AN OLD FOOL
Like this he was totally crazed and consumed with desire. The object was not always completely beautiful and that kind of illusive beauty could be even more intoxicating, especially when combined with an unassailable sexiness. There was something in the sway of the hips, something in the curves that did it, that put him into abject torture. A feeling of helplessness was upon him. He was almost paralysed for any movement other than from these carnal urges.
Of course he knew better now than to act. Past experience showed that when in this state he was deluded and usually the person wasn’t right. She wasn’t who he should be engaging. But in truth it wasn't that knowledge that determined his demurring now. It was something less honourable. It was as much about possible rejection and the collapse of esteem that followed. He was unfortunately one whose ego was sufficiently large but equally weak to be devastated by rejection. When it was by someone with whom the very prospect of sex brought waves of rapture and in whom he had already started to invest just too much thought and feeling then the devastation was further compounded.
The lows that came from these recurrent episodes were for him about as low as it got. Not to say life couldn’t serve up something much worse because that was always possible. But there was no consolation there. Incapacity was total just the same. There would be no creative spark other than from the ruminating and indulging in the powerful emotions of the moment. All plans went to ground. Any sense of himself as a well-functioning person were trashed. Any inclinations short of falling in front of this fabulous object of fancy and declaring himself were lost. Retreat seemed the only salvation where depressive tendencies emerged to run riot.
This was bad, a melt-down scenario which dogged him forever. Solutions or cures - for it was an illness of sorts - were beyond him. Only an external could mitigate and it rarely did. The upshot: always more of the same, continued degradation, an emotional nemesis with only barren consequence, not to forget embarrassment. He couldn’t bear to share any of this being truly such a fuck-up, such an inadequate. He was the great failure in love, the absolute exemplar of what not to do because this had little of love about it. It was a distortion of the very name.
Yet, in ways this was his kind of love. This was what he did to a ruinous end. This was the love of lust, of sex, of the objectification of women, of personal gratification and defilement. It was a form of masturbation. Consummated, it was out of control eroticism. Unconsummated, it was worse, like having all the pangs and impulses of addiction without the brief respite of the drug itself. As he got older the objects got younger each time. He got older but no wiser, just more foolish. And there’s nothing like an old fool.
from "Adventures In Erotica"