“Girls, please give your bodies and your lives to the young men who deserve them.” – Charles Bukowski
My instincts and sense argue over a lovely young specimen. I understand both sides, and remain in the middle, sedating myself against reality. Her youth is there to train young men, not torture old beasts like me. She’s still full of artificial goals, which began with first kiss, first note, first dance, first love, first touch, first proposal, first marriage, and first child. I know what comes after. So does she, but she can push it from her mind. I lived it. The enthusiasm and optimism she beams needs a mirror, not a black hole.
As I age, my goals become sparse, sleep becomes precious, and delayed gratification seems silly. I can’t take it from her–the toy she meddles with–her armor of innocence. She needs the boy with unspoiled expectations and the confidence he can overcome and outperform his parents. Not likely.
Still, her scent intoxicates me. Her gaze penetrates me. As I run my fingertips down her thigh, she electrifies my numbing touch.
The wolves encourage me to slay her. I can’t. They question my manhood.
“Take the pill and tear her away from those clumsy boys.”
No. They deserve her. I don’t. Her talents, while appreciated, would have little effect on this emotional corpse. The thoughts of her naked body lying here inspire me, but it’s stimulants, sedatives, and sleep I need. The young man will chase her … often into my arms. The young man will seek and accumulate others like her, while lying next to her. She’ll cry on my soft shoulder, as I caress her hair and say it will be OK. My salty shoulders have absorbed much sadness. She’s vulnerable, but not to me. The young man will overdo it with laziness, drink, and the accumulation of meaningless possessions. She’ll ask me why. I’ll shrug and remind her babies cry. The young man won’t appreciate all she does until she leaves him. Yet, she must leave to teach him, or his future loves will suffer. Abandonment taught me much–mostly how to leave, and find out what the women really think of me. She’ll lose faith, grow paranoid, and sigh as she tells me she has given up. I’ll insist her instincts won’t let her off that easily. Her friends say letting go will light the path to love. I’ll describe the path as long and treacherous, yet useless if she waits for disoriented youth to follow it.
She’ll be loved again. I’ll raise a drink to the next cub’s lesson, and keep an arm free to catch her fall.