I am writing this sunbathing naked on my bed. I love having a window that is south-facing onto the lake. Just me, the tree outside my window, and the sun. This weekend has been emotionally intense. Now, I finally feel like I’m coming back to myself.
This newsletter is a bit saucy, but what is life but theorizing about the erotic?
I don’t know how to get all the opportunities I want to have. I am not a REAL writer yet. I am twenty-three (a bright and shiny age). I think I have time to be a REAL writer because I have long since discarded the fantasy of being a young-prodigy.™ All the women I look up to are at the end of their thirties, or the end of their forties, or the end of their fifties. It was a revelation to find that women don’t just drop off the face of the earth once they hit thirty-one. I feel more peace at this age than I think I ever had in my life, even in childhood. I know it sounds strange, but I have never felt younger than I do now.
It is funny to think that I was once sixteen thinking life was passing me right by. I felt completely out of sync with time, while other people were having sex and dating, I was alone in my room thinking about sex and dating. Even then I always had this deep raging lust.
At thirteen, I would use the family iPad, cracked and scotched taped back, to read steamy erotic ebooks with dramatic covers (black and white or else just a bare torso). I would lie in my bed late at night, or else audaciously right in the middle of the day, and revel at the feeling of that rush pulling up from my stomach, the fluttering in my chest. What I loved the most was the build-up. I favored stories that constructed the plot in such a way that circumstances would deny their desire to meet skin with skin. Every brief or even accidental touch would be so loaded with meaning you could practically feel the crackling emanating from the cracked iPad screen.
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