Daydream
After a while, I grow easily restless. It is as though my mind is a wild horse forced to run around a small, circular pen in perpetuity. Only he can rein me in. Only he can corral my frantic desires. My sexuality is insatiable, but mostly in an abstract sense. It is less like a pressure valve that needs release, and more like an amorphous, gaseous haze that emits a putrid stench; crackling and sparkling dangerously. My fantasies become inverted. At Church a few Sundays ago, I became fixated on the image of Christ on the cross. His bloodied, open wounds and pointy ribs began to make me restless. I was squirming back and forth, readjusting my seat. I tried to consciously redirect my attention to my breath in an effort to ease the tension that was starting to build inside of me. I began to wonder what Jesus of Nazareth might have smelled and tasted like. What his calloused hands would have felt like around my waist, tracing my skin. His breath on my neck. The rank,...