Denying Myself

I don’t like to go into the darker places in my head.  The kinky, sexy dark places?  Sure.  But the maudlin, sad dark places?  No thank you.  But I can’t help it sometimes.

I deny myself because what’s the point?  I’m aching for release, but who am I doing it for?  To say I’m doing it for myself seems trite.  To say I’m doing it for my dream lover seems pathetic.

Feeling my own heat leads to nothing but more heat.  No release satisfies for long. Every release reminds me that I’m alone, isolated.

I can feel my desire rising at the thought of my own denial. There are no sensual, sexual fantasies in my head; there is only stark need. An overwhelming need that cannot be quenched.

I deny myself because I am not what I want. I deny myself because I am not who I look forward to. I deny myself because I am by myself, alone and lonely, no longer the strong woman I pretend to be in the light of day.  I am a woman craving a human touch, craving the desire of someone, craving to be the center of someone else’s world if only for a few minutes.

What I want is unattainable and what I can have disappoints. I deny myself because it hurts too much.