One day, while walking through the park, I came across two lesbians sucking face on a bench. I was immediately impressed by their unflinching determination, and found myself first thinking, “Well, I guess they don’t have a place to go,” and then realized that I had stopped because I was hypnotized by their unrelenting passion, and couldn’t take my eyes off of them. It was an awesome demonstration of lust, and their desire seemed unfathomable.
As they plunged further into each others mouths, I felt my own tongue’s desire to reach as deep as their mutual need to express the feelings that they had for each other. Their desperation was humbling; no fear, total abandon, and as pure a demonstration of love that I knew was physically possible; no matter how fleeting it may ultimately prove.
Suddenly, I became aware of my voyeurism; not that I was making a moral judgement or experiencing some sexual titillation, but felt the arid reality within my own life and how sexual passion was a distant memory. How did it come to this? Why was I now on the outside looking in. How I still longed to kiss and be kissed like that, floating in the endless intimacy of such wetness, gloriously pushing on and on into the infinite reaches of what of we hold most precious, oneness.
I viewed this kiss the way you might a distant oasis, with its succulent rewards, but more a mirage to this traveler who is so terribly parched in a vast desert of dry pecks and air kisses.