022501 #human the fantasy I am a complicitous slave to, when I picture it, includes a man as my mate, as the one who gets my secrets out of me both gently and violently (and a version of me who is not afraid of the softness and flowering of his own soul and demeanor). But what a man! What I expect of him! How could he be real? How could he love me the way I love him, touch me the way I dream of his touching me, without our both dissolving into grotesque self-contempt and shame? How could he simultaneously exist corporeally, be alive, be aware of me in my nakedness and himself in his, and still want to stay? How could we jostle each other with the easy, clumsy grace of men, remain men, and then touch each other softly, lovingly, slowly, fully? How I smoulder for this man, and how I resent how ridiculous he makes my life appear.