I’ve read that men think about sex on average fairly often, some say every few minutes. I don’t know about the rest of them, but it’s true for me. Lust no longer seems to get in the way of other things so much, or maybe I just don’t notice it anymore.
A 20-something friend of mine says he used to think old guys didn’t think about sex. He figured we were all out of it, and he was looking forward to a well-deserved rest from the relentless pressure to mount somebody.
The pressure is, at least, no longer relentless, for which I’m grateful—I’m a lot more productive than I used to be. On the other hand, I know a lot more about mounting, some of it illegal in the Deep South, always a good sign.
When I was a young man, I considered sexual congress with every woman I ran across. Most of the time I thought about such a connection for no longer than it took to get a better look at her, but for that split second I seriously thought about what the woman in question might look like naked and whether, given the chance, I would do her.
I’m not likely to act on my favorable judgments, but I do think about it. And that’s not just the first time I see a woman—for a few, it’s whenever I see her. Nowadays my short-term memory is such that I’m continually evaluating the women I run across because I often don’t remember what I decided the last time I looked her over. I try to stay open-minded and in the moment, and now and then I reconsider. Maybe those scabs aren’t so bad after all. It’s what I think about the scabs.
As much as I still love sweet young things, I’m much less attracted to them than I once was, which is just as well because they don’t even see me. Young women—who are not exempt from my review—tend to treat me like a variety of tree stump, something that you don’t want to bump into but can otherwise ignore.
I like older women because I know that eventually we would have to talk about something other than a-little-more-to-the-left, and when we got to that part I would want to keep the blank stares to a minimum. Miss July might be great eye candy, but I’m not much on candy these days. Now I want to see some wrinkles.
When I consider a woman, I think, “Do I want her? Does she inspire one approach more than another? How about a feather? Whipped cream? Gentle restraints? Peanut sauce? Sometimes I have a lot on my mind.
I bet the women in my life—some of them, anyway—would be surprised to learn that every time I see them, I run through the possibilities, and I’d appreciate it if you would keep this to yourself. Thank you for your cooperation.