Your Spring in my Winter
We’re not used to these temperatures, unaccustomed to such sunlight, in Spring. It’s good though.
Birds sing, the evening skies are spectacular, women exchange their clothes for giftwrap. And no Christmas gift was ever wrapped like these, for no-one would need to weigh the package in hand or rattle it against their ear to know what the gift contained.
Brevity is in, bosoms are out, and the translucent verges now upon the transparent. Bottoms are snug in denim, provocative in clinging fabrics and, as ever, cheeky.
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Yet poignant to see in the personal Winter of one’s ageing.
Everything I have loved and wanted to caress and hold and cherish from the very onset of my puberty draws me no less today than it did so many years ago. It is ‘look, don’t touch’ now. ‘Don’t imagine you could touch’ now. You are old, so very old, even if your soul is still sixteen.
It would take at the very least a good few spendable thousands in your pocket ere the youngest of those to whom you are attracted might overcome their revulsion to your age.
And that is kind of sad, too, in a different way, because the heat in your loins is not the heat it used to be, lust suffused into yearning not for the probing penis and the moistnesses and sweats, for all I really want to do, now – or what I most and most often want to do, now – is merely to hold, to feel warm, firm flesh again, to caress and stroke again, to pet and gentle with a giving intimacy that desires to take nothing. To support and encourage.
I can still see, my eyes still function, I can still feel, my touch still sensitive, and yet the greatest work of art in all existence, the most marvelous sculpture of all time, must be kept in the name of some kind of modesty from my view.
The door is closed, for the most part, and only the unwanted, despicable peephole, the pervert’s view, available at a price.
I love you too much. I respect you too much. I admire and worship you far, far too much. Without your consent I will not even undress you with my eyes, even if you suspect, simply because I am a man, that I do. But I am no predator.
Only a friend.