History of My Sexuality

This is a story that I will tell,      
and I hope to be unashamed.      
When I was born and came from woman, I burst the dam and emerged like a river.      
I was never breastfed, and I sincerely regret it      
whenever I think of thick young milk and passively gaining immunities,      
but hunger is abstract and detached now that I have achieved my years.      
From blossomed women, I seem to desire that which I never received.      
An old memory of mine:      
I saw a woman’s firm naked backside      
devote to itself the entire screen.      
I was afraid. I was young. I fled the room.      
What type of alien was a mature woman?      
       
I had accidently seen my mother in different exposed forms.      
I repented, and there was the only thing I would never return to see.      
Arriving at school surrounded by the tiny world,      
the lusts shook strong within my puny bones,      
and I wanted to catch their eyes just as they had caught mine.      
Strangely, I was controlled by the sight of flesh, not yet knowing to appreciate it      
or to transcend a class above it.      
I just knew that the flesh they’d show when their pants would be low      
was something that facilitated my early longings for whatever a feminine human was.      
In the cafeteria, I showed them what they showed me (removing all the garments below my apparel).      
I could sense them watching. A friend told me that I had their attention.      
To be master over their senses      
is what I always wanted.      
Maybe that’s why I undress my heart now        
and refuse to wear underwear.      
       
But girls, they were strong and could shred me with words.      
They hurled me alone into the future      
when at youth in the back of the chilling old car      
struck by some nostalgia that couldn’t have been mine but must have been the emotions of the stars,      
I undid the zipper that held me bound,      
and I raised my infant sex into the sky as an offering to the erotic world that I knew not,      
not even almost conceiving for what plan was I given the curious development;      
it was just somehow of importance;      
even though, later those nights I’d be troubled by dreams      
of bathing, BATHING, with the ones that I had called friends,      
and I would look down and search the waters to see what girls might have,      
and I was disgusted with my own imagination that I could only dream them to be like me.      
       
My mom told me of sex, and then a powerful image      
took me while I was pursuing my own      
sexual conquest within the chaos of dream,      
and she undid her pants for me,      
and woah! The eight legs of spider        
drew me into her essence,      
and I was lost,      
but we were one.      
I escaped the vision      
and was shocked by my findings.      
       
I held my breath always when she’d pass by.      
In six grade I was afflicted with a twitch,      
and only in staying still could I keep my calm      
around the girl I had crushed on for two terms.      
Back in the home, I listened to music in a dark room      
and searched for something. Who knows what?      
But I bet that I was spied on by moon      
who saw a half dressed woman on the side of the screen      
enticing my innocent curiosity,      
so that I searched for less, less of that cursed, submissive fabric      
and more of that which might define for me a woman        
from a filthy man.      
       
No! No! It was too early!      
or maybe it was just the right time      
to expand the frontiers of my awareness      
though I wouldn’t embrace it initially.      
I cried to see the all-encompassing entity I saw.      
My eyes weren’t big enough.      
       
In the eighth year of school, I was tortured again      
by the bodies,      
but I loved them, I CRAVED them,      
and never again would I be my own      
without knowing that woman co-owns me.      
       
Masturbation to me was a foreign concept when I had read the word in a school book.      
Nevertheless, I had an established idea of it.      
It was the name for the act of a man      
when he outlines the curves of a woman’s picture, and it was a heinous act to do so.      
I didn’t know that it was an act of self-pleasure and consolation when woman was out chasing the dreams of her own free mind.      
I had said that I would never do it.      
       
And I penetrated the realm of sexual poetry.      
I explained my view of the hormonal dimension through it.      
Then, I threw it all away. It was too extreme from what I could openly express.      
       
Into the wall! Into my hands! Into the slickness of water and soap!      
I did it! It was done! A year before graduation, by me the deed was done.      
       
The girl I loved asked me, why hadn’t I made love yet, why had I not yet tasted a girls’ lips.        
I loved her everlasting, her and those high, legend-telling shorts.      
And I thought to touch her body, but I loved her too much.      
I couldn’t blend love with savage sexuality,      
so I only touched her hands and her feet and touched her hair and her breasts only when she’d press those warm sucking d-cups upon me      
making me feel like a liberated child in the loving arms of a woman that he can intensely love back being not his mother.        
I wanted her sexually then.      
One night in her dark living room, she intended to give us a moment      
to consume sexual imagery together,      
but I panicked and blackened the screen. I was that boy again who had seen the voluptuous lower frame      
and ran.      
I won’t love you like those other guys. You are worth even more to me.      
       
Now, I am insane. I am losing control.      
The women wear less than I had ever seen daily in all my years of school.      
The thighs are common. They are bathed by sun and rinsed by moon.      
I never saw with my own eyes so much. They are bigger now. They can witness the whole vulnerable glory of the erotic angels and still not come to burst.      
I am still a virgin, but the thought of sex is an intimate companion.      
To write of it is something of a hobby.      
And I know now what every part of my body is for:      
my arms—for holding a woman,      
my eyes—for seeing a woman,      
my lips—for blessing her and kissing her,      
my legs—for searching for a woman and oneday intertwining with hers,      
my sex—for feeling for the far outstretches of the woman heart.      
I know more of mankind by humankind’s mirror that to man shows a woman by whom he might come to know himself.      
This is a story that I have wanted to tell.      
I am not ashamed.