Fair to Middling
So, I’m thinking. And I’m in bed. And someone nice is asleep beside me who isn’t thinking. She’s possibly dreaming though. I like her soft sighs; the night’s own tick tock in a quiet room of only digitally displayed hours beside a dormant bedside lamp…
Well this is nothing new. I’ve been telling you my thoughts during the wee small hours ever since my nights with Jane. But having strayed back into my ‘old’ ways for relative peace of mind, here I am once more posting these pleasurable if yet somewhat indiscriminate adventures, getting all reflective in the calming darkness once all that beneath-the-sheets wrestling has run its course.
It ran a while. But hey I’m not boasting. I’m thirty-six and haven’t even been doing this sort of stuff for a decade yet. No, I’m not boasting, I’m eternally grateful for the man who occupies the suit that’s folded on the chair in the corner. My embodied confidence wrapped in a contrived name fit for all that swashes and buckles.
But what am I thinking about tonight? Oh just the usual ironies. That whole bollocks of the genders occupying different planets, how we all have a small jar of neuroses we like to store somewhere cool, how everything’s all a little bit absurd or topsy-turvy when you really think about it; like I am doing.
Take the other day. I discovered my hairdresser’s had closed down. So what; I mean big deal, these are tough times now, it happens and, well, sad for those involved, but yes, it happens. Only for one moment, this was a disaster! Why? Well it was Liz (I’d like to call her my stylist but that’d just make me sound like a wanker, and pretentious one at that) who helped create BD. Indeed without her little bit of Barnet magic one winter during the Before, there’d have been no BD. I’ve told you about Liz remember; how she was also playing online, how I fancied leading her astray in the backroom of that salon (but never did). She is an important part of what came next. And most important of all, she knows how to get my hair, BD’s hair, just right.
What am I gonna do now? a voice said. And in that moment, utter panic; although the moment was just that, momentary. I mean my haircut isn’t exactly unique. Logic quickly dictated I could easily find somebody else. And I have.
Just shows you though. We chaps laugh at you girls about this kind of stuff and there I was worrying about the very same thing; because for a second there BD’s whole world crumbled. Okay, I’m not going to go into huge analysis here about how this further highlights the fragility of one’s said personified confidence these six or more years on from its discovery; that’s for another night’s thinking. But it is funny isn’t it how we stress about the same things more than we realise, particularly when it comes to matters relating to our personal affairs. They don’t call vanity a deadly sin for nothing I guess.
Naturally this train of thought, one of my favourite tributaries, The Great Venus and Mars Swindle, next had me mulling another issue. Women have often complained proverbially thus; the older man always chases the younger skirts. And so from such sweeping little acorns great generalisations grow. But it ain’t quite like that is it. In fact, it’s a whole lot more confusing at times.
Try saying this in one breath for instance: the younger man prefers the older woman but as he gets older he perhaps does prefer the younger woman instead but the younger woman at first prefers the older man but as she gets older she perhaps does prefer the younger man instead.
Gasp. Sigh. Breeeeathe.
Hello. Isn’t that the same thing then? Couldn’t a chap say equally proverbially; the older woman always chases younger trousers (or boxers if we’re going to get naughty about it). And, as I continue to think about this amidst lust’s somewhat comfy embers, where does this exactly leave the not so young or ‘older’ man or woman? Us middlers; and by that I don’t mean middle-aged here, just middlers. What do we want in our mutual transitional periods? Is this that one moment in a lifecycle where biology takes over and and says, ‘Well according to our lastest hardwiring findings, you kinda need to breed right now so choose a more appropriate mate for that and then get back on it’. Is that where I am right now?
Of course this is why many older women do ultimately doom the older woman/younger man relationship in terms of longevity. I’ve railed against it, that it’s about people’s feelings, and that such forecasting removes the younger man from making his own choices on this subject. Indeed it’s slightly patronising one could argue. But once you begin to ‘feel’ what they mean, the element of confusion does set in. And again this is no new subject, I’ve mentioned this before; the ever irresistible draw of an alluring older woman even when you are starting to turn the other way. And I think that’s where us male middlers get to at some point. And maybe the female middlers do too, in reverse, starting to look at the younger man with new eyes but still always partial to at least a George Clooney or two.
Or you know what. Maybe I can now say that quite simply I just love women full stop. Okay I’m not the first to say that. I’ve stolen that statement and I’m unashamed to admit it. Indeed let it be the rallying cry for chaps like me everywhere! And here is an even stranger thing. I forced myself somewhat into being BD to begin with; and yet maybe, all I’ve needed to do was grow into him because he’s easier to play now than he’s ever been; BD always loved women full stop you see, he never made the distinctions. That was me.
Ah well. That’s perhaps enough for a night’s thinking now. Time to roll over and spoon a little; it’ll make waking up that much ‘nicer’ I’m sure.
By the way, I didn’t say if she was younger or older this time did I.
Tonight, it doesn’t matter…
by Bastian Dash