Being Honest With Fiction

I heard a word which made me think that maybe I’m not so crazy. Or maybe I am crazy and this is just me.
Crazy as always and guilty as charged.
Maybe I am crazy in the best ways possible and likely so, perhaps I am only crazy enough to believe in things like daydreams and fantasies.
Or maybe the word crazy is something I associate with my curiosity, which is enough to make me want to go down the road less traveled.

Or as it was explained by the great poet, Robert Frost, “Two roads diverged in a wood,” and just like Frost, I am equally sorry that I could not take both.
I am sorry that I could not have lived more than my share of this lifetime.
But this is life and so, this is my only chance to live with what I have –
I think I hear the bell now, which means that it’s time to go.
Or am I hearing things again and the audio hallucinations mean something else to me?

My curiosity is crazy.
Yes. And therefore, I am crazy.
I am crazier than a madman in the madhouse who licks the windows at the staff when they pass by

I am absolutely crazy because I would rather dream to live and live to dream than sit in my silence and surrender to the sadness of a self-induced hysteria, also known as my own solitary confinement. My curiosity is enough to lead me down the road less-traveled.  And yes, like Frost said; this is what makes all the difference.

I cannot say that I was always so willing or so brave that I would dare to take the darker roads with less promise.
No, I can say that my fear of the dark had me worried about the unknown. I paused and I balked and I stalled and I complained far too often.
I withheld myself so much that I would seldom dare to take the risk or reach out to touch someone.
And yes, I do mean this intimately. But before I move forward, please understand that my hints towards intimacy are more than just the physical kind. No, I mean this in the sense of love’s perfect trinity. Body, mind, and soul.

I was younger and fresh from the pubescent moments when young boys sprouted into the confusion of their new body. I was a late bloomer to say the least. I was small and thin, and hardly sprouting the signs of hair in the southern parts of my body.
But I was alive, nevertheless. I was aware of myself and I was definitely aware of my desires, which increased as the days rolled on.
I was growing.
I was learning and feeling new things, which occurred more when I would think about the ideas of fantasy or the actual feeling of sexual touch.

I had no idea that the act of sex was as meaningful as it is.
Then again, how could I possibly know what sex means? I was just a kid. I was going through puberty and dealing with my changes as best as I could. 

And though I knew and hoped that I would find my queen someday, I was fine to have a temporary princess. Or as I was told: Forget about Mrs. Right. I was fine to have Mrs “Right Now!”
And if at all possible, I’d have been fine to have anyone who would willingly allow me to move beyond the basic thrills of a kiss and a touch.

I did not think the moment of glory would be as it was. But when the time arrived, I had no idea that it would be as quick as it was.
I was a minute man to say the least . . .
The act was over as quickly as it began. And then I left.

I did not know what to expect or what the sensation would feel like. I was hardly sure that I would know what to do when the moment of triumph was upon me.
But, yes. I figured this out.
I had no idea what this would be like and nor was I aware of the depths a man can reach when I dipped my flesh into her skin. I had no idea how truly deep this would feel or what it would be like to be inside her 

I think about those two words. “Inside her.”

These two words combine in such a way that yes, I was too young to understand and too young and ignorant to appreciate the actual meaning of what took place.
Then again, I was not someone who was influenced by the great romantics. At best, I had teachers like my older friend, Victor who said, “treat a whore like a princess and a princess like a whore and you will get laid every day for the rest of your life.”

I was not influenced by anyone close to Casanova and nor was anyone looking to teach me the art of romance or to learn about the true joys of intimacy.
Shakespeare was not around for me then.

What a concept this is. To be “inside of her.”
What a responsibility too, which of course was lost on me because like anyone else in my circle of influence, I was more about the act and the accomplishment. I was about the conquest and the victory.
I was about the hunt.
Not about the dance. 

I was too young and too eager to experience the feeling of being entwined and realize the depths of what it means to be, “inside her.”
I know this now, I know this to the point where I shake my head at myself.

Something occurred to me about the difference between men and women. Men are external and women are internal and therefore, this adjusts the depths of our emotional content. Or at least, so I thought.

To do this and to be with someone; and I mean to truly be with someone further than the shallow nature of sex itself means to be “at one as two,” and to do this; this means to be inside the most vulnerable part of her physical body.
This means more than I knew.
And like I said, I was too hungry for the snack and too eager as a beast on the prowl. And so, I rushed into my young and sexual adventures without the wherewithal to understand how this can lead to a girl’s heart.

And by this time, the heart of me was selfishly geared and “wound-up” like a clock that moved too fast.
My gears and my springs were too tight and I was too hungry to feel and too anxious to belong to the post virginity club.

I never dared to tell too much and so, I never dared to think or believe that my offerings could reach beyond the depth of my insertion.
And even still, my fears of inadequacy have always been outrageous.
My worries that I was a sexual failure or physically inadequate and a waste of time kept me defensive.
My fears and body envy for others made me the aggressor and to act like I couldn’t care less.
But trust me when I say that often enough, most times when people say how they couldn’t care less; they care far more than they wanted to.

I never dared to be so bold or to be so humble or to bend at the knee and explain my truth, which is that I understand the value of “her” and that the truth of her is both bodily and emotionally valuable beyond comparison.

I agree that perhaps men hold the keys to the kingdom; however, I firmly believe that women are the cylinder into which that key turns.

I never assumed that someone like me would find “the one most special person,” and so thus; I was happy to find anyone. And I settled. Of course, I settled because finding anyone meant that at least I had someone and to have no one might conclude that I was nothing, myself, and at best; I as I am would be nothing and no one at all.

How terrible is this?

I often said too little or seldom did I ever say enough to be close to someone.
Or better yet, I never wanted to be susceptible.
I never wanted to be exposed or to be defenseless and weak because yes, there were girls I knew and there were girls I had chances with.
There were girls I liked and while I wanted them, somehow, they never seemed to want me back. At least, not after they knew me.
Or not at first glance.
I swore that I was defective. I assumed that something about me was corrosive and that I was too toxic, if not parasitic, like an ugly or unattractive poison that kills people famously through lies and mental health propaganda.

.
There were girls I dreamed of and girls who shot me down. Or at my worst, there was a girl who I dared enough to take the risk. She was my first real go-around in a relationship.
I fell on my face. I was embarrassed,
I was used and humiliated.
I was broken to say the least because she destroyed me.
And though she cheated, and although I found out; nothing to me was worse than being called another man’s name in the middle of my insertion.

And yes. I was inside her. 

I was in her most inner personal body and while my mind, body and soul was present, hers was elsewhere.
And she made this apparent to me.
This was apparent to me when I heard her refer to me with another man’s name.
She did this to me.T
Twice.

And so. . . 

I swore that I would never be so weak or so open or so foolishly fooled that I would allow myself to be swept away again.
I swore that I would never be so submissive or so humbled by eyes with so much beauty that I would be blinded by her lies enough to be tricked by her intentions.

If I knew then what I know now.
I wonder.

Would I have been seen as a better lover?
Would I have been more selfless?
Would I have allowed myself to be true to my enjoyments and been open about my appreciation for the touch and the taste of a woman’s body?
Would I have said anything different?

If I knew then what I know now, would my sessions have been explored for longer hours with the better and the ongoing creation of foreplay?
Would I have steered clear of certain girls?
Or would I have better hindsight and thus, perhaps I would have an unfair advantage.
But I don’t want that.
If I knew than what I know now –
Would I have drifted towards “the one” who I never dared but always knew that deep down; she was meant for me because if so, would I have found my person long ago if I had known how to show her what she is worth to me?
I say these are great questions but their answers come with no impact because I can dream and I can imagine but dreams are dreams and reality is reality.

Youth is wasted on the young, they say.
And yes, I want to be young again. I want this.
Badly.
I want to be ageless but not young in age. No, I want to be young at heart because to me, love is what keeps the heart beating and love is the only thing that keeps us from dying. 

I never want to grow old.
But I have already defied that request.

One day, “she” and I will look at each other and ask why we were so foolish.
What the hell were we thinking?
And then we will laugh
We will laugh hard and for the rest of our lives.
So help us God 

Onward we go into this masked dance of fiction and reality. You can take the lead if you choose.
But dare I say this –
The day you give yourself to me is the day that the rest of my life will finally begin. 

I swear . . .
I know . . .
I feel . . .
I love . . .

From now until the hour of my death.

Amen