A Small Realization Regarding Age

Today my brain is sizzling with lack of sleep so the ideas are live ones, unfettered and from wild waters. My PMS/stress/general emotional sensitivity rage of the past few days has subsided, and now there are a full spectrum of feelings washing up on the shore.

But one thought I had today, which struck me for a moment and is relevant here, is what I take to be a further sign that I am ready or near-ready for lady-marriage, or at least partnership.

The breif backstory: I am a notorious chickenhawk. I have enjoyed the barely-legal fetish since I myself was barely legal, and it just seems to become more prominent the older I get. I love introducing people to firsts, teaching and turning people on to new experiences, especially sexually. I like hunting the PYTs, the dolphins (as we call the boys) and the precocious younger girls. I've dated quite a few 18-21 year olds and I find them a very tasty snack though I've usually gotten hurt by their youthful impetuousness.

Leaving the bathroom at a bistro today, after watching an Opera students' version of the Magic Flute (still crusty eyed from the Studio 54 party last night, see the above picture- "Girl! You're a Hot Mess! Love it!" they said), something struck me.
I haven't been interested lately. Don't get me wrong, there are some gorgeous people in my life in their late teens and early 20s, and I don't find them any less gorgeous, but lately I haven't been so intrested in trying to meet people under 25. I don't look at their personal ads, I don't start salivating, I don't do much of anything except look around for more wife-age-appropriate friends. In fact, I remember distinctly thinking "Oh, too bad, probably too young" when I met the lovely girl at the bar the other night and she told me she was 23. Which for me is kind of mind-blowing. When I think about the age my imaginary bride may be, I tend to start the thinking at around 26 and then go up from there. This may seem like common sense to some, but really, if you knew me well, you would understand what a shock this is to me.

I feel like this is a direct result of finally having enough experience with people, younger and not-so- younger, to understand that the kind of commitment, self-awareness and accountability, as well as breadth of experience and trial and error that someone who might be a good and appropriate partner for me would have is much more likely to exist in someone over 25. I think it's also about a little more self-awareness around what I want from a partner or regular date, and what I like as sexual novelty or more casual date/mentor relationship. I have had almost all of my more satisfying relationships or encounters with the 18-21 year olds in the context of a primary partnership with someone closer to my age.

So I see myself naturally veering away from the more youthful pursuits. I think my body/mind are really gearing up for deep lasting love in a healthy relationship. Now I'm just working, albeit slowly, on my shit and also, of course, impatiently pouting and whining, until it becomes clear to me (finally!) where, and when, and with whom that love will be.

*Prospective Brides Do Not Read*

Post-Footnight picture.

Not the most attractive time for SLWaW, but true none the less.

A story from last night:
Irene and I dress up for a foot fetish party. I haven't had a pedicure in a month but with all the hibernating and a couple of dabs of off-color polish and I can fake it. I almost break down in the car on the way to Dublin (!?) thinking about: 1. all the kinds of sex and relationships I've never had 2. not remembering where I put a good vibes gift certificate and a new compact. Obviously PMS was politely making itself known.

The party is surprisingly brightly lit and lucrative, apparently the lack of dimness I was counting on when doing my make-up in the car didn't deter the toe-hungry. It's more man than I've dealt with in some time, and while fun and distracting, I feel a little overwhelmed and start running out of things to do with my feet. They don't seem to care or notice.

Afterwards we're thinking about going to the Bump, an unfortunately named queer dance night at the Cat Club. Neither of us have gone, but I figure there is a small chance of getting laid there and at least it would be funny to invade the quipster space with our un-cool super-glam femmeness. After a double drive-by with no cute smokers or parking spaces outside, we say 'fuck it' and go to the Lex instead.

It's late enough that people are drunk enough to smile at us, and one cute and gregarious girl starts in with compliments right away. Which is shocking since usually the Lex is where we go to really externalize our internal feelings of alienation; when we want to be "out" but can't deal with anyone looking at or talking to us, we know we'll be safe there. I smoke an unnecessary cigarette to flirt and learn that girl used to be a sex worker. I give her my card and go in for a hug. When Amy Winehouse comes on, my heart threatens to explode, so we leave.

More pleasant than expected, for sure. But then I'm home alone again, Irene's holed up in her with Craigs List and her hot new shoes. I stay up later than relevant or sensible.
Ok, and here it is, the crux of the story: I get naked in my room, shivering and scrambling for my pajamas, but for a minute there I am, suddenly naked in front of my mirror. In single winter times, this is a far too infrequent occurrence. And you know what? I got PISSED.
I screamed : "I'm hot! WHAT THE FUCK!?"


Then I resigned myself to my cold bed and my angry dreams.


Funny how finally figuring out that you're hot can be spoiled by the context. I'm just having a kind of angry bitchy time. I do little gratitude rituals and sometimes remember to breathe, but dammit, I just want a hot fun exciting new connection, or better yet, someone to go test mattresses with me that's been in love with me for years. I'm impatient. It feels like my body is being wasted. I went to breakfast at a cafe today in my pajamas and a fedora and on the way home had a little tantrum, screaming: "Why doesn't anybody love me! WAH!" to the middle of Mission St. I know that's no way to get a wife or girlfriend or even an alley-fuck, and I know I am so blessed and so very privileged and live an amazingly beautiful, strange and fulfilling life, but right now, in the moment, its just one big ride in the Wahmbulance for me, and every meal is a wahmburger with a side of cries.

So I hope all you potential wives didn't read this, because I'm working on my attitude, though not as actively as I have in the past, and I just had an amazing weekend last week, but it wore off, and basically, what I'm saying, is this is not the pro-active, strong, woman with agency type of me that I'd hope you'd find appealing, but a pissed-off, can't wait for the year to be over, curmudgeonly couch-nester. And I don't want to attract people who are attracted, either in a fix-it or similarly bitter way to that. However, I would like to be with people that can understand and accept a holistic emotional spectrum, and realize that while this is me, yes, there is also so much that isn't this and it's ok, if not my favorite, to be all of it.

Anyway, wah. Fucking wah.
At least all of this spew got that awful picture off the top of the page.