What I am really thinking???  

charm_and_hammer 47F
14 posts
1/31/2006 8:23 pm

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

What I am really thinking???

Why isn't it okay for me to say what I really think? I guess it's okay to mention it in passing as long as I give it neither inflection nor importance. I can make silly jokes, as long as they're immediately qualified by a statement of other, more important attributes. And why, when I live in a society that celebrates breasts, especially large ones, why can't I say what I'm really thinking?

Instead, I keep it wrapped and carefully hidden inside of me. Afraid to admit that within this thoughtful and fair woman, this woman who never judges people by the way they look or dress, there lies an urge that I'm just not supposed to ever, ever give voice to. Because that urge is everything I'm not -- neither thoughtful nor fair. And where it comes from and why it's lingered so persistently for so many years, I'll never know. All I do know is that I've got to act on it. For years I've tried to convince myself that it doesn't matter ....
Stop it," I tell myself. "You're being shallow. You're breasts aren't perfect. Your ass isn't that big. I force myself to swallow that little drop of disappointment when my hand isn't filled with a sense of amazement and awe. "It's meaningless, I tell myself. Focus on what's really important here. He's an attractive, successful, intelligent man. That's what got him here in the first place."

Why does it make me shallow to admit that I ache for that moment when I can kneel in front of new lover? Undo all of the hooks and buttons of his pants and then, with painful but deliberate slowness, unzip his fly. If my fantasy were perfect, they'd fall into a casual, rumpled heap on top of a pair of wonderful Italian loafers. Which from my low vantage point I'd admire only briefly because, there, just inches from my face, but now obscured by only a thin wrapping of cotton would be the thing that I can't admit that I've wanted all along. The thing that doesn't fit neatly inside the anthropomorphic bell curve.

No, what lies under a thin layer of cotton is the thing that I'm going to circle with one hand, and then above it, another. And if I had a third, that wouldn't be enough either. But since I don't have a third, I open my mouth instead. When I have to stretch my jaw a little further than I had expected, I notice that my hands really haven't completely encircled it. And so like a baseball player at the plate, I adjust my grip and still my fingers don't meet.

Only I'm not supposed to say it, let alone feel it or think it. Every time I'm with a new man -- gotten through the obligatory, let's see, two or three dates. After we've gone through the checklist of likes and dislikes, interests, plans and accomplishments, I'm not allowed to ask the one question that I've been wondering since our first introduction. No, on this subject I must remain mute, knowing that I won't get my answer until long past the moment where I can tactfully bow out. Sorry, you're just not...

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