Wr1tt3n0ne

Bunches and bunches
2018-06-04 06:47:20 (UTC)

Just One, Please

Sometimes a thought comes so strongly to me that I wish it were actual instead of imagination. Bane of the writer, I suppose, to be so able to toy with concepts that I should create notions I would want to live. Perhaps it was inevitable then that I find myself so in love with an idea. So entranced that it occupies my mind and smiles of it play on my lips. Oh, yes, dear readers I have one such thought now.


In the life of juvenile romance, that tacky and forlorn scope of obsessive teen love I find a thought of mine so delicious. Once upon a time, I had a young man's heart in the palm of my hand. The breathless kisses and orgasmic sessions littered my mind, not with love in return but with its tawdry cousin, that Vegas style seediness, lust. I didn't wish to grow weak and weepy in what I perceived as the throes of love. No, I wished to peddle my feminine wiles, seducing and drawing my prey to me. And for his part, torn down by love, he surrendered, my soft-spoken Bambi. I would be a liar to say I regretted one stolen kiss. There are no words for what I felt with his whispered declarations still ringing in my ears as my body cascaded over the edge. Anyone who tells you the charms of love has forgotten the bottoms of lust.

Lust is a feral life force. Each second away is a torment and each second in their company races past unheeded. While there is a rhythm to love-making there is no such esoteric concern in animal lust. My sole and recurrent thought when it overtook my senses was encapsulated in the following quote from Total Recall Benny: [to Mary, the three-breasted hooker] "Baby, you make me wish I had three hands."

And that was always the sensation as I abandoned myself into the crest and troughs of lust, that I didn't have enough body to experience it all. That feeling that Time was stealing from me, personally. All I wanted was another moment, another climax, and another hand or two. I couldn't seem to absorb enough, ever. What rational mind would stop that runaway train for the slow growth of love. For the seriousness and mild charm of a solid, well-lived life. Certainly not me in my teens. I had about as much use for love as a fur coat at the hottest desert. I wanted only more, more, more. My lips were ever plumped waiting should a kiss come across them. My waist ached to have an arm around it. My back loved the floor or wall, because I didn't feel trapped but I knew that close to me, they were. I drank up lust like a lush does alcohol. I dreamt about it, longed for it, wrote of it and let it consume me. My life was divided by the episodes of animal wanting that defined me. If the body was made for anything else, it truly escaped me.

I still jones for it yet, that lust. I want to close my eyes and think of nothing more than the next kiss, lick, trailing fingertip and I knew I would and likely will still yet take any shot I have at it. It is why my hearth burns so brightly, I feed it regularly. I spend celibate time always considering my celibacy's destruction. I wish to be wanton and not feel even a twinge of self doubting moralization. It doesn't have to be morally correct to be right, it needs to be hot and something I claw my way back out of dizzy and spent. I feel I have spent my life with the little love bruises and split lips. Be at rest dear readers, it is nearly always self-inflicted. My desires are near violent. And let me say as an emancipated feminist, fingertip bruises are the best, f*ck it. As for split lips and scratched palms, both I do to myself in the agony of the most pleasurable moments. And lest you fear for me, I should mention I have doled out backs scratched near to the blood on my lovers and have had few, if any who weren't proud of their battle scars.

And so my idea was what if I could separate the lustful part out of another and take it with me. A "So long, you gave this to me and I'm taking it with me!" sort of sentiment. What if that bit of enthusiastic lust was something you could package up and keep for the inevitable lean times? More than a vivid recollection or masturbatory fantasy but a living, breathing reenactment, yours forever to re-experience. That idea makes me scream in desire. For weeks now it has rolled about in my head, I want it viscerally. So what's a girl to do but idly obsess over the succulent ideal of portable lust?

This is raw, basal life. And may it ever be yours and mine.




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