Really, who the hell is ANYONE kidding. I was "accused" today by my English teacher for having quite blatant sexual tendencies, apparently noticeable in an ample amount of things I say and do. "Accused" because he doesn't really care, quite the contrary, he's a charming Scottish man in his older years, speaking with an accent out of movies but with a heart and wit that would sweep anyone away with its freshness and boldness. Yeah, he's rude, yes, he's awful. But I still love him. In a platonic fashion of course, not like Aschenbach in Death in Venice. I'm no Tadzio. But back to the point! Sexual tendencies. Yes. Sex. Again. He (to the pleasure of my prudent classmates) expressed during class today the notion that I only passionately react to themes that are implicitly sexual, choose to write about sexual things and smirk at any double entendre. This publicized comment of my 60-something professor got me thinking. Is my sexual subconscious taking me over?
Implicit or explicit, it is so there. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is true. At the moment, I am experiencing what is by some called a dry spell but to which I inwardly refer to as my personal Sahara. And no, there are no refreshing delicious oases. Which brings me to the point. After a person who is very fond of physical love, loves the pleasure, the heat, the passion, the scratching and choking (okay, I'll stop, no need to heat up yet), it is hard to suddenly look around and realize, God, I have no one to fuck! I'm sorry for using derogatory language... I believe that the bond of physical love is something special and unique and it is exactly at thiiiis tiiiny little point that the problem comes in. Is no one really "good" enough to screw? (at least in my hungry and yet glutenous proximity)
No. At first that is. I have always prided myself in patience, I was capable of sewing and entire iconography of a Christmas tree with 9 little presents when I was 10. And many other activities that require minute attention (no, I am not thinking of sex again). I meant things like delicate decoration, babysitting my own children, no wait, not my own, I have got to stop calling them that. My beloved siblings, all younger than me. And yes, there's a few. But back to the point! (I am definately not a patient thinker). But! (and there's always a huge hairy, chunky, big-ass butt) The longer I wait for my ideal, charming, sweeping, touching, kind-hearted yet so damn sexy I want to rip his shirt of into tiny little pieces like a silver chocolate wrapper man, the less he seems to be willing to get his ass over here. Juicy bottom like a peach... Yes, as you can see, it is bad. My mother has always told me that the sexual desire is one of the easiest to suppress, and she is right. However, I have my hormones and youth as conscious excuses and if there's any time to indulge, should it not be now?
I have never been, and doubt I ever will be, a fan of one-night stands. You people out there that could practically turn this into a cult, go ahead, do your thang! It's not my bees-wax. But I personally am not attracted to this sensual phenomenon. But they do say, never say never right? The thing, issue, problem, matter at hand is that the longer Mr. Handsome doesn't seem to be arriving in any kind of sex chariot my way, the more unbearable it gets. And apparently, this implicit and subconscious need has not only crept into English class but also into my STANDARDS. To my astounding finding, I have become to take as "fuckable"", "lovable" and "do-able" material people that I would under normal circumstances (ones in which I am fucked), never even consider. Merely look at and go, hm. No. But now, as the deadline of officially frigid is creeping at my toes, I find myself designing elaborate schemes of how to get objects of interest, interest that is completely fabricated by my abstinential imagination, of how to get them into bed. Things like making love to a very very physically and personality wise charming teacher against the school copy machine. Please help me.
But yes, patience and sex do not get along. Never have, never ever will. Wait, didn't I say never say never? Never mind. I just hope I shall not wake up one of these morning next to a delicious Italian and the realization that I have.. wait for it. Genital fungus. Mon dieu.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment