I am not obsessed

I can't help staring at it sometimes. And why should I try? It's staring at me. Asking to be stared at. Asking to be lovingly gazed into, held gently, gone over with gently questing fingers and an open mind. I flip it over and admire the dimensions. Not bad from the back, but always, always the hottest view in front. My breath catches and I know I'm ready to explore it's secrets with the slow careful observation of the student breathlessly wanting to know the key to the ultimate satisfaction from the master.

But, I wait.

I wasn't going to succumb to this indulgence. I had, in fact, found another use for my time and money, but curiosity and this incessant need to possess the elusive, to lose myself in the beauty of one deliciously offered gift led me there. Outside the protection of the brick walls into a violent storm. Into the store. At the back, staring, searching, throwing the trivial wannabes aside as I searched for the only one that could give me what I needed.

I sensed another nearby on the same quest, but I pretended not to notice there could be someone else between us. Finally, after it seemed my search would be fruitless, I found the one remaining treasure that would serve to make me feel complete, satiated. For now.

I brought it home and stashed it away at first. Why give into temptation immediately when the suspense makes it all the more tantalizing? That first taste is always sweeter after certain sacrifice is made. But then, I couldn't just leave it alone. I pulled it out, caressed the outside and began to dream of devouring the treasure within in great cloying gulps, taking my fill until I no longer knew any but the world contained therein.

I opened my treasure and teased my fingers through it's delicate folds. Somehow, it felt warm to the touch, inviting my eyes to feast on what I'd been denying myself for so long. I became overwhelmed with emotion, with the knowledge that once I began this journey I would not be able to rest until I had taken in every part of worth and acknowledged that, yes, I am worthy of such riches. I deserve to indulge. I have gone without for so long that the smallest reward is not only my due, but my privilege.

With this in mind, I put it away again and contented myself to draw out the torture into the wee hours.

Some time later, I found myself with camera in hand, drawing my fingers along the beautiful curvature, trying to reconcile what I knew to be the delights within with the now taunting surface that stared back at me through the lens. I wanted it so badly now I could taste it. But again, I waited, content to study my subject from a distance before making that last leap into blissful oblivion.

So here I sit, practically breathless in anticipation, fingers twitching as I type, smiling as I remind myself what awaits me in bed tonight - a sweet surrender to my weakness, my inspiration, my long-denied passion.

I will be satisfied.

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Long story short, I bought the LAST copy of Esquire I saw in the drug store. Good thing I looked behind all those other skanky mags, because I didn't see it for 10 minutes and I was about to say something not-nice to the management. In case you can't tell, I am SO looking forward to reading The Gingerbread Girl by Stephen King, exclusive to July's issue of Esquire. My favorite writer, a new short story AND I snagged the last copy. Fate loves me. Or knew I needed a boost. Oh, and the hot pics of Angelina and the writeup on her inside weren't exactly turnoffs either.