It’s
the kind of
intimacy
that you just
can’t fake.
It’s the kind of intense, supernatural feeling
that only comes around
when all a person needs to do
is
brush a fingertip against
your
arm,
and you feel
like you may never
breathe
again.
He was my first real kiss.
No, he wasn't the first boy I ever kissed,
or even the first boy I French kissed.
But he was the first boy to take my breath away,
the first one to give me butterflies when our lips touched.
There was an intimacy that my other kisses lacked,
like we were sharing a part of each other no one had ever seen.
With him, it was so much more than
or even the first boy I French kissed.
But he was the first boy to take my breath away,
the first one to give me butterflies when our lips touched.
There was an intimacy that my other kisses lacked,
like we were sharing a part of each other no one had ever seen.
With him, it was so much more than
just a kiss.
"I break the spines of my books on purpose. There was a time when
I admired perfection. Uncut corners and sharp edges were my
visual stimulants and my tender hands refused rough surfaces.
That time has passed and my hands have grown. Purity doesn’t
fill the new cracks they bear. They cringe at the unscathed and
welcome the beaten. So when I hold a new book, before I plunge
into its intimacy, I bend, contort, and deform the bound pages to
fit my hands - to fit me."
— Cleo Tobbi
It is terrifying to think that one day you will trust somebody enough to let them see you naked. You will undress and remind them that you’ve stretch marks and birth marks and scars from having chicken pox when you were little and scars from all of the other things now. You will blush thousands of shades of red, painting yourself as a rose losing its petals. And that person - that person will take it all in. And I wonder if they will reassure you. But mostly, I wonder if they will even see anything worth reassuring you about. I hope they see each freckle on your back as if it’s a star and you are the whole universe to them.
—
K.P.K
For if a man chooses to be
prom.iscuous, he may still aesthetically turn up his nose at prom.iscuity. He may still demand a woman be faithful to him, to save him from his own l.ust. But women have l.ust, too. Why should they be relegated to the position of custodian of emotions, watcher of the infants, feeder of soul, body and pride of man? Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout breasts and ovaries rather than p.enis and sc.rotum; to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable femininity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night…
prom.iscuous, he may still aesthetically turn up his nose at prom.iscuity. He may still demand a woman be faithful to him, to save him from his own l.ust. But women have l.ust, too. Why should they be relegated to the position of custodian of emotions, watcher of the infants, feeder of soul, body and pride of man? Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout breasts and ovaries rather than p.enis and sc.rotum; to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable femininity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night…
Because you are
not mad, or wild, or grieving! You are not roaring out to
choke her with your own bare hands! Which means your soul
is not too mixed up with hers. And that is good. Here is
my experience. Stay away from the ones you love too much.
Those are the ones who will kill
you.
Touch. It is touch that is the deadliest enemy of chastity,
loyalty, monogamy, gentility with its codes and conventions
and restraints. By touch we are betrayed and betray others
… an accidental brushing of shoulders or touching of
hands … hands laid on shoulders in a gesture of
comfort that lies like a thief, that takes, not gives, that
wants, not offers, that awakes, not pacifies. When one flesh
is waiting, there is electricity in the merest contact.
