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v u l v a l i c i o u s

Machinations of the sexual body. Deviant comes to mind, but for no particular reason.
2003-07-03 // 2:15 a.m.

I sometimes think he's flirting with me, and it feels strange. In the back of my head there are all sorts of questions swirling and asking for answers--the sorts of things that push me around and make me think twice instead of gut reacting.

It was the thing he said tonight, something along the lines of "if only you were attracted to men." It is the "if only" statements that get me. It is the "if only" statements that make me wonder what people are thinking.

I played out the scenario. It went thusly: I say that I could be. I say yes. I question my answer. I feel like it isn't the truth. I feel attracted to him in practice and repulsed by him in theory.

I tell myself he's an asshole, because really, he can be. I've seen it, I remember the stories, and I caught it in the way he referred to the tender sweet young thing he'd been seeing when he mentioned that he wasn't seeing her anymore--that she was like a rock, dumb and cold and empty.

Inside my head there is a brain. It thinks and flashes and uses nice, plump, beastly words. It enjoyed the hot gay boy porn that he showed me the other night, and sent messages to my mouth to articulate this enjoyment. The brain thinks about sex, and, when it sends the proper signals to my cunt, forces me to talk about desire, the need to make out with someone, and my general state of sexlust.

The brain is a smart one. It comes in a round and pleasing body. The body is sexual. The brain is sexual. The mouth, which is the tether between the brain and the body, is sexual. Is sex. Sex, You, All, Sexual, secks-u-ahl.

I question boys. I question the feelings I seem to be having for this one. My sexual body becomes a machine. Garbage in, garbage out. What I do not want I will not want.

Something tells me it is never that easy.


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