It’s been a weird day today, sunny and bright during my run, then rain, and now a hailstorm, storming like my head, writing about mirrors, memories, and friends – one whose cancer has been in remission for 10 years – it’s back, and she has always done her best to hide it, we’re not that close, but close enough for it to hurt, hurt like the hail falling outside, scattering the birds in my garden – I feel for her husband, who I’m a little closer to, and her son who I watched grow from a silent three-year-old to an outgoing teenager,
but that isn’t what I was going to write about today; I’m fixated on mirrors, staring at myself, my body, still strong, approaching another birthday, still worth looking at, if you are old enough to appreciate a fine wine through the wrong part of your varifocals – well, maybe not that bad, I haven’t got enough for the southern move to be that significant, and I keep myself in shape, good shape, it’s what’s inside that you can’t see in my mirror, but it’s there poking fun at me – too many mistakes in my life, too much ego, not enough compassion, and plenty of love for sale, not for sale exactly, but lots left to give and lots of desire waiting to be fulfilled, yet I look again, and I see my friend, imagine that my days are numbered like hers, but she’s not my only friend counting days, too many, and I’m counting them, too, along with them, even though my end is more obscure, two days, two years, twenty, fifty, who knows,
her body at least betrays its weakness, she knows to put her affairs in order, but I’m still looking for affairs, expecting tomorrow to come as the clock ticks silently within, unknown, my guardian angel standing at my back protecting me – from what? – who knows, my friend knows, her angel fights furiously guiding her doctors, eeking out as much existence as she can from her tired body, while I abuse mine,
assaulted by memories and mirrors, I haven’t got the stomach for sex today, mistakes, navel-gazing, lost loves, loves not-so-lost but out of reach – I want to smash that mirror, at least I’d get those seven years of bad luck guaranteed, put them in the bank and suffer through them, alone as usual, but not quite alone, still more alone than I want to be, but I’m too picky to find someone else, other than that skinny, tall, aging woman in the mirror with hazel eyes and dyed hair, struggling to stay 29 in her comfy blue sweatshirt and torn jeans, she judges me, she punishes me for thinking about him, my dying friend, my narcicism … those memories, those dreams …
oh accusing mirror, it’s all your damn fault!
This morning was one of the coldest of the year here. My black Nike tights, the ones that should have been a forgotten item of apparel by now, came out of the drawer again, along with my white Nike thermal top. That’s right, cold is black and white to me and branded discreetly with little Nike wings on my ankles and left breast. That one was hidden under my blue Nike sweatshirt, which is my almost daily companion, hot or cold. In case you are wondering, my shoes are Nike, too. I’m a mobile Nike advert. You can’t see that which isn’t Nike, my underwear, and I’ll leave that to your imagination.
I expected it to be the usual cold 5-mile Tuesday morning slog (Wednesdays and Saturdays are my long days), but this morning I was greeted by a hot air balloon, hovering about 30 ft over the field that I was passing. It couldn’t have been more than 50 yards away from me. I think they had stalled there, as the air was perfectly calm. They must have been freezing their tootsies off! (I’d warmed up by then.) It would have been fitting for the balloon to be branded Nike, but no. Coincidence didn’t run quite that far today. It was a bright red Virgin … you know, Richard Branson, et al. Is he a virgin? One wonders. Maybe he was when he formed his company. He was probably barely out of short pants then. Anyway, it was a surreal sight at 7:15 am on a brutally cold, sunny, frosty morning. Cold seems colder here in the UK than it does elsewhere because it is so damp. It was really only about 25 degrees (F). About a mile further into my run I spied another balloon – no, not Nike either. This one had an ITV logo and had stalled in the next field over by the time I passed it again on my way back. The Virgin had fled to the local glider club’s airstrip about a half mile away.
That bit of excitement was a nice distraction, so I ran well today, but it also got in the way of my intended topic for this week’s missive. I was in the newsagent the other day, and I allowed myself to peruse the top shelf. For those who have never been to the UK, that’s where they keep the men’s mags. I’ve never understood why men are so obsessed with udders so large that women lean forward when they walk. I’ll stick with my lightweight, aerodynamic design. I’m rambling again. What intrigued me was all the talk about improving your sex life, satisfying your lover, punishing your girl (she’ll love it, they say – not me, thank you), 3-ways to prolong your sex, 10 ways to improve your sex, and 5 ways to attract your ideal woman. There was one story that spurred me on to this topic, and I (in my dotage) have completely forgotten the title. I think it was on the April Loaded. Their website is already onto May, and I couldn’t be bothered to trek around to find it again.
Of course, I didn’t read the articles, but they started loads of fantasies spinning around in my head, as such things do. Why this obsession with finding the perfect act, the perfect position, the attractions? It seems so simple to me. The single thing that attracts me to a man is that he is relaxed and self-confident without being too full of himself. He should be attentive to my needs without being overbearing. He should open doors for me, not because I’m a woman, but because it is polite to do so. This type of man cares about his appearance, but not too much. Individual features don’t matter. Applications will be considered; post them in my forum, but be advised that if you have resorted to that, you probably have already disqualified yourself. That means you are desperate.
How do you satisfy me as a lover? Simple:
1. Sex. Be adventurous and unpredictable, but not gross. I prefer being on top of you, but variety is a wonderful thing … and you know what, it doesn’t matter if either of us doesn’t orgasm, it’s the fun of getting there that pleases me. We can always try again, and we will hopefully.
2. Sex. I want to see you, to touch you, to be touched by you, and to be seen by you; that’ll start my ticker going. Talk to me, but keep it clean, and don’t distract me from what you are doing, and I won’t be offended if you tell me what you want. I may just do the same. Let your tongue do some of the talking and the walking, too.
3. Sex. A little moisture doesn’t hurt anybody – saliva, the other stuff, food products.
4. Sex. If you are interested, let me know. I don’t care if you are obvious, but if I’m not in the mood (when am I not in the mood?!), I’ll tell you. Don’t be afraid to initiate contact, and I won’t be either.
5. Sex. Touch me. Have I said that before? Touch me as often as you want, wherever you want, but don’t embarrass me in public.
6. More sex. I think I don’t need to go any further. You probably have the idea by now. Oh yes, don’t forget to kiss me. I want your tongue in my mouth (as well as the other places), and I want to taste you.
Damn, do I want it now! Where are you?! (You can find me in the shower.)