Let's Get Physical.

I find that my happiness is intricately linked to the level of physicality I am experiencing. That sounds way stoned (which I'm actually not currently), so let me try to explain.

Dance brings out this whole writer side to me that wasn't there before. Laugh if you want to, but I really believe there's some high-volume validity to the idea that my Kundalini snake is workin' her magic at my creative core when I'm dancing. Whether I'm at home doing belly, on stage doing burlesque, or (soon) re-learning ballet with the help of Ms. Jade Pearl, something gets released allowing me to uncover stories I didn't even know I held deep down in my spine.

I'm also a huge proponent of PDAs when I'm really into someone. Seriously—I'll jump in your lap in public if you don't stop me. I play sexy footsie at dinner and I lean closer in bars. I like feeling like I can feel someone's thoughts. I like walking away with a sensation of looking forward to returning. I like being over the top affectionate on dates in public and slyly touchy-feely in social interaction situations. There are many times I cannot recall the scenery of where I've been if I'm there with someone I really tune into. I just don't look away from their bodies (not necessarily direct eye contact—but I've always got them in my sights). In a way, I love having every moment of being out feeling like a lead up to when you can find yourself alone again.

This leads us to what I really was thinking about since I got up today. The thoughts of dancing and public closeness only came out as supporting evidence.

I really like sex.

I woke up this morning with a funny question in my head: Am I a sex addict? (Now this really seems odd for what I would wake up and wonder if you knew how my night went. I first woke up at 2:40 with an email to write that I had to get out of my head. I engaged in some late night texting as well. Then, I went to sleep and promptly had nightmares about how the world had come to an end and we were all stuck in some vacuum-type dust bowl where there was no air outside and sandstorms in the sky. Fucked up shit, right? Then I wake up wondering if I'm a sex addict. Which then led me to wondering why it is I am now an eight-year-escape survivor from the Christian church and yet I still have a semi-sorta fear of going to hell for really liking some good-time fucking. But that is just way too much blog thought for me to handle right now.)

Eventually, after about two minutes of non-dust bowl awake thinking, I decided I am not a sex addict. I don't engage in dangerous activities to procure sex or any of that dirty dealing. But I do really enjoy it. A lot. Interestingly enough, I have now had more than a few relationships where I want sex much more than the other party. (At this point, all of my relationships have been with men. Perhaps, a woman could better keep up with my appetite?) This doesn't necessarily mean I just lay around with my partner waiting for another sex session to begin again and again (although sometimes that is nice). But I really do enjoy having a build-up and release that builds and releases through constant touching with the possibility of sex.

Unfortunately, the guys I've been involved with don't always share my insatiable sex cravings. I mean I'm not really the sort of girl you kick out of bed, so I think a lot of people might kinda enjoy the fact that I'm very happy feeling like a sex doll (well, a sex doll you have teasing, sweet talks with in between fuck fests). But this isn't always the case—at all. In fact, one guy went so far as to tell me I was obsessed with sex. At the time, it really fucking got to me. No girl likes to hear that she wants sex with her boyfriend so much more than he wishes to provide it, that he considers her sex-obsessed.

Well, maybe he was right. When provoked, I can spend hours sex texting. I can be content rolling around in bed for days, rising occasionally for food and some distraction activity, then falling back into bed because I can't stand not being intimately intertwined any more. It's not just the sex though. I mean, finally getting to the sex is amazing, but it's everything in between. I just love touch. I love feeling the heat from someone else's blood rising against their skin until we match temperatures. I think breath on skin could be the most erotically charged and under-utilized forms of tantalizing tease. (It's funny how knowing the pattern of someone's breathing is like feeling the flow of their life.) I love laughing and touching and feeling that sexual energy rise to your surfaces, but not giving in—not just yet—because you know in twenty minutes it could be even more intoxicating.

And then yes, I love giving in and feeling all thoughts concentrated into fucking and making love and having sex and every other term there is that really never explains what it is that you feel. Because it's just feeling and touch and forgetfulness of all the outside stuff.

I'm not sure what I've figured out since awakening with my silly fear of sexual addiction. But I do know one thing. I need lots of sex and lots of touching and lots of dancing. And I'm very happy with being obsessed with any (and all) of them.