Itch.

Round 1 of Navel Gazing. Written in May '02

Background:

So (being redundant) I wrote this back in May. I emailed it to ElUnbart of KTC fame during the short blog period of KTC, which has since changed scope. (Don't click on the link if you're one of those easily offended herd morons..ah fuck it. Herd morons don't know they're herd morons and I ain't here to babysit..) Anywho, Bart (and Perduabo and POCK) is (are) a cool motherfucker (s) and not someone you want to enter into verbal sparring with unless you're prepared to get your ass handed to you on a consise verbal platter. (And I mean motherfuckers in the best, most affectionate way boys :-P )

eh, the ending of this blurb is a bit hoping-to-gain-back-my-rosy-perspective and a bit girly if I do say so myself. Too bad. I'll rewrite it eventually. Or not. So click through for tales of sexual frustration in bella Roma.



Itch.

Sex sex sex. There is only so long one can maintain secondary virgin status before exploding out of sheer frustration. Bless me Father, for it has been about 7 months since I have last sinned that way. It's all I think about lately. Whether that's a direct result of prolonged celibacy, the warmer weather, or a mere surge of hormones, I don't know.

Itch.

I am still recovering from a long-term relationship that ended in an emotionally brutal fashion, the semantics of which I won't go into here, if ever. Suffice to say it was a yearlong mind fuck of soap operatic proportions that left me feeling scraped down to nothing more than raw synapses. I've had the di rigueur 3 month rebound fling, which might have worked out had I not been so gun shy and he so fanatically jealous. While the mechanics of both relationships worked about as well as a quadriplegic on a pogo stick, the sex was never something I could complain about. Nookie was frequent and it was lip smackingly, knee shakingly good. Since the fling ended, I've been putting myself back together, mentally as well as physically. Break-ups are the best fucking diets in the world; unfortunately I lost so much weight everyone thought I had either some strange illness or a raging coke addiction.

Itch.

So I've started eating again after a year of nerves and shrunken stomachs, and am currently in carne, as they say here. Which is to say I've finally got some feminine curves back and my hip bones no longer just through my skin It's akin to a second puberty, one that I am enjoying, as the first go - round I was a late blooming ugly duckling.

Itch.

Most English speaking females have to acclimatize themselves to the Italian male habit of the passing compliment, ranging from a simple Ciao bella to the more carnally laced. After four years here I thought I had perfected the art of imitating the Italian women's aloof distain. But lately I find myself blushing like a gawky sixteen year old and ducking my head behind my hair. The comments seem to be coming thick and furious lately; I feel like I can't walk a block without someone whispering Sei splendida or Che fregna. I am not the most beautiful woman to ever slip on a pair of heels (come to think of it, I've known some men in heels that make better looking women than I do), nor am I what you might term "a paper bag fuck". I just make relatively little fuss over my appearance. I don't wear makeup often, I don't own any hairstyling goop, and clothes are chosen for comfort first, then style. The running joke amongst my friends is that the days I indoss a skirt, the rest of my closet is at the Laundromat. A joke based in fact, I must admit. So this new (?) attention flusters me a bit. Well, more than a bit.

Itch.

Add to this heightened awareness of the effect I have on the male sex the itch of wanting to fuck someone senseless and you have a female restless in her own skin. A night of self-lovin' with my vibrator just isn't cutting it anymore. I want hands and tongues and sweat and lips and flesh and groans and sighs filling my five senses. Unfortunately I've never been a one-night stand type of girl nor have I been overly fond of fuck buddies and booty calls. I've done all that (and more), and while they were fun periods, I'm just not horrendously turned on by the idea. Probably a little too emotionally raw still right now. I might be a nymphomaniac but I'm a monogamous nymphomaniac. But, oh, how I want. It's a clenched fist in my gut, at times leaving me breathless. it seethes beneath my skin. The sun's warmth weighs as heavily as a hand. A singer's voice like a warm washcloth between my legs. Rain filling my nostrils with a musky earthy smell. Any other trite cliché you want to think of, it's there, stoking my frustration. I feel like I could come with a touch and nothing more.

Itch.

The looks and comments by these Italians catch me unawares as normally while strolling down the streets from destination to destination, I am thinking about grocery shopping, database relationships, did I remember my keys. I flush and duck my head, as I've never been horrendously outgoing until I've gotten to know somebody. And as I duck my head behind my hair, I glimpse a smile, lips, hands on hipbones, asses tightly encased in jeans, the curve of a shoulder continuing up into the neck, gelled hair just begging to be mussed up. I could crook my finger and have my pick of friends, acquaintances, strangers. I don't want that.

Itch.

I want the passion that I've once had, the heat between two people that keeps adding onto itself. The give and take that spirals around two bodies, be it a slow nightlong grind or a panting instant in the bathroom stalls. I want to obsess somebody and be obsessed by them in turn. Dare I say love and all that horridly overused word implies? whatever it is, it is not something to be rushed into with eyes shut and bare arms beseeching, nor does it seem to happen if you actively search for it. Without a doubt it is the best feeling in the world, addictive even. I've had it once; I'll wait for it again. Other excursions are pale imitations that itch even more.

And in the meantime, my mother has offered to send a crate of batteries.

Itch. Scratch.