growing, dying.

photo: (c) 2004-2010 i.m. ruzz’ favorite sin
model: eddie

i once loved girls as young man loves girls. breasts, asses, wet thighs. girl crazy. consumable bits of flesh. thrills. unquenchable male desire. this sat with me all the days of my too young marriage like a rock. i carried it with me; a physical burden between me and substance.

i believed, then, once i hit a more reasoned age, and my testosterone began to recede with my hairline i would find freedom. a damper set upon this distracting energy. i looked forward to viewing a man’s life outside the impetus of biology. outside the aching drive of genes and swollen testicles.

it seemed once free of this—and freedom was surely inevitable with age—I would go on to cure cancer, invent the longer lasting lightbulb, or just make it through a day without being entirely diverted by quarter-second glance of supple midriff. I waited on this as an imprisoned man waits for his patch of windowed sky to grow larger, dutifully scratching off the days till release on grey chalk walls.

then there were girls which were simple conduits for sexual signals and older women who were a sea of smells, ointments, oils, fabrics and complications. they carried with them a heavy weight the sort i couldn’t fathom or find arousal for. their bodies didn’t looked different than a body should look (to me). an assembly of random parts popping out here and there, patchwork skin, strange marks and motivations i couldn’t grasp. they were battle hardened soldiers to me. surviving somehow with a whif of sexuality despite their bodies betraying them but on whole a strange beast unexplainable. how did girls become women? the girls i knew surely would never become these women.

and as a child whose palate has yet to mature and passes on the complex tastes of a good bolognese in favor of mac and cheese, i believed i’d always carry these  preferences, always feel the same, always want the same things from a woman’s body. there was safety there.

but without realization, or action on my part, my tastes broadened. deepened. they grew in parallel to waning focus on the sexual act itself and waxing appreciation of raw beauty. slowly, the more magical things a woman can bring blossomed in my mind.

then girl became Woman, and base desire became passion unbidden.

this is not freedom. this is a previous addiction with a rider attached. the smell of long clean hair, the complex shapes of an imperfectly real body and long-tended needs. the eroticism of well orchestrated clothing hinting but not sharing. emotional elements expressed onto a body. hopes, dreams and deep seas of dark fears. longings. and oft time desperations. these linger, combine, become more complex and far more distracting than a simple semi-hard cock over some scantily clad late-teen ever was.

you think you may one day leave the need of the body behind. but you will never leave mind’s need for intrigue, beauty, experience, narrative and passion. we’re born asexual and grow into fervent fetishists. from no need or knowledge of sex, to a burning all encompassing desire to penetrate everything, to a psycho-sexual need of fantasy, perfect moments laden with promise and possibility and ideally teaming with equal parts humanity and heart crushing beauty.

l thought I could be free from this fascination with “her” and i find as i grow and age, it becomes richer, more compelling, and more irresistible.

once you find yourself in the center of psycho-sexual craving the lies gently passed as truth about how to live, what matters and the general push towards long term coupling collapses under the weight of intense need for experience, growth and ever richer experiences.

from here, life unfolds into a road of solitude spattered with beautiful rich experience and a slow death once the world deems you sexually irrelevant.