This story starts somewhere in beginnings of hormonal town.
It ain’t rocket science our sexual formulas are as old as that fella Methuselah.
Some boys when they meet a girl it sure isn’t their cerebral heads doing the looking. They do some general sniffing around then the force of a darkened corner of a secluded afternoon, a mate’s bed while parents are out or the backseat of a borrowed car escalate the gyration of a tempting salacious sensual sampling. Oh ..Shhh now don’t you be thinking that this is taking sides on the matter.
They coat them boys with their virginal nectar like sweet demure angels with their come for some honey dialogue. Them boys already lured by the mystery of the succulent unknown triangle between pubescent sweet thighs. The Bermuda Triangle would be a better bet to get to your real heart destination than the tease of youth sweating in to each other to only misfire and set upon the road of fishing in the wrong river.
Then we have those that are able to keep the anima and animus under control by a holy smock, a chastity belt, a fear of going boldly where they have never been and those that have the just right amount dose of emotional intelligence. These EQ’s know to wait out the years of the gravitational pull of those fluctuating hormones for a regulated solid earth bound rationale.
It ain’t rocket science how the chemical composition of the human body has more fuel for that special lift off. It will out fuel, out run any rocket to Mars and beyond.
What is the fuel equation that will set in motion our epicycle of passion for our heart and minds to open the eyes of the soul to see who our earthly orbit is?
Fucked if I know…but when you spy those that have got this planetary attraction going on …. Hooley Dooley do I drool ……
Fucked if I know…..