I’ve done it as long as I can remember–run my fingers over the cool, smooth surfaces, felt my pupils dilate, my breath quicken, a hot and furtive flush creeping over my skin. ‘Ratiocination. Penumbra. Conflagration. Scintillate. Prestidigitation. Procrustean. Simulacra.’ Words, they have always stricken me so.
Many of you might find that odd, to imagine a child hardly old enough to go to school, sitting cross-legged and cradling a book in her lap like a woman cradles the head of her lover. Did I know that this was what I was about? Yes and no. Certainly not in explicit terms–after all, I was just a child and quite innocent after my fashion. But I was very much aware of my own physicality, and also of what amounted to pleasurable sensations. I knew that language thrilled me in a way I had yet to find in any other experience. I think, in some ways, I’m still seeking a rush to equal the exquisite and almost transcendent pleasure I take in learning something new.
I’ve never met a human animal that pleased me as much as the dead, brittle ink-splotch thoughts bound up between two book covers. Sad, that. It isn’t that I haven’t tried–tasted from every variety of experience, each fruit of human pleasure, pain, satiety. Each leaves me dull in a way that is not true satiation. Perhaps I am simply asexual. Perhaps the problem is not other human beings, but simply that I grow cold in the shadow of another ego. I only know that to go galloping off at a spanking pace after a thought–the roundness and fire of syllables rolling over my tongue before I’ve put a voice to them–breathes an electricity into life that is lacking in the tangle of flesh and excretion that is the sexual encounter for me.
I do not speak for the future. Perhaps I simply haven’t encountered the right sort of person yet. There are many years yet in which to live and love and make delightful or painful mistakes. I’m not averse to trying. I did think for a bit that perhaps I should simply abandon the idea altogether. But I think, I simply have no expectations. You people are all very nice, and interesting, and complex. I won’t deny that. But I think I’m more at home with my words for the nonce. I ought to feel and think nice things when someone exhibits desire for me, and lately, I just don’t. I feel inconvenienced.
I think, “Oh, how tiresome.” And that really isn’t how these things should work.
So, I’ll just stay here, on my own little ethereal plane, cantering off after whatever idea takes my fancy. No more pretending, I think. I really do like words more than I like you. It’s not personal. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ll leave the animal interaction to chance or fate or whathaveyou. I rather prefer the idea to the actuality–for the moment anyway.