All about longing.

My new posts are all about longing. They edge towards the romantic. I am going soft in my post-40 fug. I wonder what I would be like, unleashed into the world. Would I mistake my lust for love, just as now I mistake love for lust. Would my choices become erratic? Sleeping with random strangers just to have someone to lie in bed with sipping tea? Is that actually such a bad thing?

My body betrays me, trudging towards its eventual decay, but I am more clear now about my desires, more confidant perhaps to delay your gratification till my own has been achieved. I will have more orgasms than I used to because I will demand them.

I have learned, also, about the erotic potential of conversation. Perhaps I will flirt. Perhaps I will demand that a potential lover has some knowledge of literature or film or art. We will talk for hours about Delillo or McCarthy and I will come to him or her, lubricated by Delillo's smell of burned toast or the scent of a McCarthy battle leaching out into a sunset.

All of this is anticipating an eventual fall from grace, the loss of my lover, my beautiful boy who talks passionately about films and the structure of a novel. Without his perfect body that matures like fine wine, I would be dissapointed by all the lovers who do not take the kind of care that he has developed over years of practice.

Today I am sad and endings seem inevitable. Inevitable too the sad, low creep towards loneliness. A consolidation of the sense of loss and longing that underlines my general day to day.