Betrayal

I didn't mean for it to come back.

But it came back, with a vengeance. My body has revolted, ignoring the agreement that it made with my mind to lock away my libido and let me get on with life calmly.

How pathetic am I that all it takes is a slight show of interest, from someone who hasn't even seen me yet, and it all unravels. I can't stop the thoughts; everywhere I look I see things that titilate me. Music, songs, voices, it all converts to caresses, so near-real that my skin craves the touch.

I don't want to be like this I tell myself, but myself calls me a liar.

The truth is I love every dirty grunty sweaty moment of it. Furtive glances at tanned bodies. Thrilled sensations of half-remembered touches. Featherlight or bruising and raw -- it all makes me feel that tell-tale deep ache that soon enough radiates into an undeniable throb.

Eyes ahead, my focus on my book is a lie. My attention is elsewhere, no matter how much willpower I use to call myself back to the words, sentence, paragraph.

An imagined sigh in my ear is all it takes. I'm pulled back into the skin-lust that has been denied for so long.