For the sake of this writing, I am simply studying a photograph.
Otherwise, I would be too distracted to think of words. This is a study of me, not Her.
I don’t want to hug Her, kiss Her, or find sexual gratification from an encounter with Her. If I hug Her, it’s because I want Her to feel the warmth and pressure that “love” uses to share by. If I kiss Her, it’s because I want Her to be focused on the intense tactile experience that lips convey. If She and I enter into a loving sexual encounter, my only desire is to bring Her to the Mt. Everest of human emotion.
If She hugs me, I will feel that warmth and pressure of love but I will want to make sure She feels it as well. If She kisses me back, my only thought it is to memorize the event so I can recall it for the rest of my life. I’m not sure if anyone else is like me, but I would derive no sexual pleasure from any such encounter with Her: rather, feeling Her direct sexual response from my kissing of Her entire anatomy is what I exist for. This sexual encounter… Her sexual pleasure… is more important to me than life itself. My sexual pleasure is in creating Hers only.
While I don’t know why I am this way, I’m happy with it.
I love every single thing about Her. I worship Her. The curve of Her nose, the strands of Her hair, how She holds a dandelion in Her fingers, everything. All this from a photograph. Imagine how I would feel if we were together in reality. The Judeo-Christian bible admonishes not to worship false gods before the god described therein. I actually don’t care. My worship of Her supersedes anything else that man can conceive of. She is my God. When I die and go to the hypothetical hell, it would be worth it.