old love

Back to the old thing, the book that was in the drawer. A scent of decay, damp and dark and all the sex smells gone to seed in the years between. He has grown older now, my character, yet here he is, dusted off and still 15. The hand shaking, the errant blush, the erections which are both a pleasure and a distress to him. I have grown into his love interest. I am now her age. Perhaps I can approach her more kindly now.

We will tangle, this young boy and I, younger than I like them. Old-young and she young-old as I have become in my dotage. I will be kinder to her breasts that resemble my own, full, supple, yet subtly sagged, a nod towards the body I will soon grow into. A sad sag of skin that has not yet fallen but with this, a knowledge that even at my most disastrous sexual moments I can still make myself come in that way I like. I can find some way to reach my pleasure, and my lover, my beautiful boy, need not take responsibility for my relief. The easy comfort of an older woman who can deal with herself quite nicely. The joy of knowing she is learning, even now, even at this great age she learns something from you.

My character is there waiting for me to join him. The promise of a hug, a tussle, a falling into new sexual territory. I pick up my notes, my index cards, the great wad of years of my life gone by. I pick up this book that I once loved, this character I once took in hand. This boy I once went down on in a literary way and I am slightly nervous, as on a first date. Let us wander down to the river under an impossibly blue sky, and I will begin to remember why we fell in love.