What Am I Looking For?

an exploration of intimacy, commodification, and digital desire

I want to be touched without feeling fucked.  

I want to be held without feeling like I am being assessed.  

I want intimacy without performance, desire without evaluation.

FUCK ME

i think i am looking

to Fuck

but what i mean 

is i want gentle 

touch

Fuck me

i want you to 

see me

hold me

will you take 

a moment

to know me

before 

you fold me

Fuck me

what i mean is

i want to let you in

i want you

to wipe away 

my sins

while our souls move in

sync 

i want to

feel interlinked

i feel like 

all anyone says

is lets Fuck 

when i 

ask for 

a hug

i am asking for too 

much

is all we know is lust?

This motherfucker wants to say we are friends.

Case Study: Gemini, from the city of croissants

Scrolling on Pure, a torso looking for fun, leaving my city soon.

we spoke a little, he asked to be inside me.

I called him, excitement rising in me.

I mentioned I want to experience

(experience what i am not sure yet)

He turned his camera on, he had a pretty face, can't lie.

I turned mine on.

we both smiled.

A rush, I asked him to come over.

he said for what.

I said to read poetry, most likely not sex.

We spoke about dance festivals, identity and movement. 

Every time the conversation moved toward something human, something interesting, something alive, it softened.

I wanted him, I was intrigued by him.

Then it returned to sex.  

Returned to access.  

Returned to entitlement.

I know that's the purpose of the app.

But you can't blame me for trying to

Do some creative research

On desireeee

I told him penetration is painful for me.  

He made a face, he said we can do other stuff.

I said I am not sucking your dick.

I said we can recite poems and be naked.

He laughed.

I said I am serious.

And something in me clocked it:  

Regardless of what I wanted, he had already decided the destination.

The conversation continued, touching on art, 

But always returning to the logistics of sex.

He asked to see my body.

Not naked, just my shape.

I felt like I put myself on an auction block.

The adrenaline made it feel like play at the time.  

I stood up like a bird presenting itself.  

A strange man evaluating my body through a screen.

Was my body his flavour?  

Was I fuckable enough?

He showed me his body too.  

Compression shirt. Joggers. Attractive, yes.

But I wasn’t really looking at him.

I was trying to redirect us somewhere else 

art, conversation, curiosity

Because what I actually wanted was communion.

Not sex as an outcome.  

Not conquest.  

Just two people existing inside shared tension.

I had a oversized tshirt on.

He asked me to take it off, so he can see 

The shape he would be working with.

I said no.

Now that it has worn off, I feel the residue.

Not devastation.  

Not heartbreak.  

Just the quiet humiliation of realising I momentarily stepped outside myself.

I wanted to stand naked in a room with another human being and talk about what art means.

I have had that before.  

Eight-hour walks.  

Reading plays to each other.  

Sleeping beside someone with a pillow between us while desire existed but didn’t demand completion.

Rubix Heart Beat

short exchange of memes

over text

on an app dedicated

to

S E X

then we met 

cold november 

shitty weather

i was seeking 

a strangers bed 

to make me feel better 

warmed by 

the fire of desire

the pain 

in my brain

began to expire

you looked

for me in

the streets 

i shouted 

‘yooo what you telling me g’

you jumped

i dapped you up 

sharing a quick hug

we walked and talked

then we got in 

lights dim

I sat on your bed

you went 

to your chair 

then we just stared

you picked up 

a cube 

coloured brightly 

turned to me excitedly 

words spilled

the room began to fill 

it was such a thrill

we just connected

over political conversation

we even did 

a lickle 

meditation

no expectations

just good vibrations 

after hours 

of no touching 

you still in you 

chair 

your cube 

now complete

i said its best now i leave 

in my home

the shadows

began to enter my dome

while i sat there alone

a text arrived

while the sun rised

you told me to come 

swing by 

i did

i got between

your sheets

whispered my secrets

told you my dreams

i asked can

i hear your

heart beat

no reason why 

i just wanted

to hear

what you sounded like 

inside

the thumping

of blood pumping 

i want to know

the places you

have grown

what do you

call home

do you know

the shape of hope?

I have found what I was searching for previously using the app,

I refuse to believe it's a rarity to be seen

Momentarily

Pure's structure

Women enter for free because women are the product.

You pay for access, so you want everything you paid for.

Conversation becomes foreplay.  

Presence becomes negotiation.  

Humanity becomes optional.

And then the DM arrives the next morning.

“I like your vibe as a person.”

You want friendship now because friendship lets you keep proximity without accountability.  

Because calling it friendship makes the interaction softer for you.

But I know my swag level is on a thousand.

What was funny wasn’t him.  

It was me inside the interaction 

my humour, my curiosity, my refusal to follow his script.

If I had followed his cues, I think I would have left feeling unwanted.

Instead, I left knowing something clearer:

Sex is easy.  

Presence is rare.

I don’t want intimacy that rushes toward climax.  

I want intimacy that treats shared existence as the prize.

I am not ashamed of exploring.  

Everything I did, I chose.

Last night didn’t teach me that pleasure is dangerous.  

It taught me that pleasure requires alignment.

i am an artist 

trying to explore

the shape of desire