To think, that I would succumb to the temptation of the Id. Such tedium, I believed. I thought I had permanently premised my loves on loftier concepts like romance, poetry, and rhythmic communications between two persons— nonchalance tinged with determination, careful glances, skipped heartbeats, and whatnot. Was I not better than this? Am I able to allow myself to fantasize about getting carnal with someone in a restroom or sliding my arms around the broad back of a stranger? Here I believed myself to be a hopeless romantic, who’d first shy away from the mere thought of thinking about a stranger. For a while, I considered telepathy to be true and thus furthered an irrational anxiety even further.
But time brought on subtle changes that must’ve amounted to something greater because here I am, more inclined to bodily sin than ever. Yes, yes, ever since I brought myself to love one whilst making love to two (which is peculiar in itself, because I really made love to one, even if it was a short-lived flash). It seemed inwardly inconsequential at the time; a single night of sex that would yield nothing but present pleasures. Being able to satiate a desire for someone whom I’ve lusted for before I even considered loving. It was a long denied feeling: lust before love.
When a man and I would fall into bed, I would profess into their ears, “I can’t have sex without an emotional connection.” Without being said, I said that I loved them in some mildmannered way at the least. And they would go through the motions and I would follow suit. The next morning, I didn’t feel bad because I was a lover, not a whore. I felt no shame doing the walk of shame; the night wasn’t the product of booze or spontaneous lusts, it was a deeper matter. It must be good then. I must be good, so I could keep on walking believing that the inexpressible yearning was love, despite it feeling like a disfigured cousin of the one love I have felt. ”Each love is different,” I would tell myself and believe. What I feel towards this person, the need to grind our bodies together, is a fresh angle of it. Refracted in a startling way like the blinding flashes of sunlight reflected off far off windows and into the corner of your vision. This is love refound.
It can’t be. Today I gawked at more men that I ever have, specifically the meaty ass of a man on the metro. The way that a pink sliver of his back was visible when he’d lean forward and the shirt’d rise up… I felt like interpreting it as an invitation inside his clothes. A mere six months ago, I would have averted any contact. Instead, playing coy would have been my primary action with the ignorant hope that he’d be gay and single and interested in the quiet youth staring out of the window. As if it would all follow some movie script and say, “Hi, I’m _____” and then compliment me and talk in such a tone that his words could’ve blended into a long ummmmmm and I would’ve said, yes of course I’ll marry you.
I think I’m finally going through puberty.