Skin. Hair. Eyes. Teeth. Smile. Thighs. Legs. Breast. Waist. Butt. Belly. Arms. Hands.

Smooth and balmy. Long and light. Icy and soothing. White and pearly. Thick and warm. Long and thin. Perky and round. Welcoming and proportional. High and fit. Pierced and flat. Long and inviting. Her hands; dry and soothing.

Her. She. Babe. Girl. Pumpkin. Sweetie. Love. Darling.

Now she dominates my thoughts, the topic of all my writing – the subject of all my conversation. That skin, so smooth and tan. Those eyes, piercing – cliché but true – piercing through me. Looking deeper into my eyes than any other. They resemble the ice pack on a bad sprain; numbing, compressing, controlling.

She looks up, smiling from the kiss. White and pearly. They make me smile. Her happiness creating my ecstasy. She rolls over, wrapping herself around me.

Her thighs make the room warm. They make me question whether it’s worth leaving bed today.

Her legs tangle in mine, her feet and shins and knees and calves prodding and poking and pressed and lost in mine. She doesn’t care. Girl, she’s got it.

Her chest, the perfect resting spot. Her butt is my favorite part of the cold shoulder. I make fun of her just so she will turn, just so I can chase her. The chains and color hanging from her belly button remind me of her style – her fearlessness in the face of pain. A compliment to the ink that lies on her waist; permanence.  

Her arms reach out and try to wrap around all of me. Her hands run through my hair and she puts those big blue piercing cold icy eyes up against mine and it’s like the warmth from her thighs is running from her eyes and her long and light hair drops down to cover those polar pupils reminding me that she isn’t so scary; that her beauty is human. She smiles again, that smile. Her legs squeeze tighter for an instance just to let me know she recognizes what I’m feeling and there is a damn good chance she’s feeling it too. My hands find her waist like I was reaching for something on my own body – a landing only a pilot could appreciate. Her waist welcomes me. Like magnets with opposite forces my palms can’t resist her ass when they get so close as her waist. We connect again and I know she feels sexier at the touch but how could she possibly feel sexier than when she’s looking in the mirror. Her stomach is against mine now and her prodding and protruding belly button wrapped in its metal or aluminum or whatever they make those things out of doesn’t bother me. Her arms curl between my chest and hers and she puts her ear to me and hands flat on my body and I close my eyes and nothing can bother us now and the only way I can describe this feeling is smooth and balmy – her skin.

Why I write

On May 14th, 1991, I was born into a world I did not know, understand, and could not fathom. From my very first breath, this world was a place of mystery, challenges, joy, sadness, experience, lust, loathing, and inconsistencies. While trying to make sense of this world, I lived inside my head. I narrated and questioned and wondered and screamed and struggled with what was around me, silently; behind the confines of the cranium. Then one day, I was given that power you cannot bear to explain – not without being overwhelmed by joy. That power that brought pen to paper, thoughts to words, and questions to answers. That power, so abstract yet so real. The power of language. And now, when faced with questions or fears or excitement or love or confusion, I can use that power as a guide. Writing, to me, has always been the fruition of thought – the conclusion to a long drive. When something is ready to be put down in writing, even this essay, it means my brain, my body and my soul have all grasped it in a way that allowed me to project it to you, the reader. I write because I can, because I would probably go insane – lost in thoughts and forgetfulness – if I couldn’t. I write about the things I love, the things I’ve seen and the things I want to see. Sometimes I write for the reader, but mostly, I write for me.