To quote Susannah, “To admit to a crush doesn’t seem very grown-up, but I regard it as a facet of a well-rounded sexuality.” I couldn’t agree more.
The crushes I had when I was a teenager are now laughable, from Duran Duran to the Fresh Prince (a.k.a. Will Smith—remember the song “Parents Just Don’t Understand”?). And in thinking about all of those unrequited loves and missed opportunities I’ve had in my life, I guess I wouldn’t be the person I am today without those experiences.
My longest and most enduring crush has been Sting. I’ve seen him perform five times, and hope to see him again when he performs at Fenway Park this summer. He’s just a specimen of a man, and the whole tantric sex thing is so intriguing it just adds to the allure.
My husband and I have this unspoken agreement that if the people in our fantasies asked for one night of pleasure, we each have the go-ahead to follow it through. Of course it wouldn’t happen, but if Halle Berry came a knockin’, he’s got a green light from me. However, if she’s looking for me, I’ve available.
Can’t explain my “luv thang” for Justin Timberlake. Physically, he’s not my type—scrawny, too thin, and a little geeky when you look at him long enough. But when I play his songs on my iPod, that’s it for me. Also, he’s a terrific dancer, and I’m a sucker for a man with moves.
Grown-up crushes are complicated and sticky; resisting the temptation is part of the fun. I love it when risqué thoughts pop into my head while grocery shopping or while in a meeting and no one knows what I’m thinking. The idea of the wrong man getting together with the wrong woman is thrilling—all the best stories have a bit of sexual tension. It’s the possibility of the “what if,” even though it will never be acted upon. For a poet, there’s no better way to release the tension than putting it down on paper.
by Jane Kenyon
The shirt touches his neck
and smooths over his back.
It slides down his sides.
It even goes down below his belt—
down into his pants.
For more crushes, visit Sunday Scribblings.