If it's any way I want it, then it's every way I need it. I love to dance, I love to sing, I love everything. One could call me the most liberal prude, and yes. That would be right. I'm an uptight suit-and-tie with slut red lipstick on my face, I conduct Beethoven with a studded leather glove, in my book I write of feral brutality--of claws, teeth, and knees-- with the most delicate sashay of euphemism and poise.

So it's with this duality that I say hmm. Can less-than-cerebral indulgences be art, to be statically hung high on a wall, their so-called pedestal, to be openly worshiped by we, those who really enjoy it on such a base level? Or is it cake, is it porn, is it a toy, is it a tool that we take by the sides of its picture frame and drive our (generally, but not mandatorily) phalluses through the center?

For example-- I write this with a hardblush.com banner under my text; it's very much something I enjoy, but most times about it I am, yes, Mum's the word, and this is strictly a matter between me and my animal tendencies. How can it be anything more than food, than sustenance for my animal desires when really, I'm done with it and I'd prefer to tuck it neatly in my sock drawer.

Specifically. How can I look you in the eye in love when the last forty-five minutes I've closed my mind's eye and taken you chiefly because I was hungry? When is it that I can stand on the island of animals and still keep my sure footing across the channel on the continent of intelligensia?

I am feral and I am scholarly, so when will it be that those two plates in their gradual, impersonal techtonics come grinding together in that epiphany that birthed this animal-man fandom in the first place?

Just a thought :3