the marquis and me - 3

This time with an exquisitely beautiful young woman many years my junior. The initial impact was perfect, just as I’d wanted it. She was deeply impressed, so she assured me. IMHO, it was one of my best productions, and I’d used it to cross a threshold I would never have been able to cross otherwise, to introduce myself. We got on well, I thought, though the process was slow. She was quiet, intelligent, wary, promising. I soon reached a point with her where I felt the need to take another risk, rather than having the connection gradually fritter away. So I wrote another letter, then another, I couldn’t stop myself, though they weren’t personal, or I should say intimate, letters, just the unburdening of pent-up ideas and reflections. It was another disastrous error. She treated me, no doubt on the advice of friends, as mad bad and dangerous to know, and cut me dead.

My last effort, or error, occurred in the email era. This probably explains why, unlike the previous females, my third victim at least offered me a couple of perfunctory responses and again the overwhelmingly negative reaction in the end stunned me.

These successive rejections profoundly affected my confidence in the romance game. Until quite recently, women had generally found me attractive, viewed from afar. I’d tried to cultivate a self-contained, intellectual air, which, it seemed, attracted quite a few attractive women. I cleverly avoided saying a single word to these women [actually it wasn’t hard], and the air of erotic mystery was preserved. We went alone to our beds, mutually fantasizing, I like to hope.
My real sex life was pretty well non-existent. I blamed my poverty. I argued to myself that it would be best not to talk to these women as I hadn’t the wherewithal to show them a good time or even to offer them a comfortable bed. I was protecting them from a disastrous match, or even a disappointing assignation [performance anxiety was another issue]. But how lovely some of those women were, and how horny.

I’ve now well and truly gone to seed, though my sex drive is as strong as ever. My confidence is at such a low ebb that I can no longer even imagine having sex with those women who’ve remained as young and beautiful as ever as I’ve grown older, fatter, smellier and uglier. Perhaps if women still looked at me as they used to I might picture myself pleasuring them as I used to, but now they look hornily at others, so I obligingly imagine them doing it with them. I just hope they don’t mind me watching their imaginary shenanigans.

This brings me to sexual perversion, pornography, freedom, society and the future.

I’m not sure if I’m a sex addict, but I don’t involve anyone else in my sexual preoccupations, at least not directly. In any case I’ve never felt any guilt about sex, as masturbation, and only a slight tinge of guilt regarding fantasizing over others. This is perhaps because I don’t treat other people horribly, even in fantasy. I’m not much of a sexual fetishist, and I don’t fantasise about leather, rubber, whips, clamps, coprophilia, humiliation or brutality. My almost sole sexual delight consists in fantasising beautiful women giving themselves over to sexual bliss. The greatest turn-on comes from beauty expressing ecstacy, or sexual surprise or satiety or hunger. Priceless and addictive, it’s easy to comprehend feeling numb to all but that. Particularly easy for me, so unschooled in in the practicalities and problems inherent in real romantic liaisons, to fall prey to the delightful daydream of life as a succession of pleasurings and orgasms.