Lust.

I do not like intoxication. I do not like to numb my body with tequila and whiskey, balm my brain cells so that everything goes smooth and loose. I do not like the crowds of unaware people who find release in the abandonment of the self, who can only lighten up by numbing down. I do not like it, but oh, I love it.

I do not like the loud sound-waves coming from the subwoofers, making earthquakes in my body and my soul. I do not like music that does not make my soul dance with all its joy, but only coerces my dizzy limbs to move, my body swaying back and forth in motions which should be saved for the bedroom. I do not like the meaningless, intoxicated expression of the body through movement guided by superficial noises. But I love it.

I do not like to look across the dark, technicoloured room at a man I do not know and do not need to know, and to feel the warmth swell up in my body, building up in the well between my thighs. I do not like to feel my heart skip beats inside my swollen chest because of someone who looks like a god, who makes my chest ache, but whose soul I do not know. I do not need to throw my hands in the air, flowing on the motions of the soundwaves, and let them collapse softly on my chest, caressing my skin because I long for his touch, because his hair and face, his movements in the dark and his glances make my heart run out of my chest with unquenchable lust. I do not like the impulse in my body, as if the hot blood in my veins was pulling me towards him, uncontrollably, towards the riding and the fulfilling of an unmet longing inside me. As if gripping his hair without shame and colliding lips, bringing his strong arms around my thorax and achingly up on the softness of my bare breasts beneath my shirt could be the answer for more than just a momentary meeting of the body’s desires. But I live for it.

I do not like to go up to a man, dizzied and with alcohol in my veins, feeling the strength and sensual energy in my body and directing it all at him, as I say a hello which I know will end in-between bed sheets in the early morning. I do not like the idea of giving my body and all its smooth surfaces, the wafting of my hips and the pressure against his, skins and juices separated only by a thin layer of clothing which we know will come off later. I do not like to overflow like a sweet ocean with nectar, for somebody who has not known or honoured the divine in me. And yet it makes me happy, a certain kind of happy.

I do not like to lighten up by numbing down; I long to lighten up by letting go. I do not like songs which invite me to move my body in strident ways, but the ones which make my body move as a direct expression of the bliss in my soul. I do not like to open and melt for a man who will not think of more than my flesh, to receive someone who will not make simple love to me, to sleep in his bed without being held. I long to let myself go in the arms of someone who has seen the light in me, and held me for all that I am. I do not wish to be intoxicated with tequila, whiskey and diet coke, with lustful kisses sucking all desire out of me, but not touching my heart. I long to be high on ecstatic love and tantric sex, on orgasmic looks in the eyes and soft touches that hold the whole world in their electricity.

But I am human, I am made of darkness and light. I can sigh, moan and burn inside with fiery passionate heat, heart quivering with desire for another in the loud darkness, and I can breathe in the open air, wishing for nothing more than the warmth of the sun on my face.

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