Recognizing patterns in oneself is an efficient route to self-discovery and to narrowing future prospectives.
I don’t know how to say the rest of what I think.
The thing that made the first half of that first line pop into my head was me recognizing that I am attracted to jungle types. I mean, duh. I’ve known I’ve had ladywood for Tarzan and Simba for a while. And yes, everything goes back to attraction and sex for me. Freud, you got me pegged. GAWHP that reminds me of a past moment and there goes my heart. But I just tonight recognized the bigger pattern, from childhood. Basically from the moment attraction to males occurred to me.
Disclaimer: I will now be annotating this with pictures I find to be unforgivably erotic. Deal.
I am going to die of a mental sex explosion.
Anyway, like any girl growing up in the golden 90s, I had an array of hunk-a-licious, under-muscled boy wonders to idolize and fantasize about (totally PG stuff though… in the 90s). In watching excerpts from my VHS collection I am very fond of, I was taken back to that time and made a mental catalog of my crushes major of the decade. Mimi Siku of course. Animated Tarzan was sex on the screen (still is). Brendan Fraser as George of the Jungle…. he just gimme that look and them panties… well, you know. (Dela is the most romantic song I have heard and will ever hear for the rest of my existence) And JTT. Doesn’t fit the jungle motif I’ve got going, but he did stick a feather in his long, lustrous locks for Man of the House. They just… I don’t even know. It’s the visceral disposition, the raw and untainted innocent power they possess. The fact that, if I were a real life Oukumei/Jane/Ursula, I would be the epitome of womanhood and beauty to this absolutely pristine hunk of a male… it just makes my knees quiver. I would be their first, I would be their only. And not just sex this time, but everything. It’s unfathomably delicious to think about. And it also gives me a lingering feeling of selfishness and neediness, but who gives a fuck, it’s my dream, I’m allowed to dream it. And hey, they wouldn’t know if I suck at kissing. Because I don’t know either!
Dead. Call it.
And this musing of my caffeine-overloaded, sleep-deprived mind once again brought me back to him. The freaking George to my Ursula (in my dreams… and I wish I could be literal here, but nope still haven’t… dammit it all to piss), the Jewbeard to my Semitic fetish, the person I have probably idealized so much that any more contact with him would result in utter, crushing disappointment and anguish to my soul. I don’t go a day without letting my eyes drift to his name. It’s pathetic and I’m pathetic.
I just need to run and burn some of this ass off. It’s got the creepy Flying-J black boys standing at attention, but that’s not the kind of fish I’m trying to catch.
I just -fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck it alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll.
Frustration and Hunger. My damn life. That’s just some ignorant bitch shit.
[ADDITION! WOLF! Not jungle, but wildernessy. And ugh I would put pictures here, but they don’t do him justice. No no no. You need him moving, frolicking provocatively in the fields! Yes. So, Netflix The Tenth Kingdom. Or look it up elsewhere online. Or steal a copy. I don’t care. Just watch him and feast your eyes. Then back the fuck off. He’s for me.]