What is it about this sex thing that ties us up in so many knots?
I’m 27, yes… I’ve been around a little bit, had my fair share of practice (and failings) so how come all of a sudden I think I have something to proof when it comes to getting down and dirty?
There is a back-story here, he is younger than me, a little baby in fact at 21 – but has that tight little tanned body that most young Spanish do (such a shame that the majority lose it before they hit 30!) my attraction to him is completely apart from relationships, deepness or anything else, it boils down to that purest form of animal instinct – lust.
What he has going for him, has little to do with anything else apart from the fact that he is (very) ummm blessed shall we say. In the trouser store he scorns at the trouser eel department and heads straight for the snake wear.
So the makings of a night of raw and dirty sex are more than there. So why did I find myself acting like a no-nothing virgin and letting this young one take the floor, why was I not passing my carnal knowledge down to him with a bit of practical teaching?
I’m not going to talk about how everything hits south when your getting closer to thirty, I’ll leave that for the sex and the city bloggers – my body is in pristine shape thank you very much. Nor is it to do with the fact that I am less sexually uninhibited as I was back then, it’s a true old saying that practice makes perfect, and I perfected the practice scores as I danced (cough cough) across my single years. I bought the T’shirts, wore them, used them as blindfolds and left them laying around beaches across the continent and further. No, its not that at all.
Its all about emotion, jeez, I dislike this word. You see the thing is, this last year I have had a bit of a moral dilemma, in so much as the fact that I have started to think about things a bit deeper than before. Being labelled, being rejected or not being respected in the morning were never things that bothered me in the slightest before – I mean why would I care if I was respected after the event? The fun part is in the deed. In respect there is no fun – correct?
All of a sudden I find myself wanting to get to know someone, finding out what makes their mind click and not just their organs rise. Like a man who has talked to the breasts of a woman for so many years and then finally finds himself concentrating on her eyes, I am in confusion and more than a little turmoil.
Phone numbers that were once left on scraps of paper around my various homes that used to be thrown away or forgotten about with the shutting of the door, are now meticulously stored in my mobile. Where once I could not wait for them to leave in the morning so I could ring my friends and start arranging my day, minus their memory now I find myself almost wishing they would offer to spend the day, hasty exits once so normal now gnaw at me like a huge rejection.
And the sex bit, god-help-me-for-saying-this, is not half as much fun when this little voice in the back of my mind is questioning the morals of the situation.