“You cannot call it love.
For at your age
the heyday in the
blood is tame and waits
upon the judgement. And what judgement would
step from this to this?”
Hamlet
I don’t want to say lust is only a cherished memory. But it has certainly changed its nature. The flame still burns but not as tall, or
fueled by visions of glistening crevices, or stiffened giblets.
Its more a question of how someone shimmers the air as she
passes by, that Japanese concept called Wabi Sabi, which finds beauty
in imperfection. A woman who is close
to my age, whose blood is tame, but looks like she might be a generous lover.
Or a vulnerable lover. Or a surprising
lover. Or an assertive lover. Or maybe a woman who still
dreams. And god forbid, does she notice
me here in the coffee shop looking up furtively over the rim of my cheap glasses
with my nose down at the writing pad?
Women are exciting for me to watch, though the criterion has changed. It’s still the women my age that are exciting
to the view, to watch at a distance, to sense their scent on the air as they
pass, guess at their secret kinks, their embarrassing neediness like my own,
and if faithful and long married, unless they are especially lucky, their
erotic boredom with their mate. Maybe their temptation. Their openness to danger, to the fearfulness
of trying to seduce at any age. I think
especially what we all want is to be seen and still known as sexual
beings until our last breath. My brain chemistry which greased
the way of lust as a teenager has changed so much that the fantasy of lust itself has changed
from those first childhood fumblings with medical dictionaries that illustrated
hairy vulvas and the mechanical mysteries of the uterus, to my own growing sensitivity in
my penis that responded to the urgent and ineffable desire I felt for my school teachers. A desire I didn’t even know
how to release if not yet consummate.
In the bookstore, in the Kroger produce aisle, the women are
endlessly fascinating in their Wabi Sabiness. Their variety of form, shaped by
time, not youthful symmetry but their delicate and honest lumpiness, like that
of a supernatural, dangerous woman in an old Frank Frazetta painting. It is a vulnerable beauty that invites connection.
I watch a woman, maybe in her 40s passes by and she sees me
stealing a look and we look away, embarrassed, but casting her spell on my loins anyway, a brief
residual zing. Her fantasy image in my
thoughts follows after her like a comet trail.
What does she look like?
Not in mom jeans and a loose T shirt covering her breasts which sway underneath, but in curlers? In a bathrobe? Reclining on a sofa with a book in front of
the TV in the basement rec room, on a Sunday afternoon? Lonely and little bored? On her second glass of wine? Her robe loosely opens as she remembers her
first time exposing her breasts to a boyfriend on a sofa in her parents home?
And as her fingertips touch her rising nipple does she remember the man
in the bookstore who was watching her and does she feel his warm breath on her inner
thigh as she opens wider and sees his lips move down to touch? There is always hope.
Lust powers our humanity, Garce.
ReplyDeleteAnd those brief connected glances can fuel many nights of fantasy -- or stories.
yes, but not like thus used to. Everything changes. even the muscles of the imagination.
DeleteAs we age (and if we're lucky) we watch situations, create fantasies borne of experience, and still appreciate a sexual observation. I remember a time when a woman with children being a turn-off for me. Now, the idea of someone of childbearing age is quite alluring. :>) But, unlike you, I still do appreciate the young and middle-aged women as well. (It's all good) No, the personal response of a boner or extreme desire may not be there, but experience and insight now inform our tastes rather than blindly reacting to raging hormones. Although the beauty and singularity of a woman of a certain age may be unique in appeal, there's nothing wrong with a perfect form. Take the statue of David, for instance. Or anything by Botticelli. We can take our time and appreciate rather than operate by reaction. That's what erotica is for. :>)
ReplyDeleteOne of the pleasures of old age is taking our time. Still we miss the turbulence lust once stirred up in us.
DeleteYes, we take our time and appreciate what's there. I now see a much wider range of women who stimulate me, seeing beauty where I didn't perceive it when I was younger. Now, it may be the arc of her eyebrows, a glance. The air of confidence in a self-realized woman.
Delete"A certain age" does have an erotic resonance to it, even for those of us to whom the 40s are a distant memory. I've learned, though, that the system retains its full sensuality even when the hormones no longer play much of a role.
ReplyDeleteSensuality yes, but I think the urge of seduction changes. Somehow the nature of the energy changes.
DeleteThis is beautifully expressed, as usual, Garce. Maybe part of the appeal of a woman (or person) of a "certain age" is that she is guaranteed to have a history, possibly one that's intriguing and hard to guess. Teenagers haven't lived long enough to show what they are capable of, or to make big life-choices, for better or worse.
ReplyDeleteI love what Jean said here. There's this cultural obsession with the blank slate, but I'm very interested in people's stories, obviously, and people my own age have them.
ReplyDelete