And This? This Is More

The funny thing is I remember the first time I looked at a woman and realized I had a special fascination for the female anatomy.
And I was young too. I was in second grade to be exact. And what’s more is I remember this clearly because my second-grade teacher was cruel. She was an awful looking woman who was both witch-like and equipped with gnarled fingers that resembled the limbs of crooked branches that stemmed from an old white birch tree.
She had bad breath that smelled from coffee and evil beady eyes that beamed with a cold and brutal sense of angry disapproval.
I assumed that all teachers were like thos, or like her, and angry, ugly in more ways than one and, too, I never assumed that a teacher could be younger or anything close to beautiful.
And then one day. . .
Mrs. Rowan called out sick.

This woman walked in the door. I never saw anything like her before. I never smelled anyone like her before either. There was something sweet about her voice, which somehow decommissioned my usual misbehavior into a brand of obedience and submission.

We sat at a small table and she was reading one of the books in the back of the classroom.
I sat somewhat across from her, noticing her legs and how her thighs and calves shaped perfectly. She wore a long dress. I remember. She was dressed nicely and appropriately
But more to the point, she was something I had never seen before.
I had never seen a woman dress elegantly like this—or at least, this was elegant to me.
More, I noticed her legs and how they ran all the way down to her high heels.
I was staring at her legs.
This was all innocent enough.
I suppose.
Yet, there was something internal and primal, like an instinct that foreshadowed an appetite that one day, I would find myself on the hunt and chasing fantasies like this.

I was amazed.
No. I was mesmerized.
I was swept away to the point where I knew there was something odd and guilty about my intentions.

She noticed that I was not paying attention to the book or following along with her, like the other students.
No,
I was not paying attention to the book.
Not at all.
I was looking at her legs and how they ran all the way up to her waist. I noticed her shoes and how her feet seemed to fit them perfectly.
She sat in great posture. She certainly did not smell like Mrs. Rowan and nor did she look like her or speak to us the way Mrs. Rowan did.

This was the first time I realized I have a fetish for legs.
I like ankles.
I like toes.
I love legs or the feeling I get when I look at them.
I love them full and thick too.
I love the plumpness of a beautiful woman.

I knew this, even back then.
But I was too young to fully grasp my fascination and nor was I old enough or able to word my appreciation for the female figure.

She caught me looking at her legs.
And she looked down, assuming that perhaps there was something at her shoe.
I didn’t flinch or move. I acted as if I was staring at the floor—but I saw her look down to see if she could tell what I was looking at.
And I assume she thought nothing of it—least of all, I knew she wasn’t assuming that an eight-year-old was eyeing her up like a piece of candy.

And to be fair, I do not mind telling you this. I see no reason to feel shame or find fault or sin with my appreciation for the body.

No . . .
I think noticing the body is natural and beautiful.
However, and with that being said, I never told anyone about this fascination or how wild this makes me, almost untamable, because I was afraid that perhaps I was wired wrong or that I would be seen as some kind of rabid animal.
Yes. I have fascinations.
And yes, this was the first time I noticed how the female body can make my body go through both emotional and physical changes.

I can’t say that I remember my first hard-on.
I can’t say I remember the first time I realized that this was more than some kind of “spur of the moment” thing which happens with a young boy’s anatomy.

I can’t say I remember the first time I realized that I was touching myself or moving closer to the ideas of solitary pleasure.
And I can’t say I remember the first time I saw a naked woman on television or my first nudie magazine.
But I do remember the first time I looked at a woman with lust in my eyes.

I don’t know why I always hid these things . . .
Therefore, I have to redefine the way I think and update my appreciation because in fairness, I do not want to demonize the different fetishes I have, except when to do so would be a demon-like scenario in a role-play situation.
I like role play as well.
I like the idea of someone trying to sell me girl scout cookies.
Is that so wrong?

I can’t help these things.
I have thoughts
I have desires.
I have needs and wants.
I have fantasies too, none of which are illegal or inappropriate either.
I do not want to misuse or hurt anyone

I have this thing that comes over me when I look at the object of my affection—or even better, when the object of my desire glistens or when I look and see how she looks in a way which teases me—just know, I see no reason to deny any pleasure.
I will try anything she asks at least three times, once.
I say this because I can’t say I’ll try anything once or one time only, —because I’ll try anything three times, once, just in case I did something wrong the other two times.

For the record –

You don’t know what I see when I look
But I see beautiful things. I see sweet things, which I agree can be a little dastardly of me because the sweetness makes me almost criminal.
This is the wild side because the surge in my chest makes me like a madman—and thus, I want to steal the purity by consuming what I see, one taste, lick, or by sucking on everything she has for as long as she allows.

Am I sick?
Am I a pervert?
Maybe.
Or maybe I am in love.
Maybe I am in love with the perfection of her anatomy and therefore, I see no reason to hide this anymore.

I would tell the entire world how she turns me on . . .
I want to make her mine too

I want to enjoy everything, every day, for the rest of my life.

I see the object of my affection as someone who I should savor and devour and sip, and drink, taste and enjoy; and I want to do this by the spoonfuls.

I am sorry that I am not sorry about this.
I apologize that I do not believe that I should apologize for my desires when it comes to her.
And no, my old instincts are not the same but nor are they different. The change is not my intention but the difference is my delivery.

Understand?

At this point, I have only matured to realize that I want more than one chance.
I want more than one session, and if at all possible; I want to explore everything every day for the rest of my life, until the day I die—and even still, if my ghost comes back to find you, I swear, I will follow you with the infinite fits of lust and desire in my spirit form.

Thinking about the body of my love –

Everything about her is beautiful
She is perfect. I love her toes. . . .
I love her legs and her ankles.
In fact, sometimes, I want to bite the top of her ankle like it was an apple. I’ve seen her curl with anticipation.
I’ve seen her moan from this too.
Everything is beautiful about her.
I love her thighs and the way they feel in my hands and or around my body.
I love her hips and yes, I love her cheeks, and no, I do not mean the ones on her face.

I am an ass man . . .
But I am more than this too.
Either way, she is the truest object of my desire.

But nothing is more beautiful than her face.
Ah, and the way she looks–her eyes, I swear.
No one looks at me like she does.

I miss her face . . .
More than anything else.
Almost more than the actual insertion of my body into hers; I miss her face mostYes.
I really do.