dearest victor,

what kind of man am i?

to not enjoy the pearl sheen of a woman's creamy flesh, soft amongst quivering fingertips in the heat of a moment, with the moonlight clinging to silky strands of hemlock corkscrew curls? how could anyone resist parted rose petal lips breathing desire and warm against my collar, skin so eager for the next cool breeze thick with the scent of promised pleasure? perhaps there is something wrong with me, to find the undeniably irresistable resistable. a plague upon my body, perhaps - do cool hands against the feverish fervor boiling within rivers of veins mean nothing, wavering in their concern as they bounce against a heated forehead? i could find love in the rocking motions of hips, desperate and needy, if i searched, i think; and if not there, then where, in what familar lines can i find something to fulfill my own lustful thoughts, half-formed during lazy days were dreamscapes are but a blink away?

what kind of man am i to turn away the fruit of nature, pristine in its sinful perfection? the loathful curvature and blurred lines of perfectly molded bodies hold no interest to me. so, i pose the question again, loud and bleeding from this stark white page:

what kind of man am i, victor?

with love,
evandor.

written for a character's history. :)