Behind a decent amount of intersexual passions, and a man finds himself thinking that more and more often he becomes bored in this predictable game. Male longing, or what men are silent about.
As my experience shows, the seed of this melancholy begins to swell and gives the first sprout, tender and uncertain, when the man is still only a little over thirty. Behind - a certain number of years of intersexual passions, such is the wheel of samsara, where Venus catches Mars, then vice versa. And at some point, a man catches himself thinking that more and more often he becomes bored in the predictable course of this wheel. I'm tired of the ancient game, more and more often I want to prefer something simple and honest to its intrigues - like a bath with childhood friends or an evening with beer in a sports bar.
No, it's not that he's tired of hunting - the game of "lonely male in the metropolis" can be played for decades. But more and more often there is a feeling of a repeating scenario. It seems that another pretty face that smiles from the opposite side of the table, coquettishly stirring sugar in cappuccino, has already happened in his life. Somewhere he heard these phrases, which she repeats a little memorized to please him. It happened before.
Often these circumstances make him think for the first time about marriage, which for some (by the way, often very long) time becomes a saving pill and a desired harmony. A ring appears on his finger, and a new meaning in life. Contacts of blondes disappear from the phone (well, except that a couple remains on an additional secret SIM card - just in case). He tries to preach to single friends.
And now time passes. Let's say ten years.
The man is forty. And he has a wife, and let's say, even a loved one. And let his presence no longer aerate the blood, but her smile warms. They have a house, their life is adjusted, their children are ruddy and collect toy fairies, on Saturdays they dine with their mother-in-law. On Sundays, there is sex that once felt like tango, now it's like eating porridge together. Porridge is very good for health, they say. And satiates no worse than a steak with blood. They say.
And then one day, calm and well-fed, a man meets her. A girl who looks at him with the clear eyes of a little buddha and who is younger than him. It doesn't matter under what circumstances they met. Most importantly, his mind refuses to accept the fact that when she still could not walk and slept with a pacifier, he already smoked and almost considered himself a life-weary indulgent cynic. He could be her father, but she doesn't seem to notice when she looks at him from under her fluffy lashes. And now, guided more by curiosity than by some bold intentions, he takes a step forward - for example, invites her to the cinema, and then to a restaurant. He had already managed to forget how enthusiastic women can be, for whom everything is new - champagne, a man's shoulder next to him, a night that can be torn to shreds and divided into two.
Then the scenario can develop in different ways. If a man is weak, selfish and used to indulging his passions, adultery will take place in the vaudeville genre. So much has been written about such novels that it is not very interesting to dissect one of them even in a nutshell.
If a man is decent, faithful and knows how to compare the volume of losses and gains, this novel will be subtle, like old haiku. Maybe there will not even be real intimacy between them, except for a handshake. But after seeing the girl home, and then returning to Leonard Cohen or Billy’s Band, it’s like he will live nine lives. In each of which there will be honey, and salt, and adrenaline, and eyes that looked at him with such an impudent invitation that this impudence was even perceived as something touching.
He will return home, listlessly eat the soup that his wife has prepared. And then he pours himself whiskey, smokes and looks out the window for a long time without turning on the light. And if someone asks him at this moment - do you want your life to change? - he will most likely answer: “No!”, And it will be honest. But longing, bitter and dark, will bloom inside him like a poisonous marsh plant. Longing for the passing time, for the past, which seemed like yesterday, but suddenly turned out to be the last century, for nights that he can no longer tear - except perhaps neatly, for perforation, for eternity, which suddenly looked into his face.
And if his wife, frightened by his strange behavior, quietly comes up behind and asks: “What happened?”, He will most likely answer with a smile: “Nothing.” And that would be fair too.
Author: Maryana R.