Being my own worst enemy, I dust up old troubles just to see what comes of it instead of leaving well enough alone like a properly adjusted person would do. I get bored and I get lonely and I get to wondering if I’m the only one who feels that way. The words are solace and they always seem to be there which is a good thing most of the time as long as I can get to them. If not, I get anxious. Scratch that, I’m anxious all the time, words or no words it makes no difference. Last night I dreamt I was walking down a cobblestone street somewhere in an old foreign city. Could have been Rome, though I’ve never been so your guess is as good as mine, but in any case it was absolutely dazzling. Tall buildings lit softly in afternoon light, red and white striped umbrellas, street fairs and tiny moped bikes, beautiful women, beautiful men, all brimming with life at an enjoyable pace as the deep blue of glittering sea moved lazily upon the shore in the distance. I’d like to tell you I was wearing some sort of indulgent flowy designer sundress, would have been so much more romantic, but I know I was wearing high-waisted jeans and a white midriff top punctuated by a very large pair of over sized black sunglasses. I know it was jeans because at one point I took the opportunity to slip my fair hand inside them to pleasure myself. It could have been under a sweet smelling willow tree in secret or in all honesty it could have been while walking down that cobblestone street, without shame, in front of the whole adorable scene. Judge if you will but dreams are dreams and if I had to venture an explanation I’d simply point to the pathetic way we treat acts of sexual pleasure in my culture. Girls are taught to be sexy in everything they do, made to feel they are on display at every moment, here to seduce every man, married or single, attached or not, attractive or not, while we are eating, shopping, studying, walking, sleeping, showering, dressing, undressing, drinking, speaking, teaching, learning, breathing, and the list goes on and on. And as we are out there being as pretty as we know how, we are also not supposed to be doing that because that is being immodest. Shamed if you do, shamed if you don’t, and truth be told I’m over all of it. If left to my own devices, I find myself intoxicating. Not because I’m special but because I am here, a flesh and blood and bone creature of mystery even to myself. Women fascinate me. Sex and fantasy draw me in again and again. All growing up I was never sure if that made me a good girl or a bad one so I played both sides all at once, splintering and shattering myself into a thousand tiny pieces I had to learn to put back together all by myself. Fuck what they think. They tell you lust is a game you play to try to capture someone else. But did you ever think that maybe you are the game, and you’re just playing with yourself?