too late

I’ve been afraid of old age for a long time. For a while it was simply mourning the loss of lovely smooth flesh, seen in my parents and later in their retirement community. The grotesque folds, wrinkles, discolourings,  and abraded-paper effects dismayed, appalled me. I felt no threat personally but I regretted all the lost beauty and inevitable ugliness.

There was a period of unease as I saw such things impending, even wondering about the patterns the wrinkling might take; but fearing most the effect on women I might hope to befriend. That (failed hopes for friendships) went on for a lengthy period, but I seldom thought my flesh was the repellent at work. There was such a feast of causes from which to choose. There seemed at times very little health in me; nor was there.

Then I met a Someone. She seemed very funny (the dimples! the dimples!), seemed to know a lot, with unusual, interesting tastes, followed me home, said she could talk theology for hours, and when I took her to visit my folks she wreathed my mother’s face with smiles by tying her shoelaces, and rubbed balm into the ruined flesh of my father’s arms. Oh, and I nearly forgot, very cute and strikingly beautiful, with flesh in most places rivaling the proverbial baby’s bum. Her breasts were perfect too. We were engaged by midsummer, as soon as the divorce papers came through (my ex-wife had been pushing for a divorce for perhaps seven or eight years). We had bought a house with “potential, potential, potential”. Obviously I never need be concerned again with the anerotic effect of my figured flesh. (I suppose I haven’t mentioned, because I thought it must be obvious; we were head-over-heels in love.)

Once the mood had shifted, by perhaps 182 degrees (see accompanying blog  Bitterbuoy)  the issue of my decadent flesh did come up, unfavourably. 

Now it makes no difference at all. When the woman I (still) love pushed me out of bed for good, sex lost its overwhelming appeal, and seemed to grow smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. If I haven’t been quite clear: My lost love is still the only one who might be able to stir my loins, but only if she, say, kissed me, say, on the mouth; and scrupulous and particular as she became about our physical contact, I feel I can safely say: That will never happen.