My mind’s annual replaying of my being chased through the woods, manhandled, and fucked against a tree is something I have yet to understand about myself. Probably because it isn’t quite me seeing the scenes play out; or only me, rather.
Fantastical Aflorafawn is fearless but shy, and tentatively sexually inclined to the tune of being slightly animalistic—a wide-eyed primal vixen. Something akin to a docile she-wolf.
I adore her, really.
She’s a darker, more free version of who I am on a day to day basis; an adjacent, full-bodied figure of mist habitually plagued by depraved thoughts and a longing for deeper sensations in every sense of the word—a few scratches behind the ears per se, or an endless supply of the delightful pleasure because she’s shameless.
That’s probably why she’s always scantily clad and running through the woods from the compassionately aggressive male figure of MY dreams. The bitch.
Not that I believe I could be swayed to stop her gallivanting about.
Unlike her brazen nature, I am a self-conscious glutton, completely disillusioned about my contentment with living vicariously through her.
Anyway, to depart from my ramblings…I’d say the scenario certainly redefines the term “tree hugger”.
