All around me today, I see people dying from a lack of love and understanding. Drowning in a sea of unfulfilled promises, they cling tenaciously to the boat of past hurts and savage misunderstandings; waiting to be rescued, only to end up ship-wrecked once again … because in love, as in life, there are no guarantees. (Excerpt from a Love letter 2003)
It’s funny. Even though we can’t keep up with them, we still want ‘em: younger women (18 to 28). They make our blood boil with their firm, taut bodies tucked into tight fitting jeans. They invade our day time dreams with their girlish ways, and fire up our imagination with the guiltless spontaneity of their emerging sexuality. They make us horny.
I once worked with this young girl thirty years my junior; we teased and flirted with each other, and even though there was no way in heaven it could have worked for even a nanosecond, she simply gave out all the mixed signals needed in encouraging me to hit on her (of course, we guy are a unique species; capable of turning even our largest imperfection into that ego-tripping mantra: “She wants me”).
Younger women, they make us older guys feel like boys again, but the truth is, we really need the mature understanding of older women, especially after forty. But every once in a while, the one that “should” have got away … comes along and we become a child again … all clumsy and full of fire with the desire to impress her with cartwheels and the hanging from trees.
Love Letter #2
Dear Annabel,
How you do so turn me on.
I am enchanted by the dichotomy of who you are: confident yet shy; beautiful yet plain. You are your most handsome without makeup...where each freckle amasses to give color to the portraiture of your face.
I have to confess.
The other night when we talked, I suddenly realized that I had a hard time looking into your eyes. I felt distracted by their pale, blue softness (the color of winter skies). They pulled me in. Teased me with their playfulness ... haunted me with their weariness ... stirred me with the secrets of their sensual mystery reflected in the aquamarine shimmer of their light.
I felt awkward … revealed; fearful that they peeped beyond the deep, brown darkness of my own to winnow the desire rushing in my chest. Could you not detect the quickening of my breath? The pounding of my heart … my tale tell heart?
What a sight you were...all sleek in black … caught up in the mating ritual of pulling your hair back...exposing the pale curvature of your neck; the bow of your back unveiling the supple firmness of flesh just beneath the rise of your blouse. You kept pulling your hair back...but each time a single lock escaped cascading down the length of your cheek to gently rest against the line of your smile.
What a sight I must have been … envious of that lone lock … that it should know the touch of your skin … the brush of your lips. Ten thousand angels swirled between us ... just to keep me from falling to my knees before you ... between the alter of your thighs ... rising up to brush that lock aside...then taking hold to pull you near ... closer.
My God! The things I feel compelled to write. I become so reticent around you, which is not my usual way; a coward whose only response is in this gentle rush of words erupting in volcanic bursts across the blank screen of a white page.
You’re right. Few men indeed dare write with such unbridled passion, and even fewer women still...will ever know the personal stroke of a poet’s pen.
Yet, here we are.
You … a young woman in need of romance … and I … an older man capable of rendering such … what are romantics to do?
PS: Needless to say … she broke my heart.