Don't Speak to Me of Desire

Don't speak to me about desire. I know more of that word than most know about their own heartbeats. I have desired many things, some of which I have actually managed to grasp. I know desire. I know it well.

I desire her with a part of me so ancient that it is nothing more than the spawn of patience. I look at her and wonder what it would be like to know her touch on my skin. Soft? Harsh? Dominating? Submissive? This part of me, an elder of mankind be eons, does not wonder... it waits. It waits for the answers to come. If they never come, then it simply shrugs and continues to do as it has always done. So don't speak to me of desire.

How many of you know what it is like to look upon someone and know that you will never have that someone at your side? I do not mean that the odds are stacked against you. I mean know, as you know your own heart is beating because you are alive, that you will never know the touch of that person. Not even so much as a playful slap on the rear or a handshake? How many? I possess such knowledge. I know that I will never rise with the morning sun and be greeted by that face. Don't speak to me of desire.

Yet there are those who see desire as a physical thing only. All that they know of desire is what little tidbits their lust inflamed loins will allow their mind. A stiff dick... maybe a pair of hard nipples... a wet twat. This is desire? They know nothing. They have not wanted the precious moments spent walking through a park with a smile on their faces. All they want, not desire, is a fuck. Good... bad... it does not matter to them. All they want is a fuck. They know nothing.

What about that one moment when you look into their eyes and know that the Universe can do as it will... you will be together? Nothing. Is this to say that desire does not encompass physical love? No, for they do not seek love. When I speak of desire, that means everything. When I hold my chosen in my arms and we kiss, it is not some formality that must be done before a dick fucks a twat. We kiss because we desire each other. When we make love, it is the total sharing of souls, not just grunt work done because a cunt was wet or a cock was hard. Our sweat will flow not from lust. It won't be the snarls of animals heard, but the whispered gentle tones of love. My chosen is not some piece of meat picked out from the packaged and sanitized portions available at the market. Don't speak to me of desire.

I have not seen the one I desire in some time, yet I know where they are. I know their smile. I know their laugh. What do they know? What do you know? Speak to me of desire when you know of such things. Speak to me when you kiss your chosen gently on the cheek and await the world. Speak to me of desire when you have fought the hordes of morality, black man, as you hold on to the not-so-black woman. Speak to me of desire when you, redneck, look into the eyes of a black woman and smile warmly, feeling nothing but the vaunted Southern gentleman within your soul. Speak to me of desire, most honored Asian gentleman, when you face ages of tradition and honor with your Eastern love held close. Speak to me then.

Speak to me of desire, venomous femi-nazi, when you stand beside your chosen, male or female, with the gentle pride of a baker who has made countless loafs of bread and hold not one in the highest regard. Speak to me of desire, man hater, when you gaze, if but for a moment, into a man's eyes and wonder if he may be the one to shatter the beliefs you hold so dear. Speak to me then. Do not say the words you have burned into memory. Do not say that you know desire. You know nothing of its bite on your flesh. Speak to me of desire when you have walked next to someone who will listen to your words, and judge them by their own standards, morals, and beliefs. Speak to me then.

Desire turns to hope. Hope to a dead flower in the Winter. Speak to me then. While I know who I desire... while I know I desire them... while I accept the possibility that my desire may well be that flower... I know. What do you know. Tell me. Tell me how you wanted to bed this one or that one. Tell me. Open your mouth. Let me hear your words. Speak them clearly. I know of desire. Do you?

Desire does not care whom you chose to sleep with. It does not care which position you like or hate. Male on male means nothing. Woman with woman means nothing. It is eternal; it is patient. Why should it care if a man wants another as a bed partner? Why should the concerns of a horny lesbian bother it? I know of desire. I have been wrapped within its embrace all too long. I have tried to draw a breath as it squeezed my throat. I know of desire. What of you? What do you know?

How many times can you fuck a twat or ride a dick before you crave another? How long before your "desire" changes? How many assholes have been fucked in the name of desire? How many slits have been slurped in the name of desire? And with each of these... how much was known of desire? Don't speak to me of desire.

So go. Walk the streets. Visit the bars. Find them. Fuck them. Forget them. See them. Screw them. Scram. Use them for the cum dumps you wish them to be. Ride them for the joy ride you crave. And know this: you know nothing. Don't speak to me of desire.