I enjoy this sweet, erotic, love-soaked slant on the fleeting light and last roses of fall. And I’m grateful to you for making me the lover I’ve always wanted to be: received; expansive and cherished. I’m surrounded by fountains of discovery and rediscovery; the source and subject of so much passion.
Since when do I collect anxiety in my thighs, my knees, my buttocks and calves?
Actually, we didn’t do so badly between his few phrases of English, occasional bits of German and much hand-waving. The will to communicate is everything and Hungarians have plenty of that.
Love beyond the bursting of passion in each artery wall and sticky bit of skin, love past the years, love over fifty, love through the dark times—that lasting, longed-for, whole adult love—must be generous. It cannot demand more than it gives; it cannot measure the gift.
Yes, I’m a woman of sensible, terribly sensible shoes. I still own lots of them. After a ten-pair purge I’m down to just over thirty…pair. I buy shoes prophylactically, restoratively, because they are there and occasionally even because I need them. But No, I never had Go-Go boots. Did you?
Listen to his heart’s tongue. You only know your own jealous blood. You’ve been burned and betrayed before—that shows. So now you would stifle all skin—fine or fiery. But now’s time to trust him and your sleek passion.
We would strip away the world and became so vulnerable. These times felt rich and real.
Now, computer dating is already a pretty weird thing. We’ve taken some sort of mysterious Darwinian biochemical social phenomena and made it a language-based, picture assisted lottery. Or I guess if you’re a guy, it’s more of a picture-based language-assisted bar stool. In any case, words are important. The word was ‘Mensch’ in Big Words.
I’m no longer young enough to try everything, but I’m old enough to try anything. I’m probably allergic to knitting, mysteries, gardening and organized fun. I’m too old and too young for some things anymore: too old to pretend I like those things I really don’t; too young to stop trying new things, even if they might not work for me.
She could close every comment, every argument. Last words were her specialty: last words and stage whispers. She could keep a list a mile long. She could drink scotch and laugh with the men. And with the Bitch, I was funny and glib. With her, I had a context, a ‘tude, a style. With the Bitch boa wrapped around my shoulders, nothing could hurt me. My stride was, sexy, witty, and impermeable.