Don’t you hate it when you forget what someone’s touch feels like, how their physical presence feels beside you, what their lips taste of? It’s now been two weeks since I left alone from a beautiful time with KJ. Yes, I know I will be writing a lot about him for awhile (maybe longer). After all, he is the one who inspired me to start this blog, such fierce desire I have for him.
I long for his touch, no matter how platonic it may have been, or rather, was supposed to be. His embrace felt all encompassing to me. He engulfed me; made me feel vulnerable yet wanted, desired, appreciated. I am an out and proud feminist, but I do not believe that feeling vulnerable is something one must immediately quash. It is one of many rich emotions that make up our complex relations to one another.
I had not been touched in a very, very long time. I hug friends and family when I happen to see them (which is rare as they live far away). I have not been touched sexually in an even longer time except, well, by my own hands.
And I long to touch! I touched KJ constantly, his long, lithe limbs, his milky white smooth skin, his strong hands and elegant fingers. God! I remember the night in which we (accidentally) held hands. It felt like an eternity to me; his palm pressed into mine, our fingers intertwined. Our hands touching burned a fiery trail straight to my heart and to my nether regions. He removed his from mine first.
He does, after all, have a girlfriend. She is further away from him than I am. Much further.
And so I sit here. Maybe not entirely alone but consumed entirely with loneliness. And I’m forgetting what KJ felt like to hold, what he smelled like, and what our bodies felt like together.
