I am lying in the backyard, reading Anaïs Nin’s erotica and wearing nothing but white panties. My breasts are exposed to the breeze, and I think to myself, summer is coming. I am stretched out on the grass, feeling sunlight kiss my inner thighs and wondering if the clouds are enjoying the warmth as much as I am. The pages feel coarse against my fingertips, and I read story after story watching lovers awaken each other with tongues and love-making. I am taking in words that explore sexuality so explosively, colours that drip from my lips like nectar, sensations that shiver down my spine, names that are called in the silence of the afternoon. I feel nothing. I am not aroused. I am learning anatomy, and feel no desire.
Then the wind whispers a greeting, and the leaves tell the sky ‘I love you’, and the grass grows infinitely around me, and I can imagine the atmosphere falling in love with the darkness of space, and I find myself melting in pleasure. My breasts tighten and my insides throb, and I am set afire by the universe.