sometimes i really like being naked with someone else, and other times, i really just want to keep my shirt on.
in the past, my reluctance to remove clothing had more to do with feeling unhappily exposed or embarrassed by my body, while fucking in a sweatshirt has more to do with being too cold, anymore. i’m glad i’ve been able to move past feeling so uncomfortable with my thighs that i wouldn’t let anyone kiss them; perhaps i ought to have come by my recent confidence in a way other than losing 3 stones (during my last dark semester at bowdoin) but the point is: i’ve made some strides, as far as feeling like i’m fuck-worthy.
the problem now is that i feel less worthy of anything else. because i haven’t made a painting or a photograph or a story in years, because i haven’t held a job in which i felt my contribution indispensable, because i haven’t felt, lately, like an irreplaceable friend, my concept of self-worth is tied up in sex. i don’t go seeking affirmation in short-lived trysts, but i do rather feel (sometimes, not all of the time) that the only thing that i do well, the only thing that i can offer anyone- is sex.
i like when people express their affection for me. i like knowing that i’m the subject of lascivious daydreams. while i don’t want that attention to disappear, i do want to feel like i’m worth more than a dick in hand. sometimes it feels as though i’m living in a sappy high school sitcom, in which every character is typecast: there’s the hot one, the smart one, the sporty one, the best friend, the artist, the enemy- and while it’s wonderful to hear that i’m beautiful, to hear it in whispers and gasps- i’d get more satisfaction if i also heard something else. i want to know what people say about me, not just the way i fuck.
do you tell other people i’m so fucking smart? did you think what i wrote was better than good? do you feel safe with me? can you laugh with me? do you know how good it feels when i’m running or biking? do you care?