The sky is crying again, great peals of thunder punctuate it’s sorrow.
Strangely it makes me happy. Call me a sadist or a masochist, who can tell these days.
Sitting here on a Sunday evening eating my first meal. Eggs and bourbon. I figure if eggs have all the nutrients to hatch a chick then they are the perfect food for a sad middle aged man. And bourbon? Fuck why drink anything else.
So I sit here perusing the Craig’s list casual encounters. Once again someone got close enough to see my bones and ran, wisely, for the hills.
That leaves a big hole, that cries to be filled with easy vacuous intimacy. I feel badly for the girls, but I can’t deny my craven side.
The rumbles of thunder echo in my chest, a sad substitute for my heart. Deeply hardened, it barely moves these days.
I don’t know why I fear the bonds of love, run fearfully from a mere wisp of her. But I do, so if a friend goes from friend to hopeful, I move on and bury myself in the sweaty crotch of NSA sex.
Or try to, mostly I peruse the adds, searching for a gem I n the skreed. I pass over the young ones, they are most certainly hookers, instead I look for ages between 35 and 50. Those are the ones I like.
Anyone admitting to be over thirty in the casual encounters is probably ten years older. Of those I only look for ones that are not looking for cubs. The cougars are not looking for me.
Instead I look for the sad and lonely, those reaching for love, even in that wrong place of the internet. They are happy to be held and ask and even expect no more. The more I cannot give. But like them I crave the closeness, need it to get me through.
It’s a human thing, we try to reason it away, but at our core we need touch to thrive. Without, our souls dry to withered husks, barely human, barely living. We seek life through the sordid adds, spicing them up with the promise of kink, but wanting touch at the depth of it.
The rumbles pass into the distance, with it the urgency to reach out. I’m at peace, for now. Reaching for my glass I hug myself as I sip, I need to get out.
© The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2014