Because the only people for me are the mad ones

Sometimes it feels like a disease, some horrible affliction. It is a constant source of stress in my life. Never is it as simple as people make it out to be. Never is it as complex as people make it out to be.

It's a fire. A need. An all consuming desire. Not just for orgasms, but for contact, for the rush. Sex does not satisfy it. Sex sometimes makes it worse. I hate it and revel in it.

It needs no trigger. The question I receive most is, "what turned you on?" Does it need a catalyst?

I ache now. Nothing precipitated it. I ate dinner, I went to a movie, I listened to music, and now I want to consecrate the kitchen counter and the couch. Visions of threesomes dance in my head. I itch to take a tight little nipple into my mouth. I ache to feel a caress in return. Today, I hate it. My skin burns a living, breathing, crawling fire and, oh, how good it would feel to have someone's mouth quenching that flame.

It is not enough to have just someone "fix" me either. A cold orgasm is akin to starvation. This ardor needs to meet its match, needs a mate. Give me someone who burns the way I burn. Give me someone that drowns in it as I do. I need that intensity. Anything less is just far too paltry. I am starving.