So much sniggering about what happens to men in their mid-forties does become tiresome, doesn't it, my pretties? They are, after all, going through the XY equivalent of the hormonal roller-coaster that we women face on the downward slope toward 50. They need the luscious seductive curves of young fertile women (or red convertibles, as the case may be) to give their flagging testosterone levels a momentary lift. And if testosterone is indeed the hormone of desire, then who can blame them for their search for some way, any way, to pump it up? Because as I can personally testify, during the harrowing downs of my current roller-coaster ride, life can seem flat and dull in a way that I've never before experienced.
I really have no other explanation for my experience the other day (see below), than that it triggered a palpable release of testosterone. It seemed like I could feel it pulsing through my bloodstream. Could testosterone be the ultimate high? I doubt it. But no one ever accused me a being a slacker in the intrepid category. So as of this month I'll be launching my newest campaign: to find a way, somehow, to have regular sex, here in the wilds of macho-landia. Because I can't be constantly running off to "sexless" Berlin for sex, now can I? That's just not in keeping with the nature of this blog... not to mention how bad it is for the environment.
So hmmm, what will it be? Regular sessions with the Ice Prince, he who is always hard and never talks back, do tend to lose their appeal after several months straight. I suppose I could do my best to eschew heterosexuality at this advanced age (back in school we called them political lesbians), but how would the real lesbians feel about that?? Bisexuality was the "in" thing in the Bay Area in the 00's; better late than never, I suppose. To maintain some penile presence, I could become the hot-bi-babe for some bored couple afflicted with the seven-year itch.
But I think the best would be to arrange something like my friend L. has -- a same-time-next-week sort of thing where she knows next to nothing about his life nor he about hers -- purely sex, no complications. Sounds sort of like heaven, doesn't it? I had a friend once who would always lament that she wished she could duct tape their mouths shut. But really, with my new-found sympathy for men, I no longer have any need for such overly generalized misandrous musings. And I cannot allow myself to give up; if *I* exist, then somewhere out there must be a handful of equally smart iconoclastic men who would be my match, right?
In the meantime I'll hold off on hitting the testosterone pills when the world becomes too gray and unappealing to bear. I shudder to think of the disconcerting side effects they could cause...