I’m too open and too honest. I feel every thing with intensity through out my entire body and soul. I want to feel and experience every thing to the point of my own exhaustion. My insatiable soul will be my own demise. I expect the world to be better and people to want to be better. It never turns out that way. I feel like I’m the only person that sees beauty in almost every thing. Most people seem cold, distant and empty. It destroys me to think what must have happened to them to make them so disgustingly guarded, jaded, and broken. All I want is to spend time with someone that knows that every thing they are or ever will be is enough. I want to meet some one that can see their life story in front of them, the good and the bad, and still believe that life is beautiful. I want to run away from this city with a smart, creative, loving man that will make love to me in the woods. I want to feel, smell, and taste him in the dirt with the sunlight peeking through the tree branches. I want life to be what it used to be. I want to lie by a river and have him tell me his secrets and I’ll hang on every word. I like to play with cum on my tongue for a few minutes before I swallow. The look of happiness on his face is so pure and honest that it’s heartbreaking to realize it’s fleeting. Basking in the taste is the only way I can preserve the moment. It’s the only time I’ve seen a man being honest. I don’t know what happened to make men so cruel but I feel the need to apologize. There is some thing intoxicating by the female body to the point that good men crumble after a failed conquest and then consumed by their insecurities. It makes me feel like I must be evil because of this body that will always scream out for more and cause so much pain to the people that try to satisfied the impossible. I don’t know what it is I’m searching for, but they only time I get close enough to start to figure it out is when he is entirely inside me, my breast in his mouth, and my finger tips across his back. The feeling of his soft skin reassures me that I’m safe. The way our bodies fit together makes me feel warm and wanted. It tells me that the world is still passionate and loving. But then he makes me promise not to fall in love with him. All hopes of any possibility are smashed and he finishes before I. He cums all over my tits, kisses me quickly, and rolls over away from me to sleep. I lay their cold and shivering because he took all the blankets. The world is dark and he is guarded again. He wears a mask, too afraid to show any thing real. There is no such thing as love, but sex is a close enough charade.