My first symbol of erotic, naughty thought, was Sting. The man who gave rise to mature tingles. I only ever wanted to hold hands with Shaun Cassidy; he didn’t create the feeling of a pulsing heartbeat in places other than my chest.
Gordon Sumner made me feel funny and ticklish, like the sensation of sliding down the rope in gym class or riding a horse. A sexually late bloomer, I spent hours one hot summer, watching MTV play a heavily rotated ode to the temptation and frustration of a young girl, older man. Those images begat as-of-yet-unexplored carnal thoughts, a beautiful blonde man seated behind a wooden teacher's desk, slowly peeling off a white button-down shirt, exposing one shoulder at time. The flash of a devilish grin. I wanted to be under that desk, although I wasn't sure exactly what to do (regardless of the pencil drawings of hippies in odd positions found in the copy of “The Joy of Sex" kept under my Mom's mattress and which I thumbed through often ).
I'll still do him, tantrically and for several hours at a stretch.
Mama needs a little alone time.