Achilles heel

I was wrong.

I believed that my brain and vagina individually schemed with my heart. I thought either party evaluated situations / scenarios / sex and sent signals allowing my heart to feel (or not). 

Nah, I was all wrong. 

The brain is too smart. The vagina is too busy enjoying itself. All routes to my heart are complicated and no signals are ever really sent.

I realized that there is another entity I never even considered. A major sleeper who came out of left field. Drumroll please…

It’s my fucking hand. Traitor. I didn’t expect that.

Why the hand? Because. My hand gets held VERY RARELY. When it is held by a man whose company I enjoy it shoots off five thousand feelings, straight to my mother fucking heart. It’s a specific piece of my body thirsty for affection. It always has been. Ex-Mr rarely held my hand. So when these particular men take my hand and intertwine their fingers with mine… FUCK. That’s my achilles heel.

It’s amazing I didn’t realize this sooner, but I learn with experience and I experienced this very recently.

Fucking achilles heel… I see you now.