I just wanted your arms around me so desperately; vehemently. It felt like an anvil crushing me beneath the weight of pure desire bound by inhibition and convention. I choked and sputtered to breathe as my throat tightened as if a maniacal madman had cinched a delicate, but murderous swath of silk around my taut, porcelain neck. My stomach churned and mixed like cement, each revolution getting more laborious as the bone-dry dust of sand and sediment combined with the acid and bile, forming a thickish sludge of slate agitation, schmaltz, and excitement.
I am conflicted to know that you shatter my composure. I try to play the game, banter and bat my eyelashes; coquettishness is my trademark. But I can't deny that you fluster me. I want someone that finally makes me weak in the knees, and everywhere else. It's been a long time since I've relinquished control. Always holding the upper-hand in the eternal power struggle of men versus women. Only once, as a young girl, a fledgling bloom, not yet in on life's great motivator, did I feel so helpless and overwhelmed. A young girl has every right to feel that purity of heart, even if I still had a touch of jade. I was cavalier, I thought I knew what I was embarking on. I couldn't yet fathom how sex could wield such incredible power. It changed me though. I didn't want to admit it. I didn't want to be that naive child that fell in love with the first person that felt her from the inside, that took her innocence. Not that I ever felt particularly innocent. I knew the taste of carnal sinew, it had always been lurking somewhere just beneath the surface, even as a precocious youth. I simply hadn't fully realized it yet. I guess I am what you would call a "natural."
I had already been in love. That first all-encompassing, can't-live-without-you, white-hot, burning, unobstructed, pellucid, so-this-is-what-everybody's-singing-about, nuclear reactor kind of love. I had already been chewed up and spit out by love. It was time for sex, unadulterated, lascivious, dirty, back-room kind of sex. There is the exact moment when my compartmentalization began. What a revelation. Jesus. I started compartmentalizing love and sex before I was yet to taste it. It fulfilled my dual nature, the one that was lurking in the shadows and alleyways of my being all along. The Superego versus the Id, morality versus impulse, the age-old match-up of good versus evil. No matter what I thought I knew, it changed me; it awakened me. It drew the curtain on the wide-eyed underworld of lechery, sin and delight. My thoughts a perpetual Heronymous Bosch painting. I became aware of the power I possessed. The power to make men fall to their knees with pleasure and longing, the power to extract my needs from their desires, to manipulate and lord over them. It made me feel strong and in control for the first time in my eighteen years. But my school-girl mentality never quite retreated, it just took a backseat. It's never as bound-and-gagged in the trunk as I would sometimes like to think. Passion remains my greatest motivator. Lady Love has a strangle-hold on me which drives me to seek out that fire at all costs. But I don't succumb to the flames too quickly, my instinctual gut knowing what's real and what's imagined or forced. Always searching for "that feeling." That undefinable, indescribable, hard-to-finger, even harder to find feeling.
I can only liken it to a dark, cavernous, austere monastery, ancient in it's stone walls and labyrinthic halls. It is bathed in absolute darkness, it's Gothic architecture all the more frightening in its obsidian void. Frantically searching for some tiny scrap of light, you come upon another identical narrow hallway, but press on anyway. In the very farthest room on left, the arched, armored door of prehistoric wooden planks and cast iron is slightly and eerily ajar. Fear and trepidation halts you from immediately throwing the looming portal open, but you muster up some kind of courage or morbid curiosity to slowly push open the intimidatingly weighty egress. The archaic hinges creaks and echoes throughout the barren chamber. Your heart pounds, your hands begin to clam, you become all too aware of your intermittent breathing, it's hard to decipher if you are even alive in the swarth. A flash of soothing ochre and incandescent burnt-orange brilliantly greets your unaccustomed eye. The paltry stone-lined alcove is all awash in hues of tawny ambers, saffron and titian. The flickering candle-light simultaneously comforts and excites you in it's subtle luster and romance. It draws you in with a motion of it's seductive and cabalistic finger. A tribal rhythm is penetrating your thoughts. The scene is overwhelming, a nagging sense of foreboding tells you to run as far and fast as your spindly gams can carry you, but a curious titillation and a quixotic chimera roots you to the spot. You can't recall ever feeling this rush of exhilaration before, but it feels hauntingly familiar. Like it was ever-present in the cellar of your existence; just needing to be unearthed. There is no mistaking your vitality now. A pair of wide, round, dark eyes peer into you through the hazy, burnished umber. He holds out a chiaroscuro-ed hand to you, instinctively, you slip your trembling hand into his, despite the buried notion that pain must surely accompany this amount of pleasure. You lose all sense of yourself, you let your viscerations reign and finally relinquish control to the dubious arms of your lover. You're in his alchemistic hands now.
I have a strange obsession with hands. They are dripping with symbolism. They can bring such pleasure and comfort. They can make the most beautiful music, plucking and manipulating the taut strings of a tawny-brown, hollow-body, retro guitar. They can soothe and satisfy; help or guide. But hands also commit nefarious deeds; they being the last defense against evil-doing. They can bring immeasurable death and destruction unto humanity with the hastiest touch of a button or the knee-jerk pull of a trigger. They can push one just as easily away as draw one in. They can choke or strangle just as they can caress or embrace. They are the hinge of humanity's decency or descent. Good and evil, physically manifested.
Those soft and talented hands, with their bitten-down nails, and lightly calloused fingers, holding my hand to lead me to your bedroom or grasping my hand throughout the night as we sleep. You're arms wrapped tight around me, feeling like you'll never let me go, surrounding me, keeping me safe. I realize I look for my grandfather is every man I date; I'm not that out of touch. Someone strong, intimidating even, driven, busy, but still chooses me above all others. Someone enamored with my spirit and being, not just my sex appeal and body. Someone to protect me from the coldness of life's wintry nights and the harshness of reality; from evil. Someone funny and adventurous. Someone who will play my silly, childish games, who will indulge me, but also take charge and be the lead when needed. Someone confident and masculine, without misogyny and contempt. Someone I can take care of just as much as they take care of me. It's probably unfair to measure all men against my grandfather, as his memory lives on in great rose-tinted, romanticized infamy in my head, but it is automatic and instinctual.
I have a hard time keeping my naturalistic impulses at bay with him. My Id is running rampant, blocking all sense of form, not that I was ever much for convention or rules, but I don't want to tip my hand so early. My school-girl mentality mixed with my throbbing sexual desire for him makes for a lethal cocktail.
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