Wandering Hormones

It is nice to not to be thinking about her for the past day. It has been difficult to concentrate with the new image in which I see her. A- F- is a woman who plays the clarinet in the beginning woodwinds class that I’m taking this semester. My initial impressions of her were positive, and so are those now, however with a different frame of mind. Before, I was fascinated by her beauty. My intentions were only to get to know her better. Now, I am fascinated not only by her beauty, but by her sexuality. My frame of mind towards A- now has this disturbing desire to know her sexually.

As I said, I previously only saw her as a beautiful human being. Her face portrayed the young, innocent, beautiful daughter that turned twenty-three years of age. For all I know, I realize, she might not be so innocent, but the sweet implications of her face makes abstaining from such a stereotype difficult. Her eyes, for example, are enchanting. They are large and bright, but it is not simply the size that makes them so unique. It is their composition. The small pupil of each eye is pitch black, set in a circle of light brown, like a drop of dark chocolate in the center of a cup of latte. A thin line of black outlines the irises, and around that outline, like the sun storms of an alien sun, is an aura of light blue-green. Other attributes play to her enchanting beauty. Her lashes are long and thick, and her hair is cut short, like a carpet of fine, auburn fur. Her skin has a soft, milky tone, as if she has been protected from harsh beatings of the sun’s light. And, probably the most enrapturing of her characteristics, the aroma that veils her never fails to trip my nose. “China Musk” she calls it, her perfume. I would be walking through a line of people, concentrating on my destination, when all of a sudden, like an invisible wire, something catches my nose, something pleasant. I cannot mistake it for anything else. I attribute it to her, her scent, and I search for her presence.

Interestingly enough, this fascination with A-‘s beauty does not give me any sense of guilt in regards to my committed relationship with J-. I cannot deny the fact of her unique beauty. However, I do feel guilty with how I think about her now. On Thursday, after our day’s session with Lee’s woodwinds class, A- needed to retrieve her English book back at her apartment. We have had previous engagements before, and I knew the whereabouts of her residency, but not exactly the place, let alone the looks of the place. So she invited me to come along.

The apartment was very homely, very comfortable. She invited me into her room. It had clean intentions, but my horomones still projected fantastical possibilities. I suppressed it. Upon entering her room, I was immediately intrigued with the small photos she had placed on her walls. They were pictures of women. Nude women. My suppositions were somewhat confirmed. She has a sexual affinity to women. I was not offended, or repulsed. Rather, I was all the more intrigued. Her sexuality is taunting me just as J-‘s has constantly throughout my days and nights since I left for Humboldt. There were nude pictures of her, too, I believe. It was a standard size picture, but in black and white. In fact, all of the photographs along the wall were in black and white. But this picture was of a woman in crutches, with her shoulders hunched, and her torso bare. I didn’t see at first, for the hair was of a lighter color (perhaps, blonde) and longer and ruffled in a sort of way not too different than a famous character in the Japanese comic series, “Dragonball Z.” But upon closer examination, the face looked a lot like A-‘s. I wanted to confirm it, but I feared it would put her in an awkward situation since, if it is true, I would be looking at a naked picture of her.

(Entry continues on 11/11/97)

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