I have a beautiful stomach. It’s white and smooth and sinks concave, exposing a shallow bowl of skin, hollowed to my hipbones. I feel desire so strong, sometimes it masquerades as hunger; I can feel it there, warm and purring. I like watching it move, pulsing in pleasure. I smell my odor; the deodorant has worn thin and ineffective as I rub myself. I am seexually attracted to myself, to my stomach and odor, the way I breathe and quiver. But I’m sometimes not enough, so I evoke thoughts to help the pleasure along, like singing on a trip. Lately it’s a strong hand pressed into my back, practically marionette strings. I can’t see the hand; I only feel the warmth and strength in it, as though I could collapse my weight into the palm, and it would still catch me. I fantasize about safety. Even in my seexiest thoughts, I conjure security and crave for it to press into me.
There’s nothing as seexy to me as a man taking what he wants. That strong hand feels safe, protective, and upon thought and dissection, even selfish. But I understand about that, and give way to it, feeling safe, powerful, and good. I can get lost, even as I type this, eyes closed, in the thought of a man with his arms around me, his hands pressing me, pulling and pushing me in a kiss, all while I’m really very still and going nowhere at all, that kiss can be ecstasy. A metroseexual does not kiss like that. A man with lust and passion kisses like that. And I’m afraid lust and passions have way too much mental real estate on my block.
Sweet is fine. Sweet is slow and steady and usually wins the race. Sweet is never fantastic. Now, here’s my admission. I draw and pull too much emphasis on lust and passion. I gravitate toward it like it’s all that matters. It governs my decisions; you’d think I had a penis. It makes impractical decisions, makes me want to wear a short skirt without panties to the supermarket. I don’t know how to get over its importance. Maybe I need to go shoe shopping, some track shoes for the pole vault. I can hurdle this. I can.
Okay, I can’t. I’m stuck all day in my head, lazy with seex and drunk on my thoughts, the rich spasms of my stomach as I climax over and over again. Maybe I just need a boyfriend. Playmates don’t bring you soup and movies when you’re sick—don’t ever learn your Starbuck’s pick, that you hate licorice and like your Matzoh ball soup without noodles. Boyfriends fall asleep and wake up too early.
I worry that I’ve never fully loved a man solely based on who he is. I weigh how he treats me, and how he feels about me, and when I like that bit all right, I jump right into “I love you.” And once that gauntlet is thrown, there’s no rewind. But you meant, I love you… really as… I love everything about you that loves me. I love everything about you that looks like me. I love that you love that song, too. It’s catchy. It’s also kinda wicked witch talking to the prognostic mirror. We love the reflection, the “likeness leads to liking” thing. The birds of a feather two-bit. I don’t know what it is anymore to really truly even like someone.
Perhaps the only way I will fall in love is to fall in like first. And how boring is that. Put it right up on the table beside the sweet, will ya?