On men, affairs, and sharks

On this rainy, lazy Sunday, I muse at how my paradoxical desires morph and dissipate in a manner that both exasperates and thrills me. I recount the facts of those desires in flashes of memoir, a memoir I recognize later as fiction or, well, semi-autobiographical. I think back on sexual flings and now-cold dalliances from over the years and all appear common and ordinary and not worth the sweat and breathlessness and loss of salty juices.

On this Sunday, I see steel-gray sharks and sting rays, oblivious sea turtles and the warm cerulean sea. Myriad landscapes and animals are my horizon. Men and hard blue-veined dicks and flapping mushy nut sacks always always always fail my curiosity and force tiredness, inspire exhaustion. Those skin sacks dwindle while the jungle, the ocean, the desert expand and seize me with wonder and joy. Still, I will take risks of hope and courage with both the men and with the sharks and with hope and courage, so I live.

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