I can see it in my mind and it's good. I could draw a picture. Electric shocks. Drawing my hands up them. Somehow they look different when she's not wearing kneepads. I find humor in that.
I lean in close to the picture. Snapshot in my mind of the insides of her thighs vibrating as she plops down into the sideline chair, breathing hard. Again. Again, closer. Waves of taut reflection accross the skin in slow motion- there is something there. There is something in there that I require. Closer.
I can feel her under those black speedos. Just flesh, after all, yet of blinding importance to the animal part of my soul. I've always pandered to that part. It makes sure I live. I wonder on the specifics of it, idly. What would it feel like to have my head gripped between those legs? Warm; soft. Solid. Hot. Burning. And the emminent smoothness of youth, the harried living order of the blood. The smell of it. Suspended completion. Nowhere else in existence that I would rather be. All the money and power and time in the world is shallow means - to this.
Drawn upward in a connection far into the past. This need transcends the impermanence of my friends, my family, my job. Even her. I pull myself back at times to make sure I still know her name. Sometimes in my greed it doesn't matter.
Idly I wonder- how much of this can be understood by the object
of my desire? How much can they know about it's crushing
importance? Enough to tolerate it? Enough to prolong it?
Enough to desire it?
And can I take the impersonality of it myself? Can I
deal with the way half of me just wants flesh, no matter
who it makes up? I find myself lusting after people I
do not know at all. The desire is unwelcome in myself. Partly
because it is predictable, and as such is a weakness through which
I can be manipulated; and so I fear it. Partly because it runs
against what I was brought up to believe in- about relationships,
about sexuality, about myself.
It is a light by which I see happiness in the world. Yet it burns me, irritates my calm composure. When I smother it I lose my way. When I get too close I become blind and crazy. I don’t like myself when I'm blind and crazy; crazed by my own sense of incompletion, of need. If I were religious I could hide behind a robe or a prim black hat, and turn the corners of my mouth down over the years. Become clammy and hard, like iron. But for this end I reserve an even greater fear.
I am driven with sticks from one camp to the next, shouting in confusion at the misunderstandings in my wake. Something is incorrect, somewhere. Across the emotional landscape bathes the image of what I know I desire. I can feel it's rushing currents in her; baking me from moments away. Leaving contrails in the ether behind my eyes; I breathe them greedily. Complete in my hunger, perfect in my need, like a symbol etched into a hot stone, glowing with pure meaning.
And entirely unwelcome by some, proclaimed entirely natural by others. Desired by some, hastily ignored by others. Under all meanings is the stench of manipulation, the context that I am saddened by, that forces me to pick up my things and leave for the next place. Her warm blood rushes over me in the sky, impossibly beyond the horizon.
Can she exist? Who can wield such power with such careless ease?
