320 Days of sex

for 320 days I have written about sex. Some of it bad, no doubt some of it average, some of it only vaguely related to the act. I have spoken of love more often than I would have liked. I have become romantic. I have lost myself in my idea of 'other'. I have forgotten that sex is about sex. I have mixed myself up with the idea of longing. That falling in love feeling that is impossible to replicate.

I am never the object of desire, not yours or anyone elses. I am the overlooked. I am the undervalued and the sad fact is that I am the first to undervalue myself. This thin skin an open mouth to suck the goodness out of life. This hard-working, hard-loving, streak of forward motion. This insect that hovered before you, hoping to be longed for and netted. This me, that now launches off into the rest of my wild ride, disentangling myself from mediocrity.

If I were outside myself. If I were single. I hope that I would reach out when I saw myself passing, ablaze and erratic and head-long into the night. I hope that I would overlook the physicality which I have to admit is a poor package. I hope that I would spot myself and catch myself and reel myself in because I am a feast. I am a particular mix of flavours that will never be repeated. I am a once in a lifetime degustation.

And if you didn't move quickly, then it would be too late, because, already, I am gone.