I catch the tram into the city where I meet with a girl for a wine in the city square. We sit in the dwindling sunshine wondering if the rain will come. We part. I walk down towards Southbank, to an early reunion with my ex-colleagues, some of which have become ex-since I left. We share philosophical smiles and barbed observations on the job that was, smiling as we sip on our pints. The crowd builds and gathers around us, a pretty crowd while the rain begins to fall outdoors.
I dash then to Fed Square to meet with the Publisher. We share a drink at a bar before fronting the Press Club. We are let in, we share a reasonable meal unequal to the hype and the conversation catching up after a month or two absence. Outside we part, she to her car, me to the tram trundling me home.
Throughout all of this the mind ticks over, eyes flit from side to side, taking things in, processing, comparing, contrasting to what I know, what has come before, what I want. At home it continues even as I sit watching the footy; I wake up this morning and it goes on. This morning though there is something tangible.
There seem two things happening in me now and for the last few months. I can't argue against either. One is wishing for other things: sometimes I actually yearn. The other is more pragmatic, a reasonable – and pleasurable – response to the reality of the non-wish fulfilled reality.
Last night is like so many others. Sometimes there is more in it. As I went from one place to another last night I felt the now familiar throb that had me searching for release. There was none last night, but it is never far away.
I go from flirting with women I find attractive to conversing with women I find diverting to fucking women I find desirable to remembering women I loved. There's a cycle that will continue until there is something to break it – love perhaps, or a time when no-one wants to fuck me.
I am bored and then I am addicted. I dream wistfully, sometimes sentimentally, I find myself wondering if things might have been different and then thinking well it wasn't, to wondering why it is so hard to find that again. Then in its place is filled lust, razor sharp and irresistible, but why resist? If I can't have one then why not the the other?
I go from civilised conversations with civilised women who claim I look like Colin Firth – yes, Colin Firth (though I don't) – to others who claim I should go into politics, more than once now, claiming every time "I'd vote for you", to others, random others, slinky Cuban's with skin I want to lick so beautifully cocoa-like it is; to a beautiful Korean with long nipples and skin so soft that it is a sensual just to caress; and buxom Aussie girls with fun in their hearts.
I spoke the other night with Whisky. He is back in the saddle again, so to speak, after months of abstinence. He feels better for it, and why wouldn't he? Sex is normal I said, it makes you feel part of the human race, it settles and releases those things that only sex can. Sex is normal, healthy, good. And it is.
I see no reason to stop, on a pleasurable roll after all and besides I don't know if I could, desire begets desire. Still it is not how I want to live forever, no matter how many leggy Cuban's or buxom Turks may tempt me, it is what you do when there is nothing better – no-one better – to do, to be with. That is what I want though, what I find my thoughts returning even as I watch a girl slide her panties back on, this is fine, good, necessary, but I want you, only you, and forever.