Dare

Nothing infuriates me nearly so much as being judged. The slightest indication of disapproval makes me want to hurl expletives at you as if they would strike you with any significant force. They do no damage, however.

What holier-than-thou judgment can you pass on me for being free? Others say your judgment is a product of your green-eyed monster. I do not care for the cause.

I do not find flaw in my licentiousness. You enjoyed my writing when you were among the subject matter. I am amused that my compositions become contemptible following some perceived offense against you.

I write about my all-consuming moments, about what stirs my passions. You should count yourself lucky to be listed thus.

My writing is truth and fabrication, and an extension of me. With a scornful voice, you alert others about it. About me. You warn potential partners about my propensity to write about sex, as if they would need a warning, as if I would not ask before posting, as if what I do is dirty in some way. You insult me.

Writing, for me, is a potent expression of pleasure. Many things please me. Yes, sex pleases me. Yes,intimacy, love, affection, and joviality please me. Yes, literature, art, music, dance, individuality, free form expression, and writing please me. I immerse myself in my loves here. I recline on my literary couch and indulge in a little lotus-eating here. I am not ashamed.