I wish it just wasn’t fucking. I wish there is some meat to this shit. Willingly reducing myself to a beating uterus on some carnal and lascivious shit. There’s nothing wrong with orgasms; they just feel a whole lot better with a meaningful purpose attached. We’ve reduced fucking to just that, you know. Fucking.
I tell myself that there isn’t any wrong with fucking on base value but in ways, there is. Like, what is this all for? Walking outside of someone’s crib with no panties on? Really? Masturbating while reminiscing. You can only fantasize for so long before you feel the urge to replace two fingers with a penis and a vibrator with a tongue.
Which he…nevermind. Let me not objectify this dude. Let me not imagine this dude beating my walls down. Let me not imagine feeling explosions between my legs. Let me not turn him into my personal-fucking-machine. He’s more than that. Dude’s a thinker, a storyteller. Creativity oozes from this kid. He’s my lightweight muse. Being in his presence feels intimidating. I’m sort of fascinated with this kid. Equally fascinated with his penis? Maybe.
I’m so bad. I shouldn’t even be talking about this. But where my mind is, I can’t help it. I keep thinking about love songs and their meaning. Saying “I love you” in bridge and chorus. The baritone-laced ballads of Teddy Pendergrass. No, not “Turn Off The Lights” but more “I Miss You”. That Anita Baker. That “If I could, I’d give you the world…” .That Phyllis Hyman “Meet Me On The Moon”. I feel your symphony, so strong and so pure … it echoes all through me … I am so sure that we were meant to be here, sharing this love we share. Utopian ideas of love through music.
I can only imagine what fucking feels like when you’re in love. It ain’t just about getting off. It’s about communicating your love and lust for each other in the most horizontal (vertical for the adventurous people) kind of way. Fuck just making me cum. Make me feel the fire. Love songs of today fail to convey that message to me. It’s all hyper-masculine and female chauvinistic. The words fail to produce genuine feelings. So maybe it shows the difference between simply fucking and making love. Whatever making love means.
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