I now find myself attempting to come to grips with an old familiar not seen for many moons. With the release of the demon and the grand opening of passion into my life, comes an entire host of physiological, emotional and mental gymnastics that have not been plaguing me for well over 6 years.
The choice to remain celibate began as an option to figure my own shit out. Having finally realized the optimum relationship - that being one that ends with my dignity, relative emotional capacity, and wallet still in hand, as well as several friends to lean on should the need arise, (my habit was to render all other relationships null & void in the pursuit and maintenance of my single intimate relationship) I decided I needed to figure out who the fuck I was at that point, and what was it that I actually wanted to do with the rest of my life. Unfortunately, I may have taken it a tad too far.
The immense personal growth and other successes both creative and financial that I have enjoyed in the ensuing years notwithstanding, I am fair sure now that the last 2 maybe three years have been pure repression due to lack of risk-taking value and fear of failure, peppered with the tasteless truth that I sure as hell didn't want to sleep with what I perceived in the mirror.
Whoa now. Calm yourselves. Let's be honest - we are daily bombarded with the north american image/supposed standard of beauty, so there can be no denying that it will warp some of us - especially when the tide of self confidence is at its lowest and one has detached herself from any intimate relationship for a LONG damn time.
Add to that the true nature of the woman in question, a lusty wench who has embraced the touch and taste and smell of sex since her teens, and had never previously been celibate for mare than - oh I don't know - 6 months tops after a particularly heartbreaking badly ended marriage, and you get an anarchic chaotic pheremonal mess of released estrogenic proportions not often seen in this drear and often passion less society.
So here I am. The urge to merge creating a melodic line with my heartbeat and echoing down my spine with every freaking step I take. It was bad enough (button) when it was just the shiny things that distracted me (piece of tinfoil), but now the olfactory buffet is foremost and (shiny things) have become (man scent). I find myself perusing body lines under shirts/jackets/pants with lowered eyelids and a lopsided grin on my face. Watching the eyes - and some of the reaction I get when I look directly into their faces is hilarious. I have to wonder what expression I'm wearing. Voices - strong yet soft, and an accent is even better. And the hands, man, a great pair of hands will melt me.
Overwhelmed with sensations repressed too long for someone of my base nature. And I must admit, struggling to get a "mature" handle on them, while truly enjoying the "kid in a candy shop" adventure of the whole process. I 'm dreaming all the time now - and the return of the sex dreams like I haven't since my 20s is giving me insomnia. My nipples are so sensitive that if I brush them with my OWN damn arm - in a winter coat, it becomes an issue. My whole fucking parsing section of my brain is a double entendre.
And there is no way, I mean NO WAY, I would even attempt to interrupt the process at this point. That would wrack me.
So on I go an infinitely passionate slightly kooky sherman tank on double estrogen, just hoping I don't make so many mistakes this time.
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