Mr. Man’s hand continued to explore my bare skin under my shirt and stroke the hair. My desire and pulse increased in
intensity with each stroke of his hand. As our bodies moved closer together, his unusual anatomy was more revealing. His chest, though tiny for a grown man, was rock solid especially at the shoulders. I could feel and see how his shoulders developed out of proportion with the rest of his body. His shoulders felt hard and solid like an avid bodybuilder but in a small package. This was intriguing and my mind wandered as I thought about how he spend a lifetime pulling himself up using his upper body; He had done this several times during our visit and I also observed this the night we met when he pulled himself up from the couch. Initially, when as head rested on his chest I noticed this anomaly which inspired me to work my way over his entire chest with my hand…..
The decision to invite Mr. Man to my house to see the Graduate with me, a film made decades before the “cougar” euphemism, was an affectionate way of warning him about sexual involvement with an older woman. My intentions and his responses to this activity were nothing like I expected. The process of sharing this entertainment media revealed many things about the person Mr. Man is and the circumstances of his childhood. It became crystal clear as we watched “the Graduate” that they way he grew up was nothing like my childhood. He was not able to relate personally to the LA upper class suburban lifestyle parodied and made surreal in this film where as it had always been relatable to my paradigm. In the midst of these differences being revealed, I observed how quick and unafraid he was to ask questions and seek explanations for societal norms before his birth or outside the experiences of his short life. This humility inspired an increasing respect for him and admiration for his courage. He was revealing his tremendous potential which complicated my clean, detached, and objective approach to this pending affair.
His willingness to learn and not appear more experienced than his age was a pleasant surprise. As I layed in the presence of such humility and courage, I didn’t mind stopping to explain words and concepts and give mini and micro-sociological history lessons. The significant women’s history lesson, pertinent to the film, was describing the sad position women lived by when the Graduate was produced and released. He gave me a puzzled look when I explained the phenomena; I was born into, known as the Mrs. Degree where women went to college to find husbands, not to earn degrees. My father worked hard at ensuring that my sister’s and I earned a college education. Our father constantly lectured us to avoid marrying too young and to first earn a college degree, procure our own income and security before seeking marriage. I realized, as we watched the pathetic unhappy Mrs. Robinson, how much this movie was a composite of all my father’s efforts that I was also exposed to frequently growing up, in my formative years, and into my young adulthood. Since Mr. Man was so so open to learning things outside of his reality, I made sure that he caught all the subtle nuances of the film not just the fictitious Mrs. Robinson’s character being representative of women going to college to find a husband, but also being forced to get married due to unplanned pregnancy. All events to follow this afternoon and evening, a tiny grain of sand in time, we shared would implode in a literary irony that even my long life was not prepared to endure.
Growing up watching The Graduate in multiple sittings, the main character was relatable to how I grew up and I had always taken this for granted. Mr. Man had a hard time understanding the suburban upper class post college homecoming. I had learned that Mr. Man had grown up under different circumstances with a single mother and upon his mother’s remarriage became a Marine brat. He told me in one of our earlier text conversations that his father died when he was very young, so he never knew him and his mother remained single until she married a Marine when he was 13, which is how he ended up in this area. I found out within the first 10 minutes of
meeting him that he had no further scholastic intentions and had made up his mind to seek a working class blue-collar high paying industrial type profession. Everyone I had ever known who chose this path spent the fair level of income on cheap bulk liquor, cigarettes and drugs. This will likely be his fate, but since he is only 21 the impact has not spoiled him yet.
As the movie played, and the plot progressed, I continued to explain the class and generations of the characters as they had been explained to me watching the graduate with family from the time I was a little girl to the formative years and into adulthood. At one point, I was worried that he might be bored, so I checked with him and his response surprised me. He actually said “I am really into this movie” In that moment I was impressed and felt warm towards him, but I had no idea that the source of his peaked interest in this film would end up leaving me the blinded fool, left out in the biting cold without a parka.
I was baffled as I had half expected our interaction to be awkward and that like Mrs. Robinson and Benjamin Braddock, we would end up having nothing to talk about or say to each other. I could not believe that I was relating to him far beyond my expectations and this only increased my desire and anticipation. We remained side by side, watching the movie, as he continued to keep his hands to himself. There were no subtle manipulative schemes to get closer to me physically. Mr. Man stay, the same guy with bold words of lustful desire for me, stayed put.
Out of the corner of my eye I looked at the side of his body angled away from me from the head down. On the bean bag chair the two of us made a triangle with our heads and the tip. When I blinked, my body felt the full sensation of his near presence, I could smell him, I was hearing and breath that touched my skin while circling through my body with every shift of his body or subtle movement.
His whole hand was on the same side, I was, as it happened, and I found myself reaching over and placing each finger in between each of his and as we moved our palms together, I rested my forearm on his and my elbow rested inside the bend of his arm. He shifted slightly and everything fit into place like a puzzle. Periodically, he stroked my hand, back and forth with his thumb.
My weak, injured hand was wrapped in his that was not deformed, yet I was not hurt by his grip as so often a man’s hand grip would unintentionally hurt me. With one eye I continued to watch the film and with the other I stared at his bronze skin either from the sun or a small percentage of a culture with a darker brown skin or both. He did not reek of nicotine as I had expected and his sweat was intoxicating to breathe. Mr. Man had not recognized the very young Dustin Hoffman in his first movie. It was the Dustin Hoffman before I was born, so for him the gap in years was wide. There was a commentary after the movie ended where Dustin Hoffman with longer hair and a few grey hairs speaking at which point Mr. Man did recognize him.
I turned the TV off with my toes and naturally found myself placing my head on his chest and nestling myself into his willing arms. His heartbeat pulsated through my right temple so strong that I it reverberated through my head and ears while also feeling his hand stroking my hair and neck. I thought about how his “normal” hand, the one not deformed by birth defect, must have the power of two hands from a lifetime of compensation. Several times I reached over to touch and stroke his deformed hand, working my fingers through every crevice, each finger not fully developed, the small birth defected palm with the sprout like fingers frozen in his time of early childhood jutting out the end of his half palm. His tiny fingers subtly grasp my fingers as they moved about exploring the entire oddity of this hand, not like any other hand on any other person, a beautiful shaped in all its deformity. I could even feel the lines on his palm, not fully developed, cut short by finger sprouts nearly as thick as the fingers of a grown man, but soft, short, and delicate like a toddler. With every movement of my fingers grazing his tiny fingers, my heart became warmer, as his heart pounded into my right temple faster and harder, while his other full hand crept down from my neck into my back and waist. His fingers slipped under my shirt and traveled across my waist. I became aware of the firm, elastic of my leggings wrapped around my waist, as his fingers butted against the edge like a refuge fighting the border, desperate to navigate a way past the barred entry and enter. It reminded me of all the times in my high school years when boys, full of determination, would run their hand across the elastic of my bra trying to find the hook, which was always up front in my control. I am sure he knew how to get past the waistband; perhaps he wanted to sneak his hand in without being obvious. The sun was setting in the outside world, bringing back the luminous quality of our respective physical features. If Mr. Man had not been there with my head on his chest and his fingers stroking the skin under my shirt, I may have been outside gazing at the moon and the wonder of the desert’s endless night sky.
The power of the night sky could be felt from inside and the luminous quality the moon coated the darkness illuminating the two of us in an intense embrace of pre-coital anticipation.
“This is nice…” He said with a tone that was relaxed, but also eager, as I continued to stroke his chest with one hand and unbutton my shirt with the other.
Cougar in the Hunt Part 9 and 10, too hot for a public blog, will be part of my Wisdom From the Galaxy Ebook! Submit a comment and your email for a discount! One random subscriber will receive Ebook FREE. Ebook will be available November 15th! Sneak Preview!
As a woman over 40, pushing 50, I have created this blog for the purposed of using my writing skills to create something
especially meaningful to women. The best show of appreciation, since this blog is brand new, is feedback, sharing my site with others, and a donation of any amount in that order. Even a small donation, will go a long way to support my gourmet coffee habit!
On election day, I work from 5am to 9:30pm as a poll worker. This election was especially challenging given that it was a primary and the numerous issues surrounding this particular change of command. I have had to take a break from writing and podcasting but will be back up to speed by Monday, June 13th.
As a woman over 40, pushing 50, have created this blog for the purposed of using my writing skills to create something especially meaningful to women. The best show of appreciation, since this blog is brand new, is feedback, sharing my site with others, and a donation of any amount in that order. Even a small donation, will go a long way to support my gourmet coffee habit.
I have drawn the fool card so many times in my life; the first tarot card ever drawn on my behalf was the Fool, though it was not the first time I was dealt the fool. The Fool card is not necessarily attributed to the foolish qualities we associate with people who make poor choices or the naiveté understandable in youth. Did I draw the fool card that fateful moment Mr. Man’s hand made contact with my knee?
It would seem that I did, but at the time I was certain Mr. Man had drawn the fool card. After all, he was hypnotised, taken in by my unintended prowess, exaggerated and romanticized by his lack of life experience. I was so cautious of his natural fool stage of life, afraid of him falling over the cliff, I did not realize I was the one on the edge of the cliff as the true fool.
The cougar mythology was never curious or tempting to me, or my paradigm. I don’t enjoy the company of kids in their early 20s. My ego doesn’t crave validation that I look younger than my age; when I look in the mirror it is clear that age has only created subtle changes, which I attribute only to hereditary, not luck or some magic-potion-cosmetic concoction designed to make money from women afraid to grow old. My attraction to Mr. Man, even mixed with repulsion, was a feeling, and had nothing to do with defying my age. I never feel the need to convince myself that I am like a woman in her early 20s; what I experience is my real biological age. My encounter with Mr. Man revealed an additional curiosity. Why would any mature, accomplished woman want to relive her tumultuous youth?
As the gathering at J&P’s was winding down, from a collective cognizant of the impending dawn, Mr. Man said with a tone of confusion and worry, “Oh no! I just realized something. My car is at the bar!”“Yes, you came in my car and as such I will take you back,” I replied.
“Okay” he responded with relief and I wondered what would make him feel stranded all of a sudden.
I was not going to leave without making sure that Vanessa had a safe ride home. I wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to go home with Tin-Man, though I did know Tin-Man was determined to take her home with him. I inquired with Tricia, a few times and since I didn’t have enough gas, Tricia said she would make sure Finesse made it back home. As we said goodbye,Tricia let me know that Finesse decided to go home with Tin-Man. The four of us piled into my car, Finesse and Tin-Man in the back seat, Mr. Man and I in the front, me at the wheel, this time around.
As we reached the parking lot, still affected by alcohol, Finesse, Tin-Man, and myself became loud enough for Mr. Man to tell us that we ought to keep our voices down. I immediately said, “You are right, we are too loud and after all it is 4:30 am.”
“No, I didn’t mean you,” Mr. Man said, with a tone of worry, at the mere idea that he may have let me think that I had come down from the highest pedestal, so far out of his reach. “It is okay,” I said with no more authority or assurance than he had given me, “…nothing wrong with pointing it out. The two of them are souzed and I am well aware of my gift of projection,” It was clear that to Mr. Man I could do no wrong. The problem with being lifted up on a pedestal is the eventual and inevitable fall.
I gazed over in Mr. Man’s direction, as I began anticipating the pending goodbye, knowing the desires he had made poignantly clear, thereby imagining his pending expectations. As it happened, his physical stance was as unassuming as it had been all evening. There were no schemes to force me to be alone with him in the darkness of predawn. He did not manipulate any situation so that he could pull me aside or steal moments alone with me. The only discussion was the logistics of going to Finesse’s house so they could get her dog and go back to Tin-Man’s place. Much of my mental energy was on Finesse and if it was a good idea for her to be swept away by Tin-Man. Despite my reservations, I was impressed with Tin-Man’s willingness to accommodate Finesse’s dog and again, it made me think of Mr. Wonderful doing the same for my bunny Galaxy, every time we were together. I did have other assurances as to Finesse’s presence of mind during the short car ride from J&P’s house.
In the back of my car, Finesse made it verbally clear to Tin-Man what her physical boundaries would be during their impending sleepover. She systematically listed what they could do together and what was off-limits. I was relieved to hear this, and I also felt a confused frustration coming from Mr. Man in my passenger’s seat. As I turned into the dirt parking lot of the Saloon, I said to Vanessa in a playful stage whisper, “He touched my knee! He touched my knee!” I heard and felt Mr. Man shift quick and sharp in his passenger’s seat, as he said out loud to himself “Now, I am confused.” I never figured out what he meant. Was it possible that he had no ideas that he had touched my knee?
When we did say goodbye, he said, “I really had a great time with you
tonight,” as I reached down to hug him. As his arms reached out from his blanket jacket and around my waist I said, “I would invite you over for breakfast, but that is only a couple of hours from now.”
I saw his face shadowed by the darkness, while tinted with the artificial lights around us. I saw longing in his expression, though it could have been his exhaustion. Tin-Man hugged me and in the first serious tone I heard all night, he said “It was so nice to meet you, it was really fun.” As the three of them were about to enter Mr. Man’s car, I said to Finesse, “Can you him my phone number” I felt my arm flex as I pointed in his direction as if there were several choices available and he was the winner. As soon as the words came out, I realized what I had said and when I asked myself why I had made this gesture, I did not have an answer. Whatever I was doing was of my own free will, yet I felt like I was relinquishing control to a force outside of me. I honestly felt like I was under the mysterious spell of the hi-desert breezes whispering subliminal messages in my ear.
I arrived home just after 5am and my mind was racing about everything that had happened. The tailspin in my mind provided no clarity or answers. I had been touched Mr. Man, in a variety of ways, but this did not change him being young enough to be my offspring. As I settled down to go to sleep, amid text message exchanges checking in with Finesse, I found a text from Mr. Man. He addressed me and announced himself, then said “…I really had a great time with you and I hope we can do it again real soon..” Given the time between our goodbye and this moment, he must have sent this message to me the moment he dropped off Finesse and Tin-Man. Finesse told me later that he had referred to me as “really cool” and asked for my phone number before he drove away from Tin-Man’s apartment. As I looked at his text, my heart spun and the centrifugal forces caused a subtle vibration in my chest that caused my nipples to tingle to the point of feeling a sharp sensation. My finger was on a button, sensitive to the touch, yet I kept it there simply because it felt good.
Knowing I was acting on my own free will, but still feeling as if I was under a bizarre spell, I replied to the text with “me too.” As I tried to fall asleep, I asked myself why I would say this when I was resigned to not give into the attraction that transpired.
Despite the message being short and simple I read it several times. As I tried to fall asleep, aware of the sun coming up just outside my window, my mind raced with graphic fantasies of Mr. Man. My body could not help but stir restlessly amid fantasies of the unique shape of his body fitting right into mine like a hand entering a perfect fitting warm glove. My vivid imagination played like a movie picturing his absent leg and how the sensations of his odd and unique body shape, might feel. Despite a long life of a wide variety of unusual experiences, the feeling of a deformed body would be a first for me.
As the sun graced Valentine’s Day morning, I finally fell asleep as my fantasies created a spiral effect in my brain and spread throughout my entire body. I woke up around 1pm and checked in with Finesse allowing me to temporality escape my drama as I listened to her. She was at Tin-Man’s house with her dog and they had spent an innocent, above the waist night, together. By this time she was claiming to hope for things to work out with her co-habitant who had brutally dumped her. My frustration over her ability to forgive him, for all of his cumulative misdeeds, in addition to this cruel abandonment proved to be a distraction. By this time, I was also embarrassed at what had happened only hours prior, events that were fully transparent in the honest light of the midday sun. At the same time her sleepover with Tin-Man was also experiencing full sun. During our phone call Finesse was walking her dog, while looking for a place to eat outside Tin-Man’s apartment. As we spoke, literally, Tin-Man was with an impromptu female visitor bearing a Valentine Card.
On my side of town, the other half of Finesse’s drama had just darkened my front door, disrupting my thoughts of Mr. Man I was unable to escape in sleep. An unfamiliar car pulled in front of my house, while I was still in my nightshirt. I saw that it was Finesse’s boyfriend, who had dumped her, his face distorted by the sunlight making my face feel hot. When I realized who he was my face got hotter as I demanded, “What are you doing here?” I heard how angry I was in the tone of my voice and felt it on my tongue as I spoke. He wanted to know where Finesse was and reasoned that he was worried. To avoid more anger, I looked over at the car and saw Finesse’s mother in the driver’s seat, therefore I had no choice but to keep my cool. The awkward situation forced me to make up a scenario that everyone would believe, without lying, withholding the details since Finesse had every right to be anywhere she wished. I told them not to worry about her that I had just communicated with her. No one was satisfied and insisted on knowing where she was. I mentioned that we were together until 4:30 am and that she went to a friend’s house with her dog and would be back later. My words did little to diffuse the imposed drama. It was like they blamed me for her not being at my house.
I mentioned this to Finesse who had communicated with everyone via text messages earlier. Mr. Man and Tin-Man would be taking her back to J&Ps place. She notified me later that Mr. Man had seemed really sad. I had not rejected him yet, though I had intended to send him a “Dear John” text at some point that day. I feared that if I waited too long I might change my mind. I knew I couldn’t trust my mind that was proving unreliable under the intoxicating influence of my reckless body.
As a woman over 40, pushing 50, I have created this blog for the purposed of using my writing skills to create something especially meaningful to women. The best show of appreciation, since this blog is brand new, is feedback, sharing my site with others, and a donation of any amount in that order. Even a small donation, will go a long way to support my gourmet coffee habit
Having a companion rabbit is a magic that creates an incredible life balance. My Galaxy leaves me wanting for very little. Galaxy’s unique wisdom of the universe and many ages past, provides remarkable insights that would otherwise be hard to realize.
Is the power of intense attraction a force of nature or a force to be reckoned with? As empowered, free, a liberated women, how do we balance personal discretion and our myriad of choices?
Appreciation from a suitor, especially with a broken heart, is intoxicating and for me this reach was far beyond addiction. It was a rip-current literally pulling my body further out to sea. Swimming against the power of this current, for the rest of the evening to follow, was exhausting.
As the experienced adult in the situation, I kept the door to physical and personal intimacy locked with a dead bolt. Throughout the night, Mr. Man tried any number of keys in the hopes that one would fit and he could finally unlock the barrier keeping him from having me. Unrealistic promises were spread out like a royal rug at my feet with him on his knees eager to kiss and caress them.
Had I been in my early 20s the night I met Mr. Man I would have been fully taken in by these overtures. Mr. Man was not taking me anywhere, since I knew better, at least not by these means.
He continued to verbally corner me with his desire to be physically closer to me by inquiry. The Tin-Man and Finesse were displaying their affections out in the open. Their public physical displays were not vulgar or offensive, just not within my personal comfort zone. The intensity of his eye contact was impossible to miss or escape, as it followed me with skill and precision. The only time he took his penetrating green eyes off of me, was the moments when he was observing Tin-Man and Finesse across the coffee table. Clearly, Mr. Man looked to the Tin-Man actions for guidance.
“Why can’t we be like they are?” His voice reverberated eagerness, longing, hope, and least of all, a question I didn’t know if he wanted to be in bed with me or wanted to put his hands on me to navigate a future encounter. The alcohol and the hour of the night continued to wear me down, not to his explicit desires, but to my ability to discourage him or divert the conversation. All I could say was a few broken words that I know I could have articulated better. “They have known each other for years. You and I just met” There was no way he could dispute my logic, though he would negotiate with a solid strong will. Determined to negotiate my terms he began, “We are-” Sharply cutting him off I said, “…talking, just as we ought to be. There is nothing wrong with that.” He had already characterized himself and me as “we.”
For all his bold and explicit verbal expressions, he did not make a single physical advance, covertly or otherwise. He didn’t manipulate me or anyone else in an effort to trap me into being alone with him. All advances were verbal and while he was manipulative with words, the only physical overture was sitting shoulder to shoulder with me.
Earlier that evening, I made it clear to him that I did not like cigarette smoke. He had said he would throw his entire pack out for me, though I did not believe him. He got up from the couch, where we were sitting together and excused himself to go outside and smoke. Of course I let my disdain show, so he repeated his willingness to throw out the pack, but this time with a condition, “What am I going to get?” as if my body was the bargaining chip for his ability to save his own life. I couldn’t dignify this with an answer not just because it was absurd, but also because I wasn’t prepared to even consider all that he wanted. His direct communication was beginning to get obtrusive and I was feeling the pressure.
When he returned, the smell made it hard for me to breathe given that he reclaimed his position, right next to me our shoulder touching. I got up to plug-in my phone that was running low on battery and showed him more photos. The air coming in from the wide open door of the J&P’s studio distilled the nicotine smell that was making it difficult to breathe so my inhibitions were relaxed and relatively balanced. For some reason I was opening my personal life to him by showing him family photos including baby pictures. I opened Facebook infant photos most of which included my eldest sister, at six, followed by a current photo of her. I took the built-in opportunity to point out the contrast between my nearly identical mother and sister due to my mother’s chain-smoking. He was touched by the photos of me as an infant and the sight of my artwork photos raised the level of his infatuation.
At some point we went outside for fresh air where we continued to talked as I coughed.
“You don’t have to cough. You don’t like it, I get it.”
“It isn’t that. I grew up with a chain smoker who never opened windows, so I have chronic health issue and sensitivity. Even the resin on walls or clothes makes it hard to breath.” I went on to intimate to him that I watched my mother cough up chunks of green mucus at least once a day. His face was pensive and tried to express as much empathy as his lack of experience could accommodate. He also looked suspicious that I was trying to manipulate him, weakening his resolve to claim my body in exchange for nicotine abstinence. When I told him I was getting chilly he followed me back inside and we took our place on the couch.
With the prospect of morning drawing near he widened his tired eyes and adjusted his position to deepen his contact with my eyes, as if he could magically be permitted to touch me by hypnosis. His green eyes scanned my face as if they could capture me and carry me away. Somehow, if he could captivate me in the dark of the predawn maybe the sun wouldn’t take me away from him. Eyes penetrating me he persisted, “So? What are we doing?”
“We are talking,” I replied with an authority that sounded weaker in my fatigue.
“You know what I mean?” He said with a frustrated tone that he tried to soften with a growling whisper. My only ally was the strength of my adrenalin.
“At this stage in my life,” I said, trying to remind him of my advanced age, “I can’t afford to be impetuous,” He asked me to define impetuous, as if this was the golden key that would let him enter. I explained the word impetuous and he needed more so I said “Being impetuous is my nature, but I have learned to control it and use discretion.” He repeated my words back to himself as if he needed greater clarity. I knew I needed to tell him there was no way anything would happen, but my impetuous-attention-craving early 20s were creeping back in such a subtle manner, that I didn’t notice. Part of me enjoyed the attention that was constant when I was in my early 20s and the other part of me was exhausted. Theother part of me mighthavefelt it wasfartoo obtrusive, buttherewasno question I hadthe upper handand he was enslaved to his desires for me. He wasn’t satisfied, so he pretended to need more explanation and I knew he was young, yes, stupid no. I tried a subtle diversion tactic. Again calling attention to the severe gap in our stages of life. “When I was 19, 20, and 21 I was wild…” I was cut off by his face lighting up, like a second wind, so I hastened my tone. “…I was reckless and very impetuous. I onlygotawaywith it because I wasso young; I wouldnever live throughthethingsthat I didthenatthis stage in my life.” He turned forward, reflectively, though not willing to concede. I continued “I believe, rather I know that there are special angels that work overtime for young people since they don’t know better.” He was impressed with my thoughtful expression and ability to articulate and while fully attentive to everything I was saying, he was not distracted from his acquisition.
As our gathering neared 4am, I asked him if he was tired, suggesting it was time to leave. I warned Mr. Man that Finesse would be slow-moving getting to the car. While we got ready to leave J&P’s after party, something happened, shattering the only resolve I had been clinging to the entire evening. Regardless of how flattering the overt attention felt, I had to be equally resigned to the reality that he was only 21.
As Mr. Man rose from being sunk down into the couch with me all of my resolve was shattered in an instant.
Once he was sitting fully upright, the palm of Mr. Man’s calloused hand landed on my knee. The skin of his palm touched my knee cap and each finger fell and wrapped around my knee. As his skin touch mine and a I felt the his grip an ignited desire traveled through my leg and to my pelvis. With his touch, I felt my stomach tighten reaching up to grip my chest as my entire leg trembled, though motionless, steadied under the weight of his grip. Clearly, it was unintentional, given that the entire evening he had not tried, even covertly, to force physical contact with me. While his forceful words were an overt expression of want of physical contact with me, this was the only time he actually put a hand on me. In this moment, the whole situation shifted from a clear logical decision to do what is right to complicated and compelling temptation. There was no denying that his hand on me caused me to feel strong sensations and the situation would no longer be a simple discretion. As of that moment, the struggle between the wisdom of my mind and the desires of my body would begin.
As a woman over 40, pushing 50, I have created this blog for the purposed of using my writing skills to create something especially meaningful to women. The best show of appreciation, since this blog is brand new, is feedback, sharing my site with others, and a donation of any amount in that order. Even a small donation, will go a long way to support my gourmet coffee habit.
By way of some mystery guy code, a fresh drink was placed on the table in front of me. Tin-Man and Mr. Man collectively offered to finance another margarita and simultaneously jumped up once they convinced me to accept. When confronted with the initial offer, my response was that I was driving, therefore I could not drink anymore. Mr. Man’s quick response offered a multitude of answers to my dilemma. He would drive me home; he would take me wherever I wanted to go; he would ensure that I made it home safe, and above all I was in his sober and capable hands. Finesse interjected a response to Mr. Man’s heroism by mentioning that we were invited to go to J&P’s for our usual after party. Mr. Man turned her way for the information and then turned his head back in an instant to fixate once again on my face. With soft questioning eyes, he said “If that is where you are going, then that is where I am going. I will go anywhere you are going. No matter where it is, if you will be there, I will be there.”
As Mr. Man made his declarations, including the promise to be my designated driver, Finesse giggled with hysterics at his direct, poignant, and bold pursuit of me. In this moment, she dubbed me a cougar and made wild cat noises while flapping her hand, like a paw, at me. As the tequila portion of my margarita singed my tongue in passing, I felt the soils of the cliff’s edge crumble beneath me, gravity pulling my body further down towards an unknown abyss. Even souzed, one of my closest friends noticed how enamored Mr. Man was, in my presence, clear as day, in the dark desert night. How could I deny this infatuation knocking my equilibrium off its axis?
To regain my balance, I responded by suggesting the four of us head over to J&P’s place in one car. Within the corners of my mind, I reasoned that Finesse and Tin-Man were at least one safety net in addition to all of our other friends. I felt the pulling motion of my entire person swept up into something that I was not given the time or opportunity to fully assess before being carried away by the whirlwind.
For the rest of the show, at least one of Mr. Man’s eyes would be fixed on every portion of my body, as the minutes after midnight became hours. The table the four of us shared was far from the dance floor, yet as Finesse and I were dancing, my body felt the undertow of Mr. Man’s eyes hinged on my every move. Not even the crowd, all around me, distilled his penetrating gaze. This could have caused an unsettling discomfort, in my chest, had it not been so honest and for all intent and purpose harmless. The band played their last songs, as Tin-Man and I finished our drinks clinking our glasses together between swigs.
As Mr. Man and I continued to talk, while I drank, he kept a firm grasp on my every word as if every phrase was a life-preserver. His eyes remained wide, like he was afraid I would disappear or escape if he blinked.
As our conversation continued and his fascination grew, I noticed a deformity in his right hand. Instead of asking if he injured his hand or if the malady is birth defect, I found myself telling him every detail of my hand injury, as if I knew I would be fully understood. Despite how young he was, there was no doubt he related to my limitations and even proved himself an authority.
Camouflaged in his blanket jacket, he had half an arm with half a hand. The temptation to touch it overwhelmed my still hands, though I didn’t, since I did not care to patronize him or make any physical overtures he could interpret as sexual. The truth is, I find deformities fascinating. Anatomical differences, such as his, are like rare art, beautiful and intriguing, something unique, and sacred to behold. I am certain this is why I found him compelling despite his age. My heart warmed from typical winter frigid to tepid, as I looked into his wide eyes and examined his disfigured body, while trying to be subtle and not seductive. In an effort to cool my warming heart, I continued to force logic and reality, into my mind, regarding his age.
I could feel so many of my firm beliefs erode, like the crumbling cliff below my unsteady and trembling feet. My enjoyment of Mr. Man, his countenance, and our conversation did not irritate me as it should have given that he was only 21. At this stage of my life, I find people in their early 20s, especially male, irritating. He neither annoyed or caused irritation.
As the alcohol seared my already spinning cerebellum, I tried to focus on the fact that he had only recently reached adulthood. In juxtaposition, with this brand new adult, was my adulthood spanning longer than his entire life. If this night had happened only four years earlier, he would not even be able to consent to the desires he was expressing with blunt and candid conviction. Looking at his driver’s license and learning that underage IDs are now vertical instead of horizontal, should have been a jolt more powerful than anything, but he did not take his eyes off me long enough for me to notice.
Blinding myself to the obvious fact that he appeared, dressed, and acted 21 was impossible. At the same time I never tried to justify my attraction to him with any absurd cliques like ‘mature for his age,’ or ‘he and I spiritually the same age.’ I could never live in the sort of denial that would enable me to lie to myself in this manner.
Nonetheless, I was caught off guard; In my world, I don’t enjoy keeping company with anyone younger than 40 other than family. Anyone in my life under 40 is either family, or the offspring of my peers. I could not escape reality; this young man was young enough to be my son. My nephew, the closest person to a son of mine, was only two years younger. I could not imagine bringing any relationship with a 21-year-old to my family.
Even in an inebriated state, there was no denying these facts in my mind. My body, at this point, had no idea what would happen and the eruptive sensations yet to come.
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