I am perverse.
I have no shame in saying this; I embrace it. I revel in it. I seek to understand it.
One aspect of my perversity is my desire to touch the human animal within those I play with. To distill for a few minutes that electric liquid exilir comprised of two parts raunch, two parts rigid instinctual need, and one part laughter.
This is my nectar.
When I am in a particularly good mood, I find myself mentally undressing those women I have the potential to be attracted to.
I’m not picturing perfect bodies – I can stare at a plastic Barbie doll if that was my desire. What I think about are the imperfections – the differences that makes them unique, that shift them from being an abstraction and into being a potential reality.
I want to hear the story of their desire in the pattern of their breathing. I want to feel the rhythm of their lust in the undulation of their hips.
I live for that moment when they stop being a lady. When they cross over to me – racing, stumbling, wide-eyed or blindly seeking. When they give into impulse.
When they become mine.
Gone With the Wind, No Lady