Libido on the rise
I have had my first foray back into something resembling the singles scene. I'm not talking about another night sitting at the local coffee shop where the people gather to be alone together, although I sit here now writing this very entry. No, I'm referring to a nightclub. One of those places where people gather to drink and revel and hoot and become boisterous, usually with large groups of friends. Also known as a bar or pub. On this particular night most of the waitresses, all dressed in short shorts and low-cut tank-tops despite the frigid weather outside, were practicing a dance routine on the deserted dance floor. I tried not to be obvious. I tried not to stare. I failed miserably. I just hope that I wasn't the perfect picture of a slack-jawed hormonally challenged teenager desperate for a touch. I probably was. How could I possibly be anything else while being witness to eight beautiful, firm, nubile women, all certainly attending one of the seven local colleges, swaying in unison to music only half a room away. It has been so long since I have found another woman attractive. It has been so long since I have noticed the curves of another's hips and breasts. And suddenly I was presented with a cornucopia of delights performing for my obvious pleasure.
I felt like a sultan who had clapped his hands and ordered the dancers to be brought out. No, I was a voyeur eavesdropping on a performance rehearsal. No, wait, I had slipped back into a myth and these harpies, these sirens, were beckoning to me with their voices and bodies and innuendo. It was enough. I could make love to their innuendo all night. I could roll around in bed with the image of those undulating hips and heaving breasts and fleeting glimpses of bare bellies exposed when they raised their arms above their heads. Listen to me-I have regressed into a pubescent boy. Tittering about with fantasies of Roman orgies dancing through my head.
The buxom barmaids finished off the night, and me, with a rendition of the practiced dance on the top of the bar at which I sat. I must have gone red in the face out of sheer exhilaration and embarrassment because they all smiled as I sheepishly failed to meet their gaze time and time again. I could take no more of this inhuman torture, so I made excuses and fled at the first opportunity. I have escaped my desire and insecurities by fleeing to the coffee shop to be alone with everyone else. But now my passions and libido have been set a simmering and I see beauty in all who enter. My word, one of the young ladies working here is so very attractive. Wait a minute, both of the young ladies are attractive. Very attractive. And unfortunately too young. And so many of those present tonight are wearing glasses. I swear, I am the only man I know who has a glasses fetish. I will look at a woman wearing glasses and garbed to her ears over a naked women with a naked face. The irony of ironies is that I have always been most attracted to short women with light hair and small breasts, and I wound up married (albeit briefly) to a tall buxom brunette. C'est la vie.
So what have we learned? Nothing more than that I still have a healthy libido, even though it had been absent without leave for the last two months, since it was revealed to me that my wife, the love of my life, was having an affair. That I have a fetish for glasses. And that I will most likely resort to masturbation to quell these naughty thoughts ands desires. Oh well, nothing wrong with revisiting my longest-lasting, always fulfilling, and most competent lover-myself.