I Can Feel It

It gets stronger every day. That compulsion inside a man that makes it more difficult to place yourself inside a woman, finish, and be satisfied is now more an obnoxious afterthought than a driving force. The boy in me is giving way to the man he wants to be.

Perhaps I'm talkin' out of my arse since I've never really carnally had a woman, but where once it was fun to fantasize of short-lived passion I find myself yearning still for more. It's like eating a steak without potatoes. A meal without dessert. A challenging videogame with no final boss. A book with no finite ending (DAMN YOU George R. R. Martin!!!). A kiss with no embrace.

Could it be I'm mature enough to need some love with my lust?

I hope not. If so then clearly I've betrayed my id. He, my id, peaked at 13 with many MANY wide-eyed dreamless nights of impure obsessions. He's the stone-faced sweaty-palmed truth of my youth that made it both impossible to talk to girls and impossible to ignore them.

Sixth grade was the apex of spirit-filled recesses and long, hot, fun summers with my neighborhood homies. Seventh grade was the start of morning showers, morning wood, and mourning recess. Girls that wore shorts under long dresses and bland, masculine colors had effortlessly converted to see-through blouses, short skirts, and makeup. It wasn't even a fair fight. Frankly, I don't know how I survived.

But those days are long gone and I want more. The weight of it plays on me like a bucket filling with water at the back of my mind. And with every daily drip I feel the weight all the more. Eventually it will become unbearable and I'll doggedly pursue my one, tender, true. Or I'll bury it all underneath heroine and whores. Whatever comes first.