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
