For most of my randy life, I confused love with sex, mistook lust for passion, and substituted the physical act of sex with caring, sharing, and compassion. Now, in my twilight years, that’s no longer the case. Boy howdy, severely mistaken? Love isn’t a hasty blowjob, or a quickie in some secluded place. The parameters of love have little or nothing to do with sexual conquest, or apathetically getting laid. I loved having sex more than the pursuit of mutual admiration, and unconditional love.
Always on the prowl, searching for the next victim of my deluded sexual prowess. Like any heterosexual, my Neanderthal machismo compelled me to suss out exotic pussy. Thinking I was god's gift to any female willing to get it on. Booty calls, a chance rendezvous, or clandestine hookups were the order of those days, nights, and years squandered as a clueless Casanova with a one-night stand complex. Men spent nine months or so waiting to get out and the rest of their lives trying to get back in.
It was normal practice, the standard for my breed, a testosterone-driven, dick-brained lifestyle. Oh, to be young, dumb, and full of cum again! Those bygone days of piss and vinegar are an illusion now. It wasn’t enough to be casual acquaintances with women, I needed to seal the deal with the old in-and-out. It was an exercise in primal urges that led me around by my tiny-brained penis.I was no stud. I made noble stabs at it. Poking around. Of average size, overcompensating for phallic deficiencies, a rank pretender to the throne of Fuckers and a contender to marathon fucking exploits.
Males are purely selfish. Throughout history, kingdoms lost, empires vanquished, waving cocks around like sabers, rifles, missiles and spears. Sticks and long pointy objects, big hunky pickup trucks. Walk softly and carry a big club to conk out a target of desire, dragging them by their hair, back to the cave. Treating another human being as a thing, a possession to covet, put on a pedestal of desire. You can witness this ritual on any given Friday or Saturday night in clubs, bars or parties. That hot-fever pitch emanating from sweaty bodies, groping, thrusting, and gyrating on the dance floor of flaming sex. An orgy of flesh, pheromones in the air. Getting close up and personal, watching wolves, tomcats and pussy hounds sniff around, scoping out the room for some young snatch to hit on. The male ego can’t help it. What’s worse, the compulsion to brag about dalliances in private conversations among other horny males in a man’s world.
Oh yeah, I did her. Mention another name, Oh, did her too. This type of behavior’s way too common, tolerated, and acceptable. Not since Adam and Eve, even Adam and Steve, or Alice and Eve, because gays aren’t immune to this erotic courtship dance of domination of either gender. Sex driving willy-nilly over the edge of common sense. People will say, and do unnatural things not considered proper for a sweet piece of ass. It is human nature to desire physical contact with others. The human race exists in multitudes, by and from having sex. What’s love got to do with it? Do people simply fuck to make love? Get down, funky, dirty love. Yeah, baby! Stick it where the sun don’t shine. I can’t believe it’s not butter.
Emotions run rampant, wild in the heat of passion, consensual sex with total strangers was a common occurrence in years past. Everybody was doing it with everybody else. It was a sport, even an obsession. Not until the 1980s, when AIDS scared the hell out of every single, sexually active fucker, still breathing. We don’t hear about it much.
The plague has replaced it as the new killer. Avoiding all contact with everybody, puts a damper on your sizzling hindquarters. So what’s this thing called love? In the 1960s, it was freedom. Anyone can be a tramp, harlot, whore, slut or something like it. I certainly was.