tonight I feel like I can hold out.
I saw a girl on the bus and she was pretty in that tanned, honey way that tourists can be pretty. She spoke in an accent. She wore a backless dress. I smelled suntan lotion on her skin and the perfect surface of her flesh made me want to touch her.
I will never have sex again. I will never be touched or touch someone else. I will not do this until the action is driven by desire.
It has been so long since I knew I was desired. I long for that stray glance, the eyes following as you walk by, the double take, the stare that is purposeful and unwavering.
Have I ever been the recipient of that kind of lustful attention? I think back into the void. I am the first one to reach. I am the toucher. I am the one who grabs and drags and removes clothing in a desperate, breathless kind of way. I am the one who lusts.
This has worn me away, one encounter at a time. I put my feet solidly on the ground now and I will not budge. I must be wanted. Sooner or later I will be wanted. Till then I am iced firmly to the shore. Wintering. I will succumb to my own inward turning desires but I will not be moved until the scent of need is thick in the air. I will be the desired one or I will turn to stone and crack off and wash out into the messy wrack and the fickle tide that tumbles it.
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