52? Shades of Erotica, Part 2?

The last week or two I’ve paid a price for overwork, had a medical scare that turned into nothing (I am far fitter than I should be, it seems) and now I’m heading upstream again.

I am 62 and I am a man.  Never that of an Adonis, my body shows all the expected signs of aging. I could be more wrinkled, fatter, even balder, and I will certainly get older, yet ramshackle as the body may be I know that in certain ways I know my mind has never grown any older than it was when I hit puberty.  Nor do I expect it to.

I will be a lecherous old man, when I get there, because I was a lecherous young one and have remained essentially the same ever since.

By lecherous I don’t mean anything that was ever or ever will be a threat to anyone, merely that I am still attracted to, can never ever be blind to and am still turned on by pretty much the same stimuli as I was when so very, very young.

I love the feminine voice, feminine hair, the feminine curves of nipple, breast, hip, thigh, abdomen, pubis and all the rest. Female company and conversation is a joy to me, the sculpture, intricacies and marvelous capacities of the female body something I still worship.

A dirty old man?  No, merely a fully and normally functioning young one inside an older man’s body.