I think of that poem by Charles Bukowski about his days in a nursing home and these lines:
and lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don’t even
exist…
…there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,
myself whiter than this sheet of paper,
bloodless,
brain gone, gamble gone…
In a lot of scenarios in growing old, beautiful women (usually younger and in their prime, or at least the attractive ones) stop recognizing you physically, you’re just some old guy and maybe a nuisance when you hit on them (dirty old man comes to mind). But if they do want to be around you, it most likely the money and how you treat them (particularly if you’re twice their age) to get to the sex. But what happens if you’re older and don’t have the money and the lifestyle that they’d be attracted to? Then you’re up the creek without a paddle to gain any forward momentum to that desired state. However getting old and incapacitated, as depicted in the above poem, is the worse; especially when those desires could have been fulfilled when able, but the effort was never made. It’s like, you blew your chance—and it was just wishful thinking. (Charlie Brown never got to kick the football.)
Like many men, some getting up in age, I didn’t have a lot of discretionary income, and even today I have nothing to offer a woman as in providing them with security and nice things. So, mustering up a donation and doing my research, then seeing the so few providers that I have patronized (one I have seen twice; she was so worthwhile and skilled) made a difference. I certainly did not want to go to my grave without indulging in this pleasure, which has given meaning to my existence.
-- Modified on 8/26/2017 10:59:54 AM