Curiosity has always given me a strange fulfillment.
There’s nothing particularly spontaneous about curiosity, isn’t that right?
There’s just something about it that draws you near, like the flicker of a flame, the slide of a palm against slick skin. It entices you, makes your breathing heavy, it makes you want. It fills you up with the desire to know and to please.
And what happens once you get that taste of it?
Once someone gives you a taste?
That little droplet of curiosity that sated you for a mere few days, blood searing into your veins, the only thing filling your mind is how to get more of it. You nearly beg, feel dehydrated of something that can only be fulfilled again by one thing.
And it’s dangerous, oh darling it’s so dangerous. Craving that novel quality as if it won’t turn you on and leave you to writhe on your own.
But even so, I realized that I loved curiosity even if it did kill that cat.