Warning—>don’t read this if you don’t like embarrassing bits of information about yours truly. Mom. Not that’s it’s horrible or anything.
“The erotic instinct is something questionable.” — Carl Jung.
Ice cream; elephant trunks; stroking a ukelele; riffling the pages of a book; walking through crowds before a concert; ceiling fans; the sound of a keyboard clicking, pausing, clicking; melted chocolate on the fingers; nipples of course; green tea; the smell of bacon; fresh-washed hair; quiet snows; loud rain, long rain, any kind of rain at all; the smell of rain, but thunder and lightning must have been involved; fresh-ground pepper; harmony; anything that makes me laugh wickedly; solid (grain) wood; pine soap; Murphy’s wood oil soap (which also reminds me of church); a new recipe, which I do not follow; beards; bones in the spine, which are never perfectly aligned; phallic objects, even if they make other people laugh; flower petals on the skin; letting go of the hard feeling between my eyes; faith, love, joy; as if one really were hungry; modern art, which is more due to my skill than that of cleverer illusionists; nudes (Why not more male nudes? Because if only men are visual, why do women look at them at all?); dancing, but only in grocery stores, or anywhere else I can get away with being noticeable but not stared at; couches that make embarrassing noises when you sit on them (leather); being surrounded; collapsing; mastering; sitting like a queen on a throne and feeling like the devil herself from The 9th Gate; Bolero, my first erotic song; vibrators, ones with funny shapes; the life-sized, crucified chocolate Jesus.