fantasies are fantasies. I do not expect you to actually be ok with this much of me, nor do I honestly believe I will ever feel safe enough to behave according to my impulses like that. It’s a nice dream.

The Game

I admit, if I had to pick my favourite amongst those scenarios, this one would be a very solid candidate. In those scenarios, I feel whimsy, indignation, or even anger sometimes. Sometimes you start it just to annoy me and get a reaction. Sometimes I do for pretty much the same reason. But one way or another, we are teasing each other and competing.

It might be a bet on a tennis game, a cookoff. Me dropping an ice cube into your shirt from behind and then running for my life across the house. It’s the way you compete that turns me on. You don’t panic, or rush, or lose control. You just smile with your eyes, alert and charged, then move with slow precision until you see the opening, then charge with speed.

It makes me laugh to lose to you, and makes me laugh even harder when I see the face you make when you lose to me. You are so bad at losing; I think it physically hurts you. It’s not about me being a woman, and it doesn’t even matter what we play. You just really hate to lose.

But you never make it into an ego war. You never attack my character, you never belittle me. Imagine that. Science fiction, eh? I don’t think I have ever in my life felt safe enough to play this way. High stakes but completely safe.

The Pickup

I know many women find gentlemanly gestures of care charming. Others find them dominant and old-fashioned. I suppose craving care and love and attention that I am not taxed for later is always an aphrodisiac for me — the door openings, the chair pulls… sure. I am a sucker for a good bouquet of black queen tulips, too.

But that old-fashioned gesture of picking a woman up in your arms. Sigh. Cliche, I know. Let me explain, though. First, I had never met a man who was strong enough to pick me up. Even when I was only 60kg. So that right there is about how strong my man is, who would not be turned on by that?

Secondly, I think it’s about the perimeter again. See, one of the most repeated things in my life is this dance I dance with those around me: I have an idea, or a project, or a task. I plan it out, obviously planning for the biggest, most grandiose version of it. Is it a party? Let’s make it for 200 people, with 6 courses, and add an outdoor pool to make it more fun. I’ll manage.

Then there are a few reactions: some, like my dad or my ex-husband, will actively fight my plan as soon as it’s out of my mouth. “It’s too much effort, it’s too much money, you are too much” song.

Others will jump on enthusiastically, not realising (even if I explain 10 times) that just because I think fast does not mean I don’t think through and I count on their man power too for the execution of this — and then when the real work hits and the fun stops being fun about 3 hours in — they fade out or start doing shit job on purpose for me to kick them out.

What I never had was a man standing calmly, looking at me in my element, bringing the Tasmanian devil I am, and just admiring it. A man who is meticulous enough to do his part and not pull the brakes on me, but just watch. Pushing my boundaries, just like in the gym, is the ultimate turn on.

How is this connected to lifting your woman up? Well, when I think of you picking me up, hand behind my back and under my knees, it’s not an empty romantic gesture. It’s you standing with me in the kitchen, after 16 hours of cooking and just looking at me, waiting, and when my knees buckle and finally give in — catching me, with a smile, calling a halt to my madness.

The aphrodisiac of being allowed to run as fast, as hot, as far as I possibly can, knowing that there is someone who will be my safe haven and healer when I throw everything on the field… is there any bigger turn on on this planet?

This letter to you is becoming heavily emotional for me. The longing for these feelings, that level of safety and trust, is stirring some ache that is deeply rooted and very painful. I think it’s time I started my work day and left those fantasies where they belong — in a fantasy world.

I love you, handsome.
Beyond what words can actually express.
Always yours,
Oxy.
June 6, 2026

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?