Aging

I’ve been investing in myself with more solitary, even solipsistic, forms of sex and sexuality. Maybe this is a little bit about my growing older… All I know is that there’s a distinct shift and ebbing.

Fourteen years since climbing out of the wreckage, and I’ve never felt more alive—despite the limp, the pain, the aging. Death is a constant companion, sure, but so is desire, vitality, absurd good fortune, and the bittersweet weight of knowing I’m right at the peak.

I grapple with pervasive sadness about aging, beauty, and desire.

After years of D/s relationships, my presumptuous and demanding habits are causing missteps as I start dating older, more experienced women.

I never used to cry, but now, I dry at the drop of the hat. Here’s what’s made me cry the last couple of days.

I’m not old, but I’m definitely getting older.

When my wife and I gaze into one another’s eyes, we have to each pull back six inches or so to bring the other into focus. If you’re over forty, you know what I’m talking about.