This is dedicated to: Obosan for exhuming memories better left undisturbed!

DESIRE

A reader, who is a mutual friend of one of the women I have written about, sent me a series of emails that had the impact of unearthing some feelings I have apparently suppressed, since my teen years.  A lot has happened since I was 17 and free!  I discuss my past in a relatively uninhibited manner.  It is after all, the past.  To the casual reader, my recollections may seem brazen and sometimes unbelievable but as you should know by now, I subscribe to the notion that truth is stranger than fiction.  As I reflect on events in my sordid past, I am always amazed at how readers interpret what I say and even more amazed at what they walk away with.

Writing this blog is also therapeutic.  I develop insights into my own life, as I reveal myself to others.  I liken it to confession at church, without the perverts and spooky music.  

The Church Of The World World Web                                                        As a teenager, I was a very passionate individual.  My parents created a world for me that allowed me to focus on my self and my ambitions.  My cadre of friends, who grew up in similar circumstance wanted to change the world.  And we wanted love and we wanted to be loved.  We had passion, drive and very intense desires.  We pursued our passions voraciously.  Decades later, time and circumstance have sated that hunger.

I appreciate life more and I savor life more than ever.  At this stage of my development, I am caught up in my hierarchy of needs.  Divorce interrupted my ability to self actualize.  Now, I'm striving to obtain a level of safety, I once took for granted.  I have had to displaced the "hunger" for things like I had in my youth, with day to day concerns.

The emails from Obosan (gee, thanks!) triggered some very strong memories about my young life.  I was overwhelmed by my passions, back in the day.  My desires shaped the direction of my life to where it is now.   After responding to that series of emails,  I found myself wanting to get up and immediately seek out the current object of my lust.  I wanted to find her, sweep her up in my, arms slather her with kisses, lay her down on a bed of roses and tell her how much I adore her without saying more than "ooh" or "ahhh".  Instead, I sat here and banged out the rough ideas of this piece.  I'll check that baby out later!  That's the difference between youthful exuberance and my current need to preserve my life style.  Maslov was on point.

Wood Without Purpose                                                                                      At this point in my life, getting all worked up, without the ability to act, is pointless yet still difficult to manage.  I meet women, on occasion, that I get an immediate chemical reactions from (see "Doing The Dance"), unfortunately, that type of libidinal rush is threatening to most women (probably most men too but I have no real way of knowing).  I subscribe to the notion of not starting the engine until you're ready to drive and it' s getting more difficult to get someone in the passenger seat!

Last winter, I approached a woman I see at my favorite watering hole.   She is late forty-something, built like a brick outhouse, coiffed to the nines and mean as a snake.  Her entire entourage is comprised of mean, shapely menopausal succubus.  They sit in the back of the bar,  smoke cigarettes, drink, curse like sailors and discuss the inadequacies of men on company time.  Mademoiselle Coiffure is the alpha female of the group.

Mademoiselle Coiffure was alone, so I approached her.  We had a few drinks and some very pleasant conversation.  We laughed.  We connected.  My assumption about our chemistry was on target.  I walked her to her car.  I kissed her and suggested that we spend some time together.  I put my arm around her waist and pulled her closer to me.   Mademoiselle Coiffure opened her eyes.  She stifled the smile around the edges of her mouth and began frowning.  Like being overcome by epilepsy, her eyes rolled in the back of her head and she screamed:                                                                           "You muthafucka!  What kinda game you playin?  I bet you pull this kinda shit all the time with women!"

I stepped back into the street.  I had a flashback.  I once had a cat that used to bite me on the hand for rubbing her the wrong way.   Pussy would jump in the cradle of my big arm.  As I stroked her belly, she would emit these prolonged purrs and her head would fall back and her legs would open.  If I continued caressing her belly all of a sudden her head would snap up, her eyes would bulge out, as she let out a distressed yelp. Pussy leaned forward and sank her fangs into my hand then scampered off the couch.  We only went through that twice!

Mademoiselle Coiffure continued to swear and mutter to herself, as she started the car, put it in drive and gunned the accelerator.  I stood there in the middle of the street and just shook my head in disbelief.   I saw her a few days later at a restaurant with her buffet entourage.  She walked over to my table, asked me how I was doing, answered for me and walked away, never looking directly at me! 

I waited two years to get Mademoiselle Coiffure alone.  My initial suspicions about our chemistry were correct.  We had a very magnetic thing going on, from the moment we made eye contact.  But like my pussy cat, I aroused MC in a way that was threatening to the core of her being!

For those of you foolish enough to think I want to touch cat coochie or trigger post menopausal rage, guess again.  I lived with a woman that I awoke from a deep sleep.  I resurrected a sentient being whose mind had been ravaged by menopause and a bad marriage to a closet homosexual.  At the beginning, we had a superlative relationship.  I now find myself perpetually trying to recreate the early situation I had with her: a vigorous sexually charged monogamous relationship with a great lover. 

I lived with Countess Dracula for almost 10 years.  Big Baby had skills.  She could suck a golf ball through 12 feet of garden hose!  And she had control of certain parts of her body that men tend to believe is only urban mythology.  Dracula was many things, but to her credit, she was a durable lover.  "NO" did not become a part of her vocabulary until our wedding day.

Robbing The Cradle                                                                                  Since I ran away from Countess Dracula and the castle of Doom, I have had several "mature" women go off on me for reasons known only to them.  The one mature woman that I have a great relationship absent drama simply refuses to step in my lair any longer!  But that's another romance novel!

Much to my chagrin, I have been forced to date much younger women.   It is simply a matter of sexual survival.  I again plead Maslov.  Young women are aggressive, many are brave and some are simply foolish enough to believe I am a creampuff easily managed by administering a few wiffs of the poonani.

Young women walk up to you and demand your attention.  After they get your attention, if you're very patient they will take off most or all of their clothing and allow you to mismanage their magnificent temples.  The encounters are very exciting but hard to be passionate about.  To their discredit, young women tend to be rather mechanical about their sexuality.  Media overkill has made modern day sexuality more of a tool than part of being.

Not A Plumber, A HandyMan                                                           Libidinally, I find myself behaving pretty much like I did in my late twenties.  I'm just a tad more methodical than I used to be.  I pep step instead of sprint.  You end up in the same place and you get to enjoy the scenery more.  Young women tend to be impatient.  They would prefer that I sprint to the finish line but that's like trying to get an old dog to retrieve a ball over and over and over.  After a point, the old dog sits on his ass and looks at you like you are truly insane for trying to work him so hard.

I am optimistic or stupid enough to believe that there is a happy medium between getting mauled for waking a sleeping tiger or chasing after panicked gazelles hiding in the bush.  I have not lost my desire, I just made it lay down and be quiet, so I can sleep at night.

Happy Medium, I know you're out there.  I can feel you.  Send me an email.