The following prose was written in a time that I was realizing I have much more worth than just my sexuality. As I read it now I realize my lifelong struggle to present myself as more than just a piece of ass. Even when told, I am "the whole package," it is still demeaning to have a man lust after me so quickly, so un-heartedly. To have a man that is just as intoxicated by my wisdom and intelligence would complete a relationship. A relationship that still frightens me. Although the longing to mentally and emotionally connect is there, it is still beyond my understanding.
The Curse of Sensuality
RuthAnn Hirt
©10/05/2000
I
cannot sleep yet cannot focus. Shall I write of my need to put pen to paper so
as to express my inner most quandaries? Shall I write of my need to know in my
heart what spills from my lips? Such things as knowing life and love are so
much more than sex? Or that my true value is not in what I mean to another
person but what I mean to myself? That friendship, yes indeed, is priceless but
shan’t cost me my own virtue or sanity. That though the need for physical love
is there, a hug or being held to cry can be sufficient and that giving of all
is more harmful than naught. Alas, I know not how to allow such affection and
trust. The act of sex holds for me neither true trust nor affection. It is a
mindless, demeaning response to physical stimulation. I find no respect for the
man who can take me to his bed before he knows my heart. Nor for his fleecing
proclamation of such an honor when he has heard my verse, or has spent but a
few meager hours in my presence. Nor do I hold respect for myself to allow the
intoxication of another submissive fool to my prowess. The strength and power
that rushes through my blood makes me whet, no doubt. But alas, the morning
comes and it is I who am the fool. My strength and my beauty fade as shame
taints the hopefulness of allowing someone to love me… beyond a fuck.
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