almost
1:57 p.m.<>2001-09-22

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when i'm feeling tired, or sick, or depressed, it naturally takes quite a bit to get me in an amorous frame of mind. the last couple of weeks, for example, have been like that for me. let's face it: it's hard to feel horny in the midst of a national tragedy. as a matter of fact, if jodie or i had felt at all sexy over the past few days, i would have been worried about us.

if i'm feeling good, though, the whole world puts me in an amorous frame of mind. i alluded to that in my previous entry; the sight of my coworker's naked shoulders, or of an attractive young couple with tatoos and piercings, is definitely enough to raise my blood pressure. in the good way of course. this shouldn't come as a surprise, either. after all, it's perfectly natural for a healthy human to be aroused at the sight of other healthy humans. that has less to do with complex psychology than simple biology.

but it runs deeper than that for me at times. when i'm feeling good, everything, absolutely everything, takes on sensual overtones. when i'm feeling good, i'll stop on the street to gaze up at the ivory colored buildings in northwest d.c. my eye will trace the flowing lines of the facades, the alabaster columns and the delicately scrolled cornices, and before i know it, the pleasing movements of the masonry have led me down a vibrant chain of associative thoughts until i come to a particular memory: one of rodin's nudes, perhaps, seen in a museum ten years ago on a trip to france. or else the elegant curve of jodie's spine beneath her smooth flesh, flesh that is shiny and slippery from the oil i just spread across her back.

when i'm feeling good, i'll close my eyes and pause for a second just after a woman passes me on the sidewalk. thin, heavy, gorgeous, plain, it doesn't matter. i'll close my eyes and pause for a second to catch a whiff of her scent. the perfume she uses, whether it's cheap or expensive, redolent of roses or patchouli. the soap she bathes with. the shampoo with which she washes her hair. the slight musk odor a jogger leaves as she passes, the barely discernible tang, the sweat essence left circulating in the disturbed air of her wake. and these scents, faint, gossamer, touching me like moths' wings throughout the day, will remind me of others. the warm, loamy breath of the first woman who ever kissed me. lavender infusing the air of the little boutique where jodie bought me the ring i'm wearing on my left index finger this very second. the way the smell of jodie's hair and scalp change, depending on whether she's sleeping or awake. the pungent odor of sandalwood incense that hangs in amy's house like a veil, the way it always clings to my clothes, to my skin itself, whenever jodie and i spend the night.

or i'll be on my way to a meeting, and a bus will pass by bearing an advert, an enlarged photo of a handsome young man with ebony skin and a chiseled jawline, his gaze intent. or i'll be flipping through a magazine in the lobby of some office, and i'll come across a photo of some movie starlet with cornsilk hair and deep cleavage, her nipples just barely hidden through the magic of camera angles, and the strategic positioning of light and shadow. the ad, the photo portfolio -- i don't care if they are nothing more than glossy, superficial, corporate sales techniques. that doesn't stop the images from speaking to my brain and my body.

when i'm feeling good, there is no more delicious sensation than arousal. i'll be at work, trying to have a normal conversation with my boss without revealing the thunder and lightning that are playing around within me. i'll talk on the phone, and try to keep my voice from shaking. i'll write a hot e-mail to jodie, and try without success to keep the flush out of my face. i'll read the e-mail jodie sends back to me, and suddenly i'm afraid to touch anything, because i feel that there's enough heat radiating from me that i might melt plastic, short-circuit wires, boil water. i'll sit down at my desk, and try to pierce the haze of desire that clouds my vision, that dries my mouth, that makes my eyelids heavy and languid. i'll ride the metro home, and try to clear my head of all the fantasies, all the lurid thoughts and wild carnal imaginings that caress my mind like soft fingertips.

in a way, it's almost as good as the consummation. almost as good as the time when i get to greet jodie at the door with a greedy, probing kiss, when i get to feel her hands running all over me, tugging at my clothes. almost as good as the feeling of cool air that touches my bare skin as i strip away layers of clothing. almost as good as hooking my fingers into the waistband of jodie's panties and dragging them down as she lies back on the bed. almost as good as the little shiver i get in my stomach every time she opens her warm, wet mouth against the side of my neck.

being hot for everyone and everything all day, fanning the flames, keeping the bubbling want to a low simmer until i can finally feel her warm body pressing urgently against me, is almost as good as my light touch on the damp between her legs. wanting to make love to the whole world all day is almost as good as her low whispering as she roughly grabs my hardness. almost as good as the startling, indecent, mouthwateringly vulgar words she mutters throatily into my ear as she makes me moan and beg. stopping to sniff the air moved by passing women is almost as good as touching the feathery soft flesh at the interior of jodie's thighs. gazing hungrily out my office window at muscular gay men in the park is almost as good as blowing on the tiny blonde hairs at the nape of her neck. moving through the day in an agoninizingly tense state of unfulfilled need is almost as good as the sound of her husky groans filling the air.

almost as good. but not quite.

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