Strange Arousal

Is it really that strange,
That the words I write,
Arouse me,
As I write them?

It it really that strange,
That as I transfer,
My mental images,
Of all things sexual,
To written ones,
That I am aroused?

Is it really that strange,
That my imaginings,
Of an erotic encounter,
With a wondrous creature,
In bed, on the floor,
Against the wall,
Of my moving in and out of her,
When shared with others,
In my scribblings,
Arouses me?

Is it really that strange,
That my choice of words,
Which is designed to be,
Erotically arousing,
And even making those choices,
And setting them to paper,
Of vividly describing,
Caressing, messaging,
Sliding in and out of her,
Of her throbbing contractions,
And my ejaculating,
Arouses me?

Is it really that strange,
That I create word pictures,
Of seduction, arousal and culmination,
That seduce, arouse, and culminate,
Similar images and feelings,
In my readers,
And that, their arousal,
Arouses me?

Is it really that strange,
That turning on others,
Arouses me?