♥╭╮♥

All I want to write about is sex.

Tense and unrealized dreams of women--bare, faint scent of powder and perspiration, neck, mouth, chest yielding to my touch--replayed again and again for their few precious invented seconds. The dreams slip from my grasp like green eels fighting a loose net of string. The harder I try to keep them with me, the fainter their touches, the more imagined their smell, the worse my wanting gets. It spills into brief and embarrassingly tense encounters with cute women I wave at, who, either naive or unthreatened by female lust, simply smile back.

Not to mention daydreams of male genitalia in class. Invisible and detailed doodles on my notes of the beautiful thing before my imagination, too charged and erotic to begin sketching in the margins. Thoughts saved for the darling man whose appendage I have been admiring and wanting in my mind's idle time.

And then there's the question of this fluctuating infatuation, which bobs behind in my consciousness, swaddling, smothering, smoldering. I'm not sure I want it, or if I do, how I want it. All I remember is the intensity of my wanting, which at once motivated and obscured my desires. It lingers, fading into time and confusion.

The only anxieties I have these days are from desire, and I do not know how to write of it.