The gnashing teeth of my stomach, the neurons firing off in my mind, the icy glare that can freeze the hearts of men, the hot fire of passion engulfing my diaphragm, my throat, my lips. Seven of them have seen it. No luck so far. Seven that I have shared the most intimate moments with, where I have allowed myself to go. Let it all come out. Bared my inner soul.
One for curiosity sake
One as experimentation and obligation
One as an exploration of past passion and as a revolt to confinement
One out of desperation
One for recovery
One to investigate historical flirtation, stimulated elsewhere
One of liberating freedom of supposed kindred souls but of substandard quality
One because being held is of comfort
One for myself
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. There are seven of them. Two of them got an extra shot. One missed. One hit.
I am smitten.
Lucky number nine and three. Too bad I’m not as lucky as he.
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