Small Moments, Otherwise Lost

I have my lover keep a diary, to be written in every time we fuck. There are reasons for this.

The first is sentimental: my memory is fallible. Without a written reminder I’ll forget. Times will merge, warp, fade. Without a record of the things we do together those things become less precise. They lose their edges.

A diary reminds me of those edges. Small moments, otherwise lost. You spat into my mouth and it made me come, right then and there. Scents and noises, the particular texture of certain evenings. It was a hot evening. I’d been waiting for you all day.

The second reason is for the insight it gives me. Looking back over their collected entries I can track the feelings they have for me, monitor the progress of their submission. If something we did particularly resonated with them, I’ll know. If they struggled with something else, I’ll know that too. It was hard taking that many with the cane, but I wanted to so badly. For you.

The third reason is simply for the act of writing and remembering. Each entry has a minimum wordcount, and to fulfil this they must relive each occasion in detail, interrogate every sense, recall and divulge every thought and feeling. By requiring them to write in their diary every time we fuck, each single act becomes a repeated one. We are together one evening, and together again the next day, as they put pen to paper and remember.