I once put on the eyes of a fornicating man.
They swept over the sea of flesh, noting everything tan, beige, khaki, and peach. It’s all the same to these eyes: potential flesh to salivate over. Their eyes will track back to that expanse of flesh-color automatically, unashamed at trying to take in the skin on display. It doesn’t matter if it is actually flesh or not, it’s invisible and you are putting yourself on display like a slab of meat. Mmm. Meat.
One woman wears shorts so short, they look like underwear. Add some laces up the sides and suddenly my imagination jumps to how easy it is to take that off of her. Additionally, I’ve seen every mountain and valley clearly now. My hands wish to gravitate there but I have to fight the urge to do so. If I do that, then I’m raping. I will save this later for private “me” time. Even if I don’t intend to, at the moment that I orgasm, I’m going to see the latest pretty lady wearing the least amount of clothing, whether she’s taken or not, whether she’s advertising or not.
I’m not ashamed, though, because nobody knows. My thoughts are secret. If I can just keep my hands to myself, then it’ll be fine. I’ll never be admonished as a sex addict, a monster, a fornicator if I can just keep it under wraps. Still, my hands yearn to touch those legs, so shiny and so smooth. There is nothing between me and that skin whatsoever.
Another woman has a plunging V neckline. I can see everything; there’s nothing between me and her breasts. I’d have a nosebleed if I could. It’s incredibly arousing, enticing, and erotic. The very nature of my being is being tested as I fight to keep my hands to myself. I passed the test this time; I’m still seen as a good person. I didn’t reach out and touch them automatically, no matter how much I wanted to. The struggle is real.
Another woman is adjusting her asymmetrically pixie skirt, pulling down the hem, making me think about hitching it up further. I hope to discover a whole lot of nothing between me and her most private parts. Then all I’d have to do is drop trousers and we could be doing it. Or if I knelt before her, I could put my mouth there and lick until she screams.
That would be so terribly exciting! But I don’t even know her name.
If they knew what my thoughts were, they would admonish me. They would tell me I’m in the wrong. We’d have a long and pointless argument about how they should wear whatever they want to and I should change my very nature for their narcissism. They gotta look good, you know. They’ve gotta one-up each other until they’re all beyond beautiful and they rotate through my mind while I spank it ten times a day.
I feel like I’m winning when it’s only three times a day.
“Fashion” is part of rape culture. “Looking good” is part of rape culture. I accept my place in the fight against rape culture. I think about wearing hijab to avoid questing eyes. I think about wearing robes without form to avoid being fapped to. I think about changing myself because, at the end of the day, that is the only being I have control over.
I am responsible for my actions.
I am an adult.
Angel-Sansara 