Tuesday, 6 November 2012

XXXVII. Dip

I wonder if age difference should be an issue between lovers. And I mean lovers, not any kind of committed relationship. Of course, when the age is more than a decade there can be a notable difference in the nature of the body, the wrinkles, the musculature, the strength. But does that pale in comparison to differences in experience?  If I have suffered emotional burns, quite deep, is it unfair of me to place myself in the arms of one younger. Popular culture of late celebrates stories of centuries old vampires finding redemption and love in the healing arms of a naive and tender hearted young soul. The attraction between those polarities. Is it a noble pairing?

Of course, my reasons for these musings are obvious. My body seems to be drawn to a younger colleague of mine, particularly in the after dark hours when I find myself on the dance floor. So potent for me, dancing with him. He seems to like to dance in the old fashioned way, as a couple, with hands held, lightly embracing, all twirls and smiles. It is the classical musician in him I assume, the dancing that might accompany the orchestral music he plays so beautifully. My favourite instrument too, the big one shaped like the voluptuous body of a woman. I think of him playing it, and it makes me hot. Such clever fingers.

I told him I wanted to dip and I threw myself into it, not carefully, with complete abandon, instinctively knowing he would not let me fall. To me, it was a spectacular moment. I'm not sure whether it impacted on him. I can still recall being at full stretch, inverted, and safe.

I got more reckless as they night wore on, as intoxication overtook good judgement, more explorative, draped myself over his tall frame, I probably crossed a line of what's appropriate between friends. We were all on a bit of a drunken rampage, just one of those nights, and there was definitely a bit of wildness too it. I worry of course, that I'm some sort of leacherous she-cougar preying on the politeness of a gentlemanly young man. I have great respect for him, and don't want to step across boundaries and harm him. It makes me feel quite powerful though, to be the elder, the more sexually experienced, brings out a confidence, a wanting to take control, to shock, to blow his current conceptions of sensuality out of the water. Whether I truly have that power is debatable, but the feeling is an addictive elixir. I've had dreams about him, making love with him, taking him, riding him, always with me in control. I don't usually dream of people I know in that way. My dreams of sex are usually with a partner I can't quite see, a being of no real fixed form.

When I saw him the next day at another event during the daylight hours, I was concerned that things might be awkward, but we fell into companionable conversation easily. I felt I wanted to touch him, hold him again, as I had the night before while dancing, but this was not the place, and not acceptable outside of that context.  We had our photograph taken together, stood close, and I felt how my body just wanted to melt against his again. I didn't see the picture and I wondered if I would be shocked by it, by how much younger he looks than me. Baby faced boy. And whether we looked nice together.

It's not that I see him as some sort of prospective partner. He should have children and a wife when the time is right. But he's so beautiful in his uniqueness and I can't help but want to touch and play, maybe nurture for a time. But I worry that I am too shrouded in darkness, and that it would be stealing from him, to even entertain the idea of being lovers. Not the noble thing to do.

And at other times I believe my love is generous and warm and lifting, when I can give it freely, and I have started to trust myself again, and I believe I would have the wisdom and insight that comes with being older, to know whether I can help him by sharing my body with him, and when, and how often. I won't think on it too much. Maybe all our friendship will be is occasional bouts of exhilarating drunken dancing, and that's fine.

Probably better for us both professionally that way. But if he wanted my slightly older, yet still strong and sexually charged body, and a little of the loving kindness that brims from my heart, well he can damn well have it.

Something light and giggly and marshmallowy instead of having my heart falling out of my chest in wanting, because of being so starved for love. Yes, I still think of that other one some times. The emotional creative kind hearted spirit inside the court jester. I sense it's there, and wants to be affirmed, acknowledged, loved. By someone persistent enough, passionate enough, clever enough to slip past the protective jester.

Alas, I don't think he wants to be disturbed in that way by me. And I don't want to be disturbing. I feel so old fashioned using the word alas. So many men pass through my life every day but none seem affect me like he did. None cause that same erotic shiver and evoke the romantic poet. And as sad as I sometimes feel about my unreturned levels of attachment, as jealous as I am of the girl who has possibly made him hers, I miss the depths of that feeling, the life and body in it. But really, I own that feeling, it is my own emotional landscape, a creation from my swelling heart.

No point returning to a place you are just going to be a bother. I am more demanding than that. But gently so. And still afraid of consequences. Of the wrath of my children's father.

Safer then, for this old soul to seek inspiration from the light of a young man, who I have probably chosen as he is the least likely to pair with me, from all the ones in my life. A protective attraction perhaps, which won't bear fruit, won't be a possible poison apple. To watch from afar his graceful maturation until I am brave enough to move a little more forward into reality.

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