SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

“We need to find husbands tonight”, Kevin said, as he folded himself onto the bar and took a sip of his vodka tonic.”
“Yes we do!” I countered. “And I want mine to have a British accent.”
All week, while driving---from a book-on-CD---I’d been listening to Jeremy Irons read Lolita. The timbre of his voice managed to hold me captive---even in the worst of traffic. His accent felt like beautiful, calming piano music---the ideal attribute for my potential husband.
“To finding British husbands tonight!” I said and raised my glass to his.
“Cheers”.
Clink. Sip.

The occasion for seeking husbands and drinking was due to the fact that Kevin was turning another year older. Pre-prowl, in between sips, we reminisced about past years, younger years, wilder years. And with that came the people who shared those events. Our favorite being Helena.
To us, Helena possessed an allure that matched her fearless approach to life: A modern day Holly Golightly, with the grace and looks of Gwyneth Paltrow. Whenever she was present, occasions became events. Memorable events.

“Remember that time with the lipstick?”, Kevin asked, a smile washing across his boyish face.
“Remember it! I would love to see it all over again! I’d pay money to have a picture of that guys face. Within 20 seconds he went from distain to elation. It was perfection!”

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While out one night with the boys, Helena, the consummate glamour girl, felt she needed a touch up. Being well versed in the uses of make up, sans mirror, she elegantly, albeit perfectly, applied a fresh coat of fire-engine-red lipstick (her signature color) to her pouty lips. But, upon completion, realized she had nothing to blot her lips. She chose the next best thing.
Standing beside her was a strapping, extremely muscled man-god with exposed bicep’s the size of cantaloupes. To Helena, they offered the perfect blot spot.
Thus, she leaned in and kissed his bicep—leaving a lipsticked imprint of her marvelous mouth on his arm. Being a fantastic, humpy gay man, at first he was pissed that someone had touched him without granted entry and scowled at her.
“I had to blot!” she announced matter-of-factly and took a drag off her cigarette.
A smile quickly replaced the scowl and, as usual, she won him over with her self-assured allure.

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One drink and a few songs around the piano later, we moved on to our next destination.
“Let’s be like Helena tonight!” I said feeling a little more fearless after my martini.
As we stared into the hazy crowd of men, “Today Helena or like 2002 Helena?” Kevin asked in response to my statement.
“2002 Helena. Definitely 2002!”

Thus, we approached the evening with intrepid abandon, effortlessly chatting and introducing ourselves to the various men that crossed our path. This became easier with another vodka tonic. We raised the bar: we entered the dance floor. I lost Kevin in the crowd. And then I was three.
The handsome pair motioned me into their spot. I dumbly obliged---getting literally sucked up in between them---which lead to a very public three-way-display of mutual desire.
Suffice it to say, I found no husband with a British accent, nothing close to Jeremy Irons.
But the following morning, the scenario left me feeling conflicted: inappropriate or appealing?

As I nursed myself out of a hangover, I thought about Helena. 2002 Helena. Younger Helena. Before she was married Helena. Were my feelings of inappropriateness because I was closer to 45 then 25, which made me wonder: Does a truly fearless approach to the things we desire only exist when we’re young?
And that got me thinking about desire and the middle-aged man.
If you feel desirable, does that evoke desire---at any age? But, if you think you aren’t desirable after a certain age, then do you stop seeking it out?

So…here’s the big question: should ones desire be less obvious after a certain age? Or is it because we age, that a little bit of that desire dies with every decade?
Had the evening been a success or a failure? Public middle-age-make-out---hot or not?
You decide.

Labels: Death and Desire, Decades