Holy sex

There are times I think I’m getting too old to still be a sex fiend. I’m secretly happy about it (in that macho sense – plus it’s fun), but I wonder all the same whether I should not have matured beyond it. This is the first time I’ve been this age, so I don’t really know how it’s meant to be. This is all uncharted territory for me, but there’s no lack of instruction. There’s a whole industry these days built up about questions of lifestyle, and if you’re ever in doubt ‘society’ is there to give you a nudge and it’s unfiltered feedback. That’s part of the issue. There’s a lot of feedback, both direct and indirect.

There’s a lot of me laid bare on this site, in all my magnificent complexity. I resist being pigeon-holed. I might be sexual, might occasionally be predatory, but I’m also kind, gemtle and romantic. They’re broad brushstrokes, but there’s a lot in between and around – and typical of human nature, some that is occasionally contradictory. That’s how humans are made.

Maybe that’s how we’re made, but society rarely draws such fine distinctions. Society tends to see in black and white. It generalises, and in so doing overlooks the nuances and ignores the exceptions. As I’ve often spoken of, public opinion pretty well scrapes along at the lowest common denominator. Individual opinion is often better than that, but it will generally start somewhere about the middle.

Now I’ve been into girls since I was about 11, when most of my schoolmates thought them a bit icky. It went on from there, and I’ve harboured strong desires pretty well ever since, without any noticeable decline. As I’ve been single for most of that period, travelled widely and lived socially I’ve met a lot of women and had a lot of fun – which is sex sometimes, but also flirtation, conversation, and stimulation that goes beyond the physical. I don’t know if I have one regret. I’ve had some great times.

Now generally society will cut you a bit of slack as a virile lad. Up to a point there’s a grudging admiration, and even some subtle encouragement. As you get older it becomes less acceptable and you find yourself looked upon as a bit of an outsider to the cloistered world most of your friends and colleagues have gained entry to – that of matrimonial bliss and parenthood. The girls disapprove, mostly, the boys with a wink and a nudge are happy to live vicariously through you – whilst returning to the safe embrace of ‘home’.

Dating is more complex. Guys like me are often termed players, because we date a lot, are single, and enjoy sex. It’s more complex than that, like I say, but whatever. I hear all the time how women want nothing to do with players, and I understand that. If you’re seeking a serious relationship what’s the point of going out with a serious dater who seems intent on getting into your pants, and no more?

But guess what – I want the same thing. I don’t need to be dating different women all the time. I’d rather be with the one woman I love, adore and trust. But hey, you know that aint easy. I’ve got to meet women to search for the one who I might be happy with. And if that ultimate joy is not to be found with them, then I’m happy to find some transient pleasure along the way. What’s wrong with that? Isn’t that perfectly sensible? I’m not a monk, I like sex, I like intimacy, fuck it, let’s go.

When push comes to shove I think many women who proclaim one thing are happy to acknowledge this. Desire is not sexist. Most women I meet state that they won’t have sex on a first date, but my experience tells me otherwise. Likewise, while I understand there is some caution regarding men like me considered to be more out there, I know that many women also find that element exciting.

I like sex. Muchly. I like intimacy. I like taking a girl’s clothes off and discovering her naked bits. I like the feel of her skin on my fingers, like her murmuring in my ear, the little gasps and groans, I like her body shifting and writhing and arching with the pleasure of it, like to feel her wetness, love to taste her, love her tasting me, love her nibbling and teasing, love how our eyes meet, how the smiles spontaneously come, love how instinctively – in the best sex – we know exactly what the other wants, and move in sync to gift it. Why wouldn’t I enjoy that? Why would I deny myself that?

The other week I was with a girl. She was a delight. She was of Croatian heritage, though Melbourne born, dark and dangerous looking with intense, unblinking eyes. We were to fuck each other, nothing more, but we did it with joy. Clothes were off in a jiffy, my hands sliding over her curves, over her stiff nipples, between her parted legs. She was one of those women you love having sex with because she took an absolute and unabashed pleasure in it. There’s nothing like a willing and happy partner in bed. Likewise she was generous to me, taking pleasure in mine. We talked sometimes, giggled a little here and there, just having fun. Then there was a moment when I’m lying there and she’s bent over me, her arse towards me, her head bent, her long dark hair brushing against my skin. I looked at her as if really seeing her, one of those moments when your eyes are wide open and you sense something profound at work.

She was tanned, her body athletic and toned. Her arse presented to me looked like a heart. Her pussy was wet and bristling with moist dark pubic hairs. As she shifted it gaped at me and I felt something go ping. This is what I know, I thought. This is something that means as much to me as anything else that might be holy. I had been there, lived a life, journeyed here and abroad, met women, here and there, of every country, had looked at them like this, been drawn to them, as I was now. So many moments, so many stories, so much in between, and this, always this, something that I return to, again and again.

It feels strange to write that, but it felt so strong. I’m not a religious man. I’m strong, independent, and inclined to go my own way – and perhaps that is why I’m single still. There’s nothing profound I really believe in or cling to, outside of my own principles. This connection though was an irregular constant. Here, in these moments, is a kind of union that is mostly physical – but intimate – and sometimes more. It’s true that men will often define themselves in some way by their penis – but the penis itself is defined by the vagina it seeks.

That’s enough for a Sunday afternoon, and you can take it or leave it. It’s no surprise to me that I do what I do, and what I feel about it. It won’t change. The bigger question might be why I’ve failed to meet that one person I’ve been looking for. That’s another story, but until I do find her I’m not going without.

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