Til Then My Windows Ache

Sometimes, the world feels so oversexed and under sexually satisfied all at once. People are quick to make passes or proclaim crushes, but few savor the weaving of sexual tension. Sexual restraint. It isn't about waiting. It's about creativity. Art.  Somehow, I think immediacy and capitalism have become too much a part of people's approaches- their propositions.

People fuck and suck, but how many can maintain eye contact from across the room with those they have had sex with without becoming shy or walking over to end the tension? Why be uncomfortable when you could be pumping away, eyes closed? (Insert the acidic flavor one tastes just before vomiting, here.)

I've dealt with beaus and courters who come on with their fullest sense of artless "charm".  They will try and woo me in ways they have seen in films (Hollywood; porn).

It is as rapid as it is uninteresting.

However, I am fortunate in that I possess both the selective patience and don't fucking care gene.  I don't mind that these mosquitoes come at me.  I just watch them smash on the windshield and become angry with me. (It's strange, is it not? How people will blame you for the fact that they want you.  That somehow the fact of their attraction alone, is justification enough to make you 'villain', 'tease', 'devil'. Tsk, tsk.  Such entitlement you lace in your disappointment.)

But honestly? I don't mind.

I am too busy day dreaming about the lovers I enjoy.

The ones who play with me as much as I play with them.

The ones who read.

The ones who think.

The ones who know that unknown pleasures can be found, and have nothing to do with a Joy Division album.

And so, I enjoy them.

Those who are exactly right.

The ones who know

that thirst is always

the deepest form of want.




-k.

(photo grabbed off a Tumblr I have since forgotten)

(title: From Pablo Neruda. Its full(er) text reads:

So I wait for you like a lonely house
til you will see me again and live in me
til then my windows ache)