All I am is sex.
I embraced it. I tried to take ownership of it by melding it to my shape – I turned myself into a fantasy; donned a latex identity and it hugged every curve, satisfied every itch.
That suit brought everything I thought I needed: adoration, affection, attention.
But we can never really own the suits that are flung at us, can we? And what satisfaction is there in licks through latex?
I’m trapped by my grizzled uniform. It has holes, where my skin seeps through. I want to be touched there, flesh to flesh, but I’m afraid a mere stroke might sear right through me.
And so I remain harnessed, cloaked indefinitely. Because without this costume, I am nothing – all I am is sex.
