Instead of reaching out, I reached inwards. I delved deeper into myself, content with my daydreams that sometimes bordered on the forbidden. And there were times when they even slipped over the edge into a place that welcomed the most torrid of fantasies.

I must have wanted to know what it felt like, what it really felt like, to touch and to be touched, to experience both tenderness and passion.

Now that I am older, I question the behaviour of some of the teenagers that I see (either passers-by or even in the television programs), their desire to appeal to the opposite sex at such a young age or their eagerness for certain experiences that one usually associates with adults. But then I remember when I was a teenager. I was no different. My shyness inhibited me in many ways but I was otherwise a "normal" teenager, eager - hoping - to meet a boy, and often daydreamed about a "holiday romance". I never "acted out" for I was too inhibited and self-conscious. Plus my upbringing and belief system told me that I should know better. And I did know better. But I also remember being in my early teens, or even before that, and having the strangest of fantasies. Strange for a young girl to be having, anyway, almost to the point of being bizarre and not something you want to tell someone about.

My body was mine. But it wanted a taste of what it would be like. Or maybe could be like. Forbidden made it all the more exciting, wanting to go further. Experimenting. Wanting to feel good. The body didn't seem to want to cooperate, though. Surely the two times I ended up feeling a little sick and getting upset should have told me that something was wrong. Was it me? Was it something inside me, a hint of a distasteful memory that maybe needed to be exorcised? Or was it just me? I was lucky. The two young men involved were kind and understanding, maybe even a little confused. I was always seen as proper, innocent, even somewhat naive. Yet deep inside I longed for those physical experiences which happened too soon in those two relationships. They were brief relationships. And I never saw them again. It was my choice. The first relationship prolonged a little through phone calls although it was obvious that I wasn't interested in pursuing the relationship.

Marriage would be different, wouldn't it? But it wasn't. Perhaps because I was too inexperienced whereas he was the more experienced one. It still didn't feel right. I wanted to feel good but I resented the intrusion even though there was a desire for the union of the bodies.

Wanting to feel good. That's not what life is all about. And I know that. Something feels wrong. Maybe it would take more time, requiring a patience and a deeper understanding that the average human being doesn't possess.

Maybe it takes time.

I am real. I know that I am real. Alive. Here. Present and accounted for. Flesh and bones. Flesh and blood. And yet there is something unreal about the whole thing. I am real.

Sometimes the energy simmers below the surface. But it has nowhere to go. And the desires can sometimes be powerful and then they burst into nothingness.


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