Never Settle Down

Thank you, friends. I really love all of your kind and encouraging emails. Keep them coming. Your words are my fire. You are the reason I continue to write about my life.

A lot of you have asked if I have a boyfriend. The simple answer: no. Seriously, why bother? I don't want to settle down. There's no need. I like going out every night with a different person. It allows me to experiment, it allows me to date young boys with intensity and eagerness, as well as older men with ingenuity and experience.

I've even been thinking more about Sarah lately. Ever since that night, we've been closer. I can tell she feels more comfortable around me because she sits closer to me on the couch and stands closer to me when we talk. Everytime we're together, I feel the need to touch her soft skin, to break that boundary between friendship and sexuality.

I often want to bridge that vast chasm between the friend and the lover. I've never understood this seemingly universal separation. The closer the friend, the more I want to pledge my undying desires for their physical features, their bodies.

It makes nose sense: I trust them more than others, enjoy their company more than others, and thus I cannot touch them. They're in their own personal bubble and society says I'm not supposed to pop their little cherry. Screw that. Literally.

I still remember Sam, a boy I knew a few years back. He was thin and geeky, with pasty white skin, dark eyebrows, and matted hair. He would sit with me on the bearskin rug in front of my parents fireplace and, without fail, the closer I edged to him, the more nervous his limbs jittered, the farther he slid away.

Even though Sam rejected my advanced, I could see in his eyes that he wanted me. He would feel the warmth on his back, look into my eyes, and bite at his lips. Occasionally, I would catch him touching his fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. He was so frightened that I would notice his desire for my body, that he made himself miserable.

Amazingly, I wanted him. Skinny and geeky as he was, he was my closest friend at the time. I couldn't have felt more comfortable with anyone. I wanted to remove the tight, grey, Armani shir the always wore and slide my forearms over his tan skin, and cool the warmth of the fire on the boy's exposed ribs by blowing lightly through my pink lips. We would have been in haven: comfort, trust, eros, pleassure.

Instead, we giggled aimlessly, took short breaths, and held back when we should have pounced upon each other and rolled out the doors, only to jump into a murky pond, remove our clothes, and fondle each other's beautiful, mannequin-like young bodies as they drift and bob, boyount and free.