an observation

Men hovering around the age of thirty seem to make the best lovers. Guys in their early twenties only want to fuck you. Or only want to fuck. Yet they've no idea how to speak with their skin; they don't take the flesh's cues. Men heading towards their forties are bored of it, or else lonely - which is a similar thing, really - and only want to feel your companionship, to talk and share blankets with you. They see the boundaries and they don't reach beyond them. You can deny them and writhe - ambivalently, in both pleasure and guilt - in the accepted sadness that lingers afterwards. 

Men in their late twenties or early thirties will fuck you and talk with you. They know how to equal the intimacy of the mind with the intimacy of the flesh. They know that words speak to skin speaks to spirit. They understand the importance of talking and seeing during sex. They understand the importance of listening and touching during conversation. They emit the energy of both wisdom and youth; anticipating the possibility of the present, and bearing the sophistication of experience - they've known people, places. The music of their lives is undulating in their veins. It's melody has not dated but they know the rhythm well enough to dance. 

I often consider how I will be when I am this age. It feels simultaneously distant and as if I am hurtling towards it. I'm not in a hurry to get there - I appreciate that many good things will happen between now and then - but I am curious to know it. To feel that certainty in me with room to grow. I'm cautious sometimes that I'm being too idealistic, but - if it creates hope for the future, then I will allow myself to fantasise. And in the meantime, I'll enjoy my vicarious encounters.