in the mood
With the inevitable change of seasons, I become a little moody and the feeling that I am growing older nags at me. The spring-summer transition is particularly relentless in its offensive. I find it extremely intriguing that we don’t apprehend the importance of youth when we’re young. It takes an older person to appreciate the vigor, the delight, the splendor of being young. It takes a man in his forties, at least, to cherish the beauty of a pubescent maiden. By then it’s too late, even if willing, to consider the possibilities. This realization gives birth to the connoisseur with a discriminating taste and an appreciation of beauty, only to be grasped in the mind.
There is some sort of mismatch out there between the genders. This, I believe is a great obstacle in the face of the proper evolution of the species. Anyway, when I was a younger and more foolish man of say twenty or twenty-one, I fancied older women. These were the real ones, I thought. The way they dress and hold their heads, the way they talked and walked signified the essence of womanhood to my over-testosteroned brain cells. Now that the hormonal tide has subsided a little (or a lot) and I can see, smell, feel, taste and hear clearly, I’m closer to grasping the eternal but elusive truth. All men should be forty something and all babes should remain in their twenties.
A young lass absorbs the sun’s rays in her bosom and hides the moon between her hips. Her allure is mixed with a whiff of cinnamon and wild flowers. Her skin is velvety to the touch, hot and moist. The taste of her lips assaults like an avalanche of juicy oranges and delicious melons. In a light breeze, a few Mozart notes float by with the whisper of her silk dress clinging and sliding off her luscious thighs.
Here is the ultimate irony. One needs to be older to come up with shit like this.