as i typed the first few sentences of an article i am composing, all i could think of was this is not what i wanted to be doing at this moment. flashing in my mind was a series of naked men, posed so that their groins were the singular focus of my attention. i was imagining those i’ve seen in person, or wondered about; those i’ve seen in digital print or online. i had visions of buttocks and a forest of muscular thighs, all vying for my attention. rather than write prose, i wanted to touch skin. my brain has no desire to follow higher functioning and would like to be appeased by baser desires.
the male form is one of the most artistically beautiful things i have ever seen. it is my sunset. i am amazed at how much i admire a mans body, virtually every time i see one. nothing compares to the wonderment i feel at the immense degree of variable which make up a mans form. hairless or hirsute, muscled or lean. short or tall. every shade that a person comes in; men are the most intensely interesting thing i have ever seen. i notice how their fingers are formed and if they have ragged cuticles or not. if their palms are worn from working with them or soft from an office job. i notice if their fingers are calloused from guitar playing and the fine hairs which pattern the back of their hands.
men distract me in the way a hound can not focus on anything other than the scent of its prey. i inhale their scent of masculine animal and it makes my stomach tighten and twist upon itself, as i respond to the primitive awareness of his presence. who has time for words or subtleties when your subconscious acknowledgement of his virility is something you have responded to. some men are aware of this immediately, while others seem to be less aware of the women in their midst who react to them. i often wonder at this iniquitous social experiment which plays out on the periphery of our adult lives amidst the shadows of our sexuality.
i celebrate the contained violence of a mans body which comes from his restrained or contained strength. nothing makes me want to tempt him to respond more than seeing a man in neutral repose. my mind interprets that quiet reflection as him waiting for me to trigger his response by my availability to assuage his sexual gratification and thereby my own. the last thing i want to do today, is anything more productive than acknowledging i am horribly distracted by the possibility of touching a man who responds under my warm palms and against the tips of fingers.