The first (probably nearly incoherent) rambling something that has been pouring out of me in chronological form the past week:
She'd thought about it, of course. Because she always thought about it. She imagined everyone was as sex-obsessed as she, and was even continually convinced that people were masturbating under their winter coats - an excuse to the restroom during a meeting was a ruse to reach a quick, furious pull and release. Back, bright and shiny, ready to begin. Most of the time it turned her further on, most of the time she had to keep her legs crossed or pull over her truck (that rumbled and vibrated in a very masculine manner as she drove) to a wooded area and take care of the ever-growing ache that was near constant now. Sweet as a sugar cookie with pink frosting, savory as steak and potatoes her hunger was. Not just for sex, but for everything and everyone she found beautiful. This often got her into trouble but not this time. This time was confection.
She was a work of art, both home-grown organic and self-upgraded. Since her girlhood she had not only admired and acknowledged the beauty in other females, but (sometimes) ashamedly coveted, and craved that beauty. Craved it for herself and craved the soft down that lies below. She craved men and boys, too, but she didn't see one want as something that would zero out the other want. It was as different as the two sexes are different.
If she stopped herself from obsessing over the very instant laws of attraction long enough the fear/shame reflex kicked in. Then then the ghost voices of both her mildly conservative upbringing clashed with the gay men and women friends she cherished and she was left somewhere in between. She simply saw and felt beauty everywhere, and it manifested itself everywhere in her body (and of course in the non-corporeal parts of her too - i.e. her soul). When she painted something pretty and birdy or saw a painting so pretty and birdy at a museum (but more about that later) her heart wasn't the only body part that soared in response. Looking at a magpie flitting from one branch to another against a heather grey sky sent her lips to plumping, her blood to flowing, her already full breasts to swelling, and that tiny, sweet, knotted place to throbbing. She hadn't read Whitman deeply enough to understand that this was a fairly common occurrence so she never spoke of it to even her amorous husband.