I really have become inadept as self examination. Thinking I know what I want, I may want it indeed, but I remain completely unable to account for my emotional responses. This illogic that inhabits me also inhibits me--when my lusts are at their penultimate denouement, I crave something suddenly less lusty, and the denouement falls away and awaits a new cycle.
What madness, when someone beautiful is in my arms, that I must suddenly crave their insides, and when offered, crave something outside?
What madness in the cool of a Sausalito evening, swathed in skin and sheets, lying at ease and looking into intensity, to feel so intensely the langour of breezy being?
Can I describe those lips, a firmness and a softness that parts in expectation and giving, hemmed by the lightest golden strands, a colour of ruddy so sensual that I could burst my bonds in pleasure that they will from time to time connect with mine. Can I describe the pallor of parchment laid against my brown farmers bag, a mutual warmth that takes away my heat? I describe a litany of lusty desire, and a purer desire that denies lust, and sends a shiver to my cock--laying there engorged but unused. I descry that other pillar, solid and promising, and penetrating; I do not cry for it, or decry the lusts of it, but wish for something less potent, because my latent potency is too great to be borne with any reason, and irrationality has led to hurt, to perdition--just as would logic anyway.
And so I remain torn, by reason, and illogic; each entwined like two similar gendered bodies, in sinful illogic, and levitican oppression, from within, and without...
