Humidity always reminds me of sexual frustration. Especially that hot sticky Summer humidity when it’s too hot and sticky to think of anything else but sex, but also too oppressive to do anything about it if even if you had the opportunity. Something about the fitful, sweaty, tossing and turning. Or maybe just the stickiness and frustration.
Which is probably exactly the sort of thing I should avoid mentioning to people I don’t know, but…shrug. I think of things, and then I say them. It’s because I didn’t learn to talk until last year. Not literally, of course.
–Me on OKCupid to someone I do not know
For the last few days I’ve been exchanging messages with a man in Eugene. We’ve been talking about the usual things one discusses with a near stranger: books, travel, erotic hair pulling, the word cunt, noodles as a commitment and recreational ass biting.
Sometimes I really wonder if I am fit for civilized company.
Other times I wonder why people aren’t lining up to find out if I am as sexually focused in real life as I am in writing.
Most people don’t want to have the kind of discussions that I want to have. It isn’t so much about the sex, but about talking in a way that is absolutely open about anything. Especially things that are important, but really? Everything.
It is too difficult for most people. Too emotionally risky perhaps. One man, who I liked quite a lot, opened up initially and then suddenly just couldn’t anymore. It was leaving him too vulnerable. He said he was in a place where he just wasn’t ready to have someone’s fingers getting into his soul.
Is that what I want? To poke my fingers into a man’s soul?
Yeah. Pretty much.
Poke my fingers into a man’s body and soul, find out what makes him work. Have him working out what makes me tick in the same way. Build something from what we find in each other.
Just a bit of black magic, voodoo and soul exchange.
Why is that so terrifying to people?