I wake up to an all too familiar feeling that has greeted me over the last several years. The awakening of my femininity. I draw my knees to my chest feeling the softness of my silk nightgown. Run my hands up my thighs and through my locs. Arch my back and exhale loudly. Subconsciously I want to be touched. Lips against my neck, teeth lightly tugging on my skin, my flesh between wanting hands. Mouth open, pressing myself into awaiting flesh. I hear breaths in synchronized crescendos.
I am ovulating. A fact that greets me before I check my fertility calendar. A lingering awareness from the last time I attempted to conceive. I’m still at times impressed at how in synch with my body I am. The subtle changes in my cervical mucous I noticed days ago, a reminder of charting changes. My clock doesn’t tick as loudly anymore. There are days that I wonder if I truly want children. A thought I never imagined I’d have.
And for a moment I want to erase everything before this sentence. It feels like TMI. I still have pictures of my artificial insemination process. They span over a year of trying. Somehow I’m glad it never took. Even thousands of dollars aren’t worth being attached to someone that confines you. I have enough of a hard time moving on from a dead end so I certainly don’t need more of an incentive to stay. However I still think she was a great person, just not the one for me.
The idea of the “one for me” doesn’t move me as much anymore either. I’m more content with the peace of independence. I must be in the midst of a transformation. Or maybe one has already occurred and I’m just now being made aware of the changes. Nonetheless, it is in the middle of the morning and I am closing my eyes allowing pleasant future memories to tickle my subconscious. Those lips have traveled and I like where I imagine they are.