She has the ability to separate lust from that other four-letter "L"-word, and instinctively puts up walls to guard her from getting hurt. Inspired by the subtleties of young romance, she is drawn to the idea of love, drawn to those first meetings of innocent attraction, reading each others skin as text, each gesture, the wink of an eye, a sudden draw back only an inch when something was said, adding to the mnemonic lexicon of any given lover.
When a girl is 22, she ought to explore all there is to see and feel and touch and taste, shouldn't she? Yet she fears so deeply, she fears falling and being torn to shreds. She refuses to fall. Has she ever actually fallen? No. Can she? Perhaps not.
On her nightstand sits a book, "A General Theory on Love," lent to her by one of the men whose lips she has studied acutely. She has not read it yet, with the exception of her eyes browsing the preface, but she plans on making an attempt to focus on the read shortly. Perhaps tomorrow. The book, he said, talks about the neuroscience and psychology of love. Sounds like a fascinating read.
She sits, concerned of seeming too intense, too much of an insane girl who is drawn to the concept of love, forgetting the benefits of being young and having fun and not letting emotions have their way with her heart.
Her roommates tell her if she is to ever have a serious relationship with a man, she must not do anything sexual with them early on in their time together. Here is the time when the fetus of your place in your lover's eyes is defined. Will you have the XXX chromosome or the Y, will you be their significant slut or significant other, someone of greater importance?
She does not believe in love, although reading this book might alter her perception, and still she wants it. She doesn't expect fairytale romance, really, she writes about it, but it's not prince (or princess) charming she's after.
What does she want? Is it to have many lovers but never a love? There are stories of strong, powerful woman who, like their famous male counterparts throughout history, have enjoyed their fair share of pleasures. Is this the requirement of success? To never allow whatever love is to get in the way of life itself; it's easy to fall and hard to climb out; it's difficult to fall into the right hole, where one might want to find herself trapped indefinitely.
It is so easy for her to accept that all she should be seeking is lustful fun, and with that she cannot get hurt. She closes off that place in her heart which longs for acceptance and respect and true care, and accepts each moment as it is, worth nothing and everything all in one gasping breath, an inhalation of cool air down into the pit of her stomach.
Those men who know her, who perhaps read her blog, these stories she writes, the fragments of her many thoughts, she realizes are undoubtedly frightened of her lengthy analytical entries contrasting with poetic ramblings of juvenile infatuation. She understands that this is, and has always been, a terrible idea writing down of most every feeling, every new understanding, the memories of a specific kiss, or laugh, or touch.
And yet there is much left out of her blogs, bits and pieces of life's events which she chooses not to make public. Some of her anonymous readers might be surprised by this, for it seems as if all is revealed in these splurges of freely publicized personal information. But here is only the tip of my thoughts, experiences and sensations. This is only a glimpse into each day, not an accurate rendering of life as a whole.
Thus, she is mostly concerned with the perception of the men, or specific men, who she has had the opportunity to know somewhat intimately. She does not wish to give off the impression that she expects some great love, some living operatic aria of devotion after a few dates. She's much more realistic than that. And she knows that sometimes all men (or women) want is to have fun, to enjoy the most holy of sensations that G-d, if there is a G-d, created for humans to enjoy.
She sees nothing wrong with this. She also sees nothing wrong with that spot in her chest, pounding away like a machine gun firing blanks into the wind over an empty field of wildflowers, that still desires something along the lines of love, something along the lines of stability, something along the lines of being able to close her eyes at night and feel the exact temperature of breath on her bare back, the breath of one person who she is completely devoted to, although he (or she) might be two or twenty or hundreds of miles away.
And she wonders if this is so terrible to want
When a girl is 22, she ought to explore all there is to see and feel and touch and taste, shouldn't she? Yet she fears so deeply, she fears falling and being torn to shreds. She refuses to fall. Has she ever actually fallen? No. Can she? Perhaps not.
On her nightstand sits a book, "A General Theory on Love," lent to her by one of the men whose lips she has studied acutely. She has not read it yet, with the exception of her eyes browsing the preface, but she plans on making an attempt to focus on the read shortly. Perhaps tomorrow. The book, he said, talks about the neuroscience and psychology of love. Sounds like a fascinating read.
She sits, concerned of seeming too intense, too much of an insane girl who is drawn to the concept of love, forgetting the benefits of being young and having fun and not letting emotions have their way with her heart.
Her roommates tell her if she is to ever have a serious relationship with a man, she must not do anything sexual with them early on in their time together. Here is the time when the fetus of your place in your lover's eyes is defined. Will you have the XXX chromosome or the Y, will you be their significant slut or significant other, someone of greater importance?
She does not believe in love, although reading this book might alter her perception, and still she wants it. She doesn't expect fairytale romance, really, she writes about it, but it's not prince (or princess) charming she's after.
What does she want? Is it to have many lovers but never a love? There are stories of strong, powerful woman who, like their famous male counterparts throughout history, have enjoyed their fair share of pleasures. Is this the requirement of success? To never allow whatever love is to get in the way of life itself; it's easy to fall and hard to climb out; it's difficult to fall into the right hole, where one might want to find herself trapped indefinitely.
It is so easy for her to accept that all she should be seeking is lustful fun, and with that she cannot get hurt. She closes off that place in her heart which longs for acceptance and respect and true care, and accepts each moment as it is, worth nothing and everything all in one gasping breath, an inhalation of cool air down into the pit of her stomach.
Those men who know her, who perhaps read her blog, these stories she writes, the fragments of her many thoughts, she realizes are undoubtedly frightened of her lengthy analytical entries contrasting with poetic ramblings of juvenile infatuation. She understands that this is, and has always been, a terrible idea writing down of most every feeling, every new understanding, the memories of a specific kiss, or laugh, or touch.
And yet there is much left out of her blogs, bits and pieces of life's events which she chooses not to make public. Some of her anonymous readers might be surprised by this, for it seems as if all is revealed in these splurges of freely publicized personal information. But here is only the tip of my thoughts, experiences and sensations. This is only a glimpse into each day, not an accurate rendering of life as a whole.
Thus, she is mostly concerned with the perception of the men, or specific men, who she has had the opportunity to know somewhat intimately. She does not wish to give off the impression that she expects some great love, some living operatic aria of devotion after a few dates. She's much more realistic than that. And she knows that sometimes all men (or women) want is to have fun, to enjoy the most holy of sensations that G-d, if there is a G-d, created for humans to enjoy.
She sees nothing wrong with this. She also sees nothing wrong with that spot in her chest, pounding away like a machine gun firing blanks into the wind over an empty field of wildflowers, that still desires something along the lines of love, something along the lines of stability, something along the lines of being able to close her eyes at night and feel the exact temperature of breath on her bare back, the breath of one person who she is completely devoted to, although he (or she) might be two or twenty or hundreds of miles away.
And she wonders if this is so terrible to want
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come hang out more often.
My favorite nonfiction book about love is "The Ethical Slut."
Is it really so bad to write down every feeling? I don't, but I never kept a journal/blog/diary 'til I joined SG. I guess there are things that are only for you to know.