1:50 p.m. - February 21, 2009
My heart aches when people tell me they're tired today because they had sex all night. It's not quite an envy or jealousy, just an ache. Something trivial for people means so much to me and so little to them. It's not even the sex act itself that makes me ache, it's slowly running my fingers over skin, it's looking deep into eyes, it's letting down walls and wraps and barriers and reveling in that combination of innocence and intimacy, to trust and experience pleasure. The hope I have is that these things are shared between the people who do have sex, that they recognize what they have and enjoy. It does not make me feel better knowing that they don't, that it was just an anonymous quickie or unfulfilling, basic sex, because at least they have that.
No matter how much I try, I can't convince myself I'm happy or content. The safety of isolation is just another form of slow death. What's one to do?
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