Why is it that older women who like sex are cougars, but older men with a functioning libido and corresponding anatomy are dirty old men?

Doesn’t seem fair, does it? As an older man who can get it up, both in my head and further down, sexual intimacy is one of the great joys of life. Of course, during the lusting phase, excessive ogling is awkward and embarrassing to both the ogler, and the ogled.

Then again, I suspect women still want to know that they’re wanted, as in hike up their skirt, and pull down their panties wanted.

Everything is supposed to balance out, The husband and wife being equally randy, particularly for each other. But it never has quite worked out that way. King David was married when he got the hots for Bathsheba, and she for him. Her hubby, Uriah the Hittite, ended up with the short end of that stick.

So human behaviour hasn’t changed much since the Late Bronze Age. We now have firearms, electric vibrating dildoes, nuclear weapons, and Pop-tarts. Still cocks still get hard and pussies still get wet.

May it ever be so.

Who wishes that you should be unknown, unremembered? Who else? But a small and puny creature who can seduce a crowd of cowards, but trembles before the valiant, even the memory of the valiant. Fittingly, the valiant have no uses for another Alberich. We take our comfort in knowing this Niebelung will also be vanquished

Their fathers were once heroes, alas, they are mere punks. Old punks, dead punks at that.

The world has plenty of room for tenured fools.

Yesterday, I went swimming ,1000 meters. It was a satisfying swim, followed by a shower,a shave of where I don’t want hair on my face and neck. I met another member and had a pleasant chat. Then I went to an AA meeting, where I discovered I really do need my hearing aids, yet again.

After an evening devoted to no particular activity, except laundry, I awaited J’s return from work.

Today I was backsliding in my NO TV regime, until I turned the set off. I went back to reading and writing in the quiet, with a continuo provided by the ever present tinnitus.

I see where they’ve made some formatting changes at Automattic, that I’m too lazy to either figure out or change.

This is the day I start to do things different. I know that “differently” is the proper word, adverb, not adjective. Today I sit on my rocker, on my porch, listening to the birds, amplified through my hearing aids, breathing in the fragrance of sandalwood, burning from Japanese sticks, watching, no, lusting, after my neighbour, as she walks her fat dogs.

She wears the same pink oversized tee shirt that covers her bum, drawing my eyes to it, in her vain attempt to conceal it. “It’s an ass to be proud of, woman.” is all I can think, just as that ponytail is ready for me to pull if I ever get to fuck her.

Inside, the sink has an assortment of dirty dishes,Rubbermaid containers, and their brick red lids. Now I will leave the birds. The incense has burned down. My coffee is cold, The woman has gone inside. Now I will too.