I enjoy being caressed,the feeling of fingertips over my body —my back, my waist, the soles of my feet,between the firmness of my glutesand my sex.
I enjoy feeling the pressure of a body,gentle, without affliction,holding itself just before the pain.
I enjoy pressing my skin against theirs,sharing temperatures,like the nursing of a calf.
I enjoy the taste of raw flesh,the open air,and naked laughter.
—
Vanity implies some sort of voida lack of reality,From the Latin vanitas,it presupposes a hollow—an emptiness within.
A space of possibility,a vacancybehind the shimmer of illusion.
They conjure up the emptiness inside me,paint with names, colors and warmththe face behind the veil.I become the vessel of their longing.
And I, with them,spin my own illusion,chase my own...
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