Erotic nostalgia


Woke up this morning feeling pretty coiled up in the best way. I walked around and discovered I was in the grip of some kind of sexual nostalgia. Sexual nostalgia may not be the best sort of nostalgia, but it’s just about the most fun. I figure most people have experienced it at some time or another. You know how it is, you recall all sorts of things connected to the sex act, from great roots to subtly erotic moments that linger a lot longer than any orgasm. Maybe that’s what it really is, erotic nostalgia rather than sexual. The erotic is much more than just the sex, it’s the mind too.

That probably explains that when these fleeting memories cross my mind they’re rarely about those rushed acts of sex that happen periodically. It’s not often you find yourself recalling a one night stand, satisfying as it might have been at the time. I’ve had sex with about half a dozen different women this year, and I struggle to recall much about most of them, and that’s been the same for years. I’ve never been one of those guys who keeps a running tally of conquests. I probably started off that way when I was about 17, but lost interest. I’m not really that kind of guy. In one way though it’s damning, because I have no idea of how many women I’ve been with, and I think likely that there are dozens I need some kind of hypnosis to recall.

There are things I do remember though, and in the best way – with a kind of tender eroticism. I remember an image from earlier this year, a girl lying naked beside me who turns and reaches for something on the bedside table. Her lovely arse is presented to me as I glance over. I see her puss slick from the sex we have just had, a tangle of dark hairs surrounding the tender pink meat of her. It’s a delicious sight that my mind snaps at that moment to preserve for posterity. I remember the same girl how she would steal into my room long after midnight, take off her clothes and lay beside me. In the dark we would fuck. By contrast to the other memory, at the time I was ‘all there’ – it’s only in hindsight do I recognise the romantic lyricism of those times.

There’s a girl, giggling, who tries to fuck me in the bath – always a difficult operation; and who later, out having a drink, guides my hand done the front of her knickers to her hungry vag – while she looks at me with a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa.

Of course, there is something intensely rousing in all of this. Strange too, there is also something touchingly tender in the recollection.

Before the parade begins


I woke early this morning. I was warm under the sheet and felt myself fully awake. I lay there without thought until I remembered a girl I had seen on TV last night. Then I remembered something I had meant to do and hadn’t and got up with Rigby trailing after me to check my email in the next room.

I opened the blinds and went back to bed. It was light outside with the sky full of early morning cloud. I had slid the window open and the cool waft of air was fresh against my bare skin. After four days of hot weather it felt pleasant. I looked out towards the window. It seemed so serene. I’m hardly ever awake at this time of morning – well before 7 – so perhaps it is always like this, but it seemed unusual. It did not feel like a workday morning. I knew from my own experience that all over the city people were climbing out of bed to shower and dress and to head off to work on train or bus. There was no sense of that outside though. It was still as if everyone slept in. There was no disturbance, nobody that I could discern all suited up on their way to the station. A bird chirruped. I felt peace.

I thought of the girl again. I’d been surprised at the impression she’d made on me, a boyish, almost tomboyish figure of a woman now near 40. She came across as intelligent in the program I’d watched, and self-willed, a person very much herself with her own view of things. I had a few erotic moments bringing her to mind before I wondered where she fit into the dichotomy. What was the attraction? What did it say about me?

I listened to the news on the radio then got up padding around the house in the ubiquitous tracksuit pants. I fed Rigby, made my coffee, then returned to bed, Bruce Springsteen singing Born to Run into the stillness that I listened too remembering before switching the radio off again. I picked up the copy of the Monthly magazine folded open by the side of my bed and began to read. It was the Christmas issue with bonus fiction included. I read a few stories that have now left my head. Then I read another by Steven Amsterdam that I thought was very good. It stayed with me as I lay back contemplating it and the slowly brightening world outside, the fantastic twist.

Rigby lay on the end of the bed with his body flush against my legs. He watched me with keen eyes, or else lay with his snout between his front paws and looked outside at the unvarying stillness. I sipped my coffee.

I thought how good this was. It was nothing really, but somehow just good. I felt completely aware. I was in that state they call self-remembering, the bonus being that these were moments I thought I wanted to remember. I wondered if some insight were just around the corner waiting for me to discover it. It felt as if I might learn something I needed to, or else that something would happen when the stillness passed and I was back in the world. Something unexpected but good.

I picked up the magazine again and read an excellent article on singer-songwriters by Robert Forster. By now it was just past 8. I picked up one of the books sitting by the bed and read a story by Andrey Platonov. It was still quiet outside, the birds now squawking as if communicating with each other. I drained my coffee and got up to sit in the dim light of my study and record these moments before I lost them altogether.

The day is ahead. It is not 9 yet. In a moment I will switch on to the present. I will shower and then breakfast and begin to tick off the list of things I have to do. Whether something happens or not I do not know, but doubt. Insight comes, and it goes too. The day will end and I will sleep and another day will come with all forgotten of these moments but what I record of them here and now, and for a hundred years to come.

 

Wikipedia: A founder of modern phonetics, he is known especially for his History of English Sounds.