v u l v a l i c i o u s
If I wrote her, or wrote about her, how quickly would she know? Or would she?
When I'm here, she's not, by the mere fact of geography. I look elsewhere; I hold the hand of the ruddy-faced boy next to me with eyes that have designs on every girl he passes and I dream of the girl from warmer times who might be able to satisfy me.
I feel insatiable, as if my caption should read, "She's got to have it."
If I could give myself one gift this Christmas, it would be endless hours of passion and heavy-breathing lust sessions--bacchanalia to outlast the celebrations of wine-drunk Grecian women of old. I would paint myself into scenes of questionable morality and cavort, free-form, through the wild woods of sex and sexuality.
People keep asking why it couldn't work with her, and I struggle for the words to articulate why it wouldn't (what stops me from telling her, what makes me think she'd run). They never come properly, and all I can think to say is that we aren't quite right for one another, and that our relationship is such that sleeping together is not an option. What's more, she runs from the kind of crush confrontation I'd present, regardless of her feelings toward me.
She's a runner, plain and simple, a fast mover who can't bear the thought of looking into the eyes of someone who wants so badly just to look into her eyes.
I wrote down the things I've thought of doing with her and felt good and bad and right and wrong collide like fireworks inside my cunt. She's more explosive than she'd ever guess.