He has kept the secret. He has hold onto it and has resolved in his mind that it will remain there until death. There is, as he has thoroughly analyzed, no point or advantage to let it be known, but he definitely can think it inside, simmer it, and accept the very simple fact: he wants to have sex with a body.
The answer comes to him in the voluptuous, curvy shape of woman who likes to be called a name and who follows a particular set of pronouns. He is so enchanted with her, so much that he grimaces at the very thought of making love, not because he hates her or dislikes her, but because he cannot get the other people he has missed, to caress, and hold, and kiss. So he delays the moment as much as he can, because he doesn’t want to finally break in vulnerable pieces and admit the truth in a moment of weakness. To lose a body at such a stage in his life, a body that can replicate so many others, would be unthinkable, but he is often tormented by the sickness of his mind, the binary of making love and thinking of making love.
But it needs to happen and his delicacy is but a lame tumor that can barely hold. What else can he say when the body presents and wraps itself for him, when it desires him, and he must kiss it and go along and let it masturbate him. Oh, and the joy of touching hair from a body, of touching fat from a body, of touching a scrotum, and sweaty glands, he continues and kisses and he tries to lose control, to lose the eyes that have wandered, but then he sees another body, his married friend with the curves and the breasts he always wanted to touch, and then he turns and in the midst of the moonlight, he sees his co-worker who has smiled and hugged him and cried in front of him, whose joy gives a spark to his waking hours, whose laugh he has dreamt more than any other, and then a turn and he is back with the body he has chosen. This is the body that he can have until he dies or until the love is gone at last or, perhaps, after all transferences have been fulfilled to their desired levels, and he has never to wonder what it is, how can he love, what would it be like if you and I, if ever, if it was possible that… and she turns, and he turns, and with another kiss, the picture clears of his childhood friend, whose unmatched kindness has hidden the most wonderful shape of a man, grown and formidable, whose girth gravitates towards him, that makes him swallow and swallow imagining, and then there’s another friend, who has touched his hand given him the warmth of flesh and the scent of flowers to never let go, a tall frame like this, so much hair to get oneself lost, more fat to palpitate around and a face squirms, and then another, and another in unison, to love them all the bodies, to touch them, he smiles pleasantly, with a guilt he deserves.
“I love you, I love you,” a whispered voice says to him and he looks at the shadow he has chosen which will take the place of the those he can’t have and sighs in anger and disgust and fear, but if nobody knows, if he can take a body and hold it tight and let its love flow through him and give him the emotions he craves, the closeness he can so easily embrace, he will kiss his way through her flesh into his own grave, pitying himself, satisfied nonetheless.