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Sex at 50 and Well Beyond Sex
(A ghostwritten story for the ancient young man deep inside you)
I write it, this story under protest; as its a story I, like many, would rather leave unsaid... but recent over-thinkings and partial observations have awoken that old friend, that good friend, lets call him the ancient young man deep inside me, who when even at my rope's whits end; has always kept me going. I guess I owe him this favor, after caging then valiant attempts at retraining, then believing him and leaving him for half tamed. Starving his feelings on little but hallmarked perversions and pornagraphic leftovers that, if one gave any realistic thought to his situation whatsoever, his thinking... of course you'd draw the conclusion, that he'd gone quite insane. So, here is the favour, the part of his story, he's told me... to some extent is true. (more or less)
In our twenties this ancient young man leads us on missions simply to get what he wanted and I wanted too. To get to act two as quickly as we could with whomever was there, good looking enough, kind enough but more honestly anyone, thing, or flickering image would do. Act two so contorted simply seemed part of the act one mission to get to the ending, that feeling, that craved for buzzing bee, swirling in one's head, that scrambled boy screaming, woo-hoo. An elated emotion or feeling so wanted that sometimes it drove both of us quite simply and easily totally utterly self centeredly and childishly crazy. Act three? Get the mop bucket, there's a mess to be cleaned up... quickly quite often but for some, sadly a chore that remained a forever conclusion, a prison of sorts... a life lived in a long endless the sameness all the same, day after day... after day.
Just a little bit later we'd become much more crafted, directed and focussed. This mission we were told had a grand purpose, to build a new family, boldly with purpose, to extend one's historical dna strain. Proudly we chained our ancient young men deep inside us, not yet into cages but began at least trying to teach them some manners. In other words fooling ourselves by denying act one's mission was exactly the same. With weapons of flowers, maybe poems all smiling sales tactics we hunted for victims, that sad lonely game... Act two still exciting, at least at the outset, searching a simple answer to the most basic of question, would this be the one we'd bend over and ourselve over backwards for day after day? Act three an illusion, still so much to be cleaned up that most of us fooled ourselves by not thinking it all the way through. Accepted the assignment, cheerfully grabbed the mop bucket and did every last little thing, we were told what to do. Other's you know them, they juggled these age related old problems and let their ancient young men out of their cages one night, maybe every night, more often than not, sometimes, more than two.
And then the disaster, as the rest of our life get in the way of this already strained friendship with these ancient young men deep inside us. The pressurized build ups and getting oneself buried in boxes, compartments of stories half written, some abandoned, never finished, some rewarding other simply fancied illusions we still hoped to get to one day. We'd done everything requested though often half hearted... some of us seemingly quite successfully thinking they'd made it all the way though. But upon taking that good look... all a self-fooling old con job as at this age in our lives so few are at all even remotely close to the happiness that's expected, projected to us by the flickering light tubed boxes of noises we find ourselves now subjected to night after night by our lonesome. The missions? Deserted... Act two, if ever got to, simply rolls into act three in mere moments, a clean up to be avoided... even with the dreamed of mistresses too. It all seemed so... over done, finished, we were lied to? Pour me, I mean poor him... my ancient young man, head in hands, now lost deep inside me softly whimpers, boo-hoo.
But then... if ones lucky or clever or made a right decision or two. We stumble and bumble onwards together, perhaps even enlightened into something quite honestly wonderfully true. Call it proper love making, with someone who has been through all the above madness with many another or even just one poor fool head in hand, whose exactly at least quite likely not very much different than you two. A companion co-pilot a kindred spirit a partner whose seen it from her side, all knowing and caring, simply delicious the spirit you've searched longingly for all your life through... maybe, I mean if this story is anything but true...
Act one, far more than simply a diversion or a pleasant distraction from those remaining compartments, those boxes and pressurization for more than just a mere moment much more than the morsel you chewed through on your ancient young man's mission to get it... Act two, simple pure pleasures no hurried-up mandates to reach that elation or anything for else for that matter; and far far more importantly beautifully something than just something to do... If you're brave hearted and brilliant you'll unlock the cages, throw open the door and let that ancient young man who you thought had gone missing come out and play with you ...and you know who too. Act three? As easy as the dishes, an almost instinctual now pleasant part of the performance; done so many times in a mere blink of the twinkling eye and the sudden and thoughtful realization the performance is not over but a better and comfortable non-conclusion to a more reasoned, soft spoken rewarding and pleasant emotionally thrilling and spiritually enlightened three sinuously connected and now a totally cohesive contiguously sound, sometimes thrillingly easy portrayal of those wondrous vignettes you've played out in acts one and act two.
How's that for a shot of almost unbelievably optimistism for those of us still mired and blue? And here's a little secret, the rub, not the lesson but something to consider maybe pounder for a mere moment with the ancient young man deep inside you... at any old age one can easily unteach all the things we've subjected ourselves and our misbegotten ancient young man deep inside us; unwind those pornographic expectations and embrace the part of the hallmarked elation that are actually quite true. Although he's quite scary to many, frightening us with his grunts and blunt wants and ways in this modern world with it's missions we'd been told almost lady-like how we'd have to get through... every now and then get down to your basement, bring a sandwich a tall drink of something you find pleasant, a paper and pencil or a notepad or two. Those lessons you've taught him may have come in quite handy if conforming to nothing is all that you wanted to do. But... if you want it to be special, sensuous caring and loving... tear up those lessons... and let that ancient young man thought lost deep inside... teach... you.
So, now that that's written for him, he asked that I leave a note for the ladies, a postscript perhaps as you're a big part of all his stories. I do know for certain, it's not simply a suspicion as I've met a few of yours too. Down in your basement, we both know she's in there, maybe not locked in a cage, but playing with toy dolls, reading old books that you've written and maybe a sweet poem or two. Your ancient young lady, that pretty little darling lover thought lost along the way with so many like them in those basements... I'll say this, almost pleading perhaps even begging because in the end. This story is as much about her as its about these ancient young men deep inside us. These lost men within us, in our own very basements... they have one simple purpose, the finally grandiose last mission and truly quite honestly and more specifically... it's all about you.