Oh I try, I do. I try not to want. I try not to give in to the delicious wanting of skin, of lips. I try not to want attention. Alas! I should better try not to breathe.
I try to direct my desires, to those for whom it is appropriate, warrented, motivated. These rules narrow my options significantly. Again, I fail at self control, wanting what I cannot have, wishing for what will never be, for what shouldn't be. Shouldn't. It shouldn't work and indeed it shall not.
Over, done, end of story, yes? Then stop, by G-d, stop yourself. Change your mind, for once for good and get on with it! Get on with living with life... yes yes yes, it's not so interesting over here where all the people are made of wood and going through the motions like an Old Navy mannequin. That won't help you with your looking on and such.
No, first do your homework. Like work there's an inbox full of names you don't know and links leading you through the process with your hands firmly tied behind your back. This guided communication provides safety in anonymity, because as we all know, I am much more comfortable being naked and exposed online above all. No, this way they don't know the extent of oddness peering back at them through the screen. And they won't remember me at all when I close the match, saying "distance too great", "I don't feel chemistry" or quite simply "other". I won't think less of them as they line up to tell me: no, no, no.
Oh! That's it! This is a lesson in No. Must be the year for NOT getting what I want. Perhaps I've had it easy up until now, unappreciative of how easily a wanton woman falls into my lap and writhes so rigorously. I'm a big fan of the rigor, but only when not accompanied by necrosis. Stiffening, in general, denoting an excitement, a presence, a towering "hello! I'm here" and green flag waving.
I don't consider the baggage, because of my own activities it is less clear. I have forgotten already the crazed, cuisine-laced relapse that follows a fine fucking. I missed the opportunity to truly examine this behavior before. I almost forgot the wincing pinch, the pressing down and subtle force required to get me where I need to go. I forgot I was ashamed. I forgot I was twisted and broken and in need of repair.
What shall I do if I should find a fair face to fall in love with? Shall I unplug my psyche and pretend that it works? Shall I uncover the lumps and bumps beneath the super-hero cape? Somewhere inbetween all-important and essentially ignorable I'll sit, a seven-year-old in a white t-shirt tank top not knowing male from female but knowing force and fear.
I can take my history with me, carry it like a cross and let it sink me to the bottom of the river. I could let it sink, to settle in the muck, but I'll have to remember this bend of the river and point to it on my way. Remember to forget the name of Amalek. Never forget how you were hurt. Now forget about it so that it won't keep you down.
I am the superbowl quarterback who must have a short memory. I am the historian who knows how it played out before. All the knowledge. None of the fear. May this be Your will.