lust on a leash

Granted I am older now, but my lust, tho attended by one testicle and concerns--dad's last known erection at my age, remains intense. However I lust more for the soul of a woman than her body. Impossible before Had She Said Yes expressed, differently, her former longing to articulate love with another sexually.

Remarkably I had recently expressed a desire to make love with a woman once again before I die. Avid reader of The (Beloved) Sphinx, she seemed affirmative, tho throughout our few dialogs regarding conjugal affairs she defined them as aggression.

Prehended now, revealed transparently, my angst, attempting to express and affirm love for any woman beginning with mom. Healing seldom is achieved via full frontal attack. Instead it seems, now. sidereal and subtle.

One point advantage to Jack; who once thought Anais Nin, Henry Miller and Casanova immoral characters in pornography, has learned differently reading their writing and has begun to understand the moral and ethical concerns surrounding the double-backed (sometimes!) dance inherent. Consequent.

She is/was, once and forever, a hospice nurse with whom, given the circumstance (of those about to die and their care givers) intimacy of this kind was near if not blatant. Apparently had I made love a thousand times one thousand more, I could never have know the joy of our intercourse, chaste as yet.

Pleasure, happiness, happy endings, all seem now less, and fleeting, by compare the larger openness I know with women; all joy. The angst, tears, despair, depression, despondency, reconciled and balanced with purpose, I can be whatever man I want. Free at last. Oh Lord God Almighty, FREE AT LAST!

Remarkably for a man, knowing men well, I was tremulous for the trip-wire of distrust. Not just in the 'act' but surrounding all ordinary life . . . my darkened room with the floor covered in marbles traveled. What they claimed as “stepping on eggs” with me.

If I laugh at myself now it is merely for the joy of having that root synapse welded whole. Free to write fleshy, lubricious, sweaty, anything; but most of all erotica poetic. Each of us, regardless of how evil we seem to others, including ourselves, is a gem refracting light uniquely as snowflakes, all different. To heal we must be transparently ourselves. If I speak of M and/or Had She Said Yes, I rarely mention the interlocutor who, tho overtly silent, is always present. An audience of one. One who speaks with many voices. Remaining the Author of All Things. Spoken of as by many names.

Do you think me making this up? I am not near so cleaver, wise, learned; mantled with no authority save the principality of myself. I suggest nothing but what I sense possible and inherent in all life.

"Therapy isn't curing somebody of something; it is a means of helping a person explore himself, his life, his consciousness. My purpose as a therapist is to find out what it means to be human. Every human being must have a point at which he stands against the culture, where he says, "This is me and the world be damned!" Leaders have always been the ones to stand against the society — Socrates, Christ, Freud, all the way down the line." - Rollo May

For these gifts, apprehended from the three personalities above, excluding May, I will move forward into what I don't know. But sure to make up something more that will make me laugh raucously. Silent. Listening. When face-to-face with thou/Thou. Never and no one an it.

Choice, you do have one. If you don't, life will make one or all of them up for you.

Celebrating what you make of your once, only once? precious life.

Were I never to lie with another, through the night, this embrace, I experience, is enough. Each breathe being forever respired.

“Tomorrow! - Why, tomorrow I may be Myself with yesterday's sev'n thousand years.” - Omar Khayyam

130501 03:40 MDT lust on a leash

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved