I think it was a dream last night-- or more accurately early this morning-- that led to the above quote. Taken out of context, it seems like a one-liner that would get you booed off the stage at a feminist poetry slam, but within the context of the dream it made sense.
I think it gets back to wondering about love. I remember feeling like I was in love on more than a few occasions, and maybe even a couple of those times I was. I'd like to think so. But lately I've lost the substance, lost the cabapility to rememebr the feeling, like trying to remember a long-forgotten piece of music.
In the dream, I was somehow attached to said hot blonde. And yes, it was a sex dream of sorts, though I'll get to that in a minute. The thing of import was that I wasn't feeling the call of lust as I know it, it was the remembered feelings of love, the circumstances that in the cold light of day would make me cringe with the knowledge that I had become a fool like so many other men that I used to see as regulars in the strip club or with my escort friends, the guys who confused attention with love and fell head-over-heels for women whose profession it was to separate them from their money.
I know the song all too well, that chorus of "I am different from those other fools" and "this time it's real", followed by that huge sucking sound as the realization dawns that you've been taken in by an experienced professional, and indeed you have been played, sucka. It's a hard, embarrassing, painful lesson. Not that it's ever happened to me or anything; I'm different from those other fools.
When I was learning about sex and sexuality, there was a discussion of romantic love vs. companionate love. Romantic love was the burning, chemical, new-and-shiny relationship experience, the kind that left teenagers fawning over each other, hormonally charged and full of piss and vinegar. Comanionate love was the older, wiser, more tempered kind that was longer-lasting and more "real". It was the kind that made for long-term marriages and the ability to put up with snoring and bad gas and the ravages of gravity and dimnished metabolism.
Since I've passed beyond the veil of youthful folly and into the "ravages of gravity" phase of my life, the theory is that my outlook on love should have matured as well, and I should be able to step into the mantle of companionate with nary a flutter. But is that really true? I suspect that last night's dream is communicating to me that perhaps it's not.
My sex drive has diminished lately to the point of virtual nonexistence, evidence to the contrary aside. What has been passing for a sex drive has really been more a delight of aesthetics and fundamental playfulness, more an intellectual pursuit than a hormonal one. I'm beginning to suspect that I've hit some sort of male equivalent of menopause, where the body and mind separate.
It sucks ass.
You gotta understand, I really wanna be a horndog, whoopin' around, sniffin' up the skirts of college babes and humpin' the legs of the ones that move slow enough for me to catch, but fantasy and reality separate like layers of oil and water in a centrifuge, and even when you shake 'em up hard, they still fly apart in record time.
On one hand, there's the thought that maybe I should just give in to the notion that I'm destined to be the kindly, distinguished older gent, and quit my lollygaging around the younger women of our culture, taking on the role of friend, and perhaps mentor and sage. On the other hand, there's the part of me that screams in the night that you will take my testicles when you pry them from my cold, dead, fingers.
Um, unfortunate mental image, but phallic representations of the NRA aside, you get the idea: do not go gently into that good night.
I dunno. I feel beaten on this one. Maybe it really is time to pack it in.