Sliding clothes and Revelations

I speak to myself like a slam poet. I don't know what it is, but the cadence of my internal voice has taken on something that should be confined to a late night coffee house.

But I digress.

Why is it that whenever a woman's shoulder strap falls down, it says more than her flashing bare breasts about? Just that one hardware dazzled piece of fabric, a mere three inches from where it's supposed to be, and magic happens. Whether it's the subtle sexiness of that woman that you admire being comfortable or concentrated on what she's doing, or it's a deliberate moment, slid down by a careful finger.

Oh look! A creative segue into my next topic of conversation!

Being a sex symbol.

Oh I know you think I'm being cocky now. But while I might not be on par with Jessica Alba or Pamela Anderson, I seem to attract large amounts of males who want to have sex with me. It's disturbing, and it's annoying. Do I emit some pheromone that says, "I don't really want any sort of real emotional relationship, I just want you to do me. Really. Who would ever want a rational, intelligent connection with someone? Screw that just screw me." What person could possibly ever say that?

Granted, I have wanted that at one time or another. When you just get out of a relationship and you're hurting, you don't really want to replace that person with another person who is going to do the same things, remind you of all the good times you had and make you run screaming to the freezer with your wooden spoon to watch The Notebook over and over again. It's not healthy.

But there comes a time, after a natural period of healing, that I would like to get back to actually finding a connection. God damnit, I sound like a pitiful online dating ad. This entire blog has become one of me wordvomiting onto the page my shitty emotional feelings. Oh well.

I just would like to enter into a situation where someone went, "You know what, I don't immediately think about having sex with her every time I see her." not "I just want to be your friend, but it would be GREAT if I could slake my sexual frustration with you. Are you game?" Or even better, "I don't even really like you as a person, but you're fucking hot, so I pretend to like you so I can get to third base repeatedly."

Surely I'm not the only damn person on the planet that wants this. Surely I'm not so inhumanly twisted, so flawed in my personality that I can't manage to find and/or keep one of these people.

But maybe I am.

Days wasted searching

for gold stars faded on

too-small clothes.

Just a bit more skin

to paint my canvas of

happiness.

You know all the

lyrics to every

Beatles song written, and

I'm always amazed at

the way you twist

words in ways

I wasn't expecting

and try vainly to

imitate.

But I'm not your

white picket fence

no "Honey I'm Home"

and kiss on the cheek.

I'm your, "Hey do you

do this?" and "Are you

clean? I don't do

crotch rot."

Is it so bad to want

that hug when I

come home and

can't help but cry?

I  know it's

Guy's Night,

Poker and Cigar Smoke

that I lie about hating.

Just a phone call to

cancel plans, ignoring

the jeers and the imitated crack

sounds.

Just to sit on the couch,

without plans of

getting naked later.

Tired of sewing my soul

into bone-lined

corset tops

involuntarily.

Could someone just be

that robe waiting at the

end of the night,

to cover that flesh

it seems everyone's

seen?