Last night’s casual grab of the back of my neck by a good friend sent surprise shiver whispers inside the remote and quiet depths of me, goose bumps skin-surfing my entire body, shoulders scrunching toward my ears in delight.

Oh, and desire.

For more. Of that.

For the remainder of the evening, I stood there wondering – Is it too much to ask for someone to do exactly that? Just hold my hair, grasp it tightly in your thick, rough hewn fingers right there at its root where the hairline meets the nape of my neck and pull it, gently, and hold, hold, hold please, for just a little a while, then pull again, upwards this time and more forcefully until my heels and then toes slowly and desperately begin to peel off the floor, my soles stuffed full of intention and fixation, teeming with urgency and craving and lust and… hope? Can I hope that someday soon this particular little base, dirty desire will be fulfilled without me having to ask, to hope… to yearn? Is this yearning, which threatens wickedly to become an absolute fucking necessity, this yearning to be suspended by my hair in someone’s strong and impassioned fingers, is this more a mark of loneliness or of resolve? Resolve to find someone that can meet such a very simple need.

Like the shiver that begins its journey on the outer edge of my thigh and then creeps serenely down the length of my leg, I am quite obviously in a state of flux. And I believe, from inside the quiet depths of me, that the possibility of at least temporary grounding lives inside an integral and sweet spot inside my feet-soles.

And with their rise, so too will I.