From The Demisexual to Almost Intimate
I don’t crave sex.
I crave recognition.
The kind of noticing that lets you relax,
the kind that lets you exhale because someone finally saw you.
Not the mask. Not the performance. You, and they thought it was enough.
I don’t rush.
I don’t pretend.
I don’t want to be touched by hands that haven’t heard me yet.
Desire, for me, isn’t loud or immediate.
It’s a quiet unfolding;
a conversation that lingers,
a glance that lasts a second too long,
a nervous system slowly relaxing into 'yes.'
This isn’t about rules.
It’s about rhythm.
I don’t do casual,
because it feels like a lie my body refuses to tell.
And surface level connection feels like betrayal;
to me, not them.
There’s a slowness here that isn’t about fear.
It’s about trust, respect... acceptance.
And if you rush it,
you lose it.
So maybe I won’t name it.
Maybe I’ll just say:
It starts in the space between words.
It builds in safety.
And when it finally arrives,
it’s everything.
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