Early on in my childhood I’d discovered that my views of masculinity have always been more subjective than that of others. My love of the male form stems from somewhere deep within me, unmasked by the rest of my existence. Whereas most adoration people feel for this, lies solely in the form of nudity, I more fully appreciate masculinity in the most admissible of shapes. In a laid-back laugh, a gentle glance, a simple smile.. Even a humble handshake can fill my consciousness with the enchanting substance that is testosterone.
I remember the discovery of the sincere intoxication that pulsed through my veins when my eyes could detect maleness in the most raw of forms. Masculine energy seemed to fuel my animation, I appeared to thrive off the most diminutive revelation of even the slightest bit of masculinity.
In time I had started to scour men for the things I had unintentionally noticed for so long. I would jump at any chance to leave the house in the hopes of witnessing just one sample of masculinity, just a glimmer of testosterone influenced actions. Going to the grocery was somewhat of a haven for me, the twitch of biceps lifting plastic bags, the short tempered hair rustle of annoyed husbands and fathers.. The influx of attraction would shake me to my core, provoking emotional highs that would hold me tightly in their grasp.
As time progressed my desire for male contact continued on and throughout Elementary School I felt comfortable only in classes headed by male teachers. I rarely had “crushes” on boys of my age and always felt them to be “just too young.” Their preadolescence was no match for the hormone induced manliness that fueled my addiction.
Moving forwards through Junior High and High School was like candy for my cravings. The boys around me started to develop the same masculine tremors my eyes had been addicted to my entire life. I could feel the attractiveness of their puberty growing around me, seemingly surrounding me in every class I sat through. The allurement was overwhelming to the point where I started to skip classes to hide around the track field or the gymnasium just to experience the same exuberant high of masculine energy. Shirts sticking to sweat soaked bodies, the clenching of ab muscles with each heaving breath, it was all enough to make up for the failing grades and after school detentions.
To this day I still find myself lost in admiration, focusing in on random men inadvertently exuding their testosterone in displays of sheer masculinity. My love for all that is male continues to be unbending and unchanging.
But I have come to welcome my infatuation, to indulge in the bliss brought to me by unknowing men and to deal with the withdrawal when need be. It’s become the heart of who I am, this obsession, and living with it has become second nature.
I love you. :’D I have three ides coming to you pretty soonish.
One’s pretty short and should be up in a few hours at the most. One’s already about 75% done so that should be up sometime tonight. The other I still have to type from my notebook, so maybe tomorrow sometime?
It’s usually hard for people to understand the relationship my husband and I share. It’s even harder for me to try and explain. The two of us are more different then I can even begin to describe, yet I’ve never in my life met someone I have so much in common with. The main thing is, we’re in love, and my “job” could never change that.
From the outside, people either wish they had our love, or can’t understand how we live the way we do. Our life is hard, but somehow we’re great at it, great at loving it anyway. Money is tight, but time is even tighter. We buy almost everything at goodwill or the Salvation Army and we live off of Mac-and-Cheese and Ramen. We only stop working to spend time together, which isn’t anywhere near as often as it should be. The floor of our tiny apartment in the worst neighborhood in the city is covered in laundry we never have time to do and more crumbled paper you’ve ever seen in one place at one time.
My writing is our way out. I write while he drinks red wine and when I’m finished, he reads, and at the end of every story, we’ll put on the old records and dance until one of us caves in and strips the other of his clothes. Without fail, this is what happens every time, we strip each other down and make love right there on the couch or on the floor. I find it hard to refer to our sex as anything other than making love, no matter how dirty it gets. It always ends the same way, curled up in each others arms. He’ll stroke my hair, and talk in the softest voice I’ve ever heard about how we’re going to pay for the rent this month, or his upcoming job interviews, how he’s “really got a good feeling about this one.”
Being accustomed to this life is more than “making due” it’s more than “dealing” because I know one day when I look back I will miss these times. When I look into his eyes, those green and bronze, fiery jade sparkling eyes, I see our future. I see the townhouse in the suburbs, the fenced in yard, the tire swing, the kids, the dog. All of it, it’s there. Our mattress on the floor replaced with a four-poster, the dirty laundry replaced with toys, and our pantry consisting of real food.
But past all this, I see us on the couch, drinking red wine and listening to old records. He’ll stroke my hair, and talk to me in that same soft voice. The conversation replaced with talk of PTA meetings, and what he’s cooking for dinner tomorrow when he get’s home from work.
Those are the days I’ll miss these ones, and I’ll remember seeing our future like this, deep in his eyes. I’ll remember it was his love that got me through.