Who needs a car? I love that travel here necessarily involves intimate contact with hundreds, thousands. For many, this overwhelms, For me, it enraptures.
This morning, a woman – taller than I’m usually drawn to – walked before me. Her long legs were muscular, toned, and a short red cotton dress hung on her. She climbed a flight of stairs and inevitably, I wondered: would I see up her dress? Was she wearing panties? What color? What kind? (I’m not really that particular kind of letch, really. But I did think these things.) And quickly, instantly, I traveled to want.
I didn’t want her, exactly. It was undifferentiated, amorphous. And maybe “want” is the wrong way to conceptualize what happened. I saw her. I appreciated her beauty. That appreciation registered in my brain and in my cock. I didn’t get hard – no, I’m not 17 any more. It takes more than a pretty woman to get me hard. But I did register a tingly, alive sensation in my cock. And that sensation is like a pretzel, or an M&M: more than being pleasurable, it triggered hunger for more.
So there I was, walking up a flight of stairs, wanting more. But what did I want more of?
Truth be told, it wasn’t that woman. No.
I wanted more of that sensation in my cock.
I started fantasizing (I often do) about the behaviors in which I used to engage constantly, endlessly, deceptively, destructively, and, in particular, the two most passive of those: strip clubs and massage parlors. What’s appealing about those places is their effective delivery – and maintenance – of that sensation I felt watching this woman on the stairs. A sense of “being alive,” centered in my cock.
But those behaviors don’t function as they appear: they don’t just give me that sense of being alive. They also make me feel numb, dead. As I’ve written elsewhere, I craved both sides of this experience.
Today, I don’t. I only crave the “alive” part.