That feeling that you are in your skin. It is hormonally driven probably. A hunger that is almost vampyric in its intensity. The idea that some one other has blood and bodily fluids that you might roll on the tongue. The idea of filling your mouth with it. When this feeling comes on you know you are amongst the living.
Months of hiding inside the thick dullness of your skin have not prepared you for the sudden rush of lust. The day to day can overtake you. A trudge toward nothing. Smile. Laugh. Chat. But when there is no one there you know that you are emptied out. There is no smile to be had without performative imperative. There is no opening out to the elements without the scent of sex.
This, then, is the dilemma. Thin skin singing you are open to the pain that comes with being alive. But even with the pain it seems better than the dull thud, a migrainous gray. The safe and empty world without the sex.
So give me the sex. Let me teeter on the edge of it. Let me inhale it torturously through open pores. I chose this. I accept this. I live with this.