21- One big cosmic joke
Journal: March 21, 1987
Spring, eh? I’m getting too old for this, even though age
tends to flavor the sexual game differently, making me that much more capable
of dancing in the aisles than I could have in the past.
Maybe yesterday’s flirtation with the new baker’s girlfriend
was a lesson on how to survive, or a toning up of skills I might need in
Thursday’s date with Peggy.
Things in general are getting more complicated. A sense of
perverted humor hovers over me as if factors in one large cosmic joke closing
in.
For instance, on Thursday, I have a date scheduled with
Peggy, but also have an event with Maryanne – something I got reminded about
when the boys at work told me Maryanne was looking for me. A puzzle since
Maryanne knows perfectly well I rarely if ever show up at work before ten. Most
likely, she went there to bask in the adoration of the boys, using looking for
me as an excuse to see them.
Then, there was the new baker’s girlfriend who looked about
as bored with her boyfriend as a girl could get. She must have been all of
nineteen, looking younger than that even, and she made her boredom perfectly
clear.
I sort of played with it, but never going too far over the
line since the new baker might be boring, but he’s not stupid, even if he is a
braggard and a liar. I guess he doesn’t feel very important about himself. But
then, neither do I. The game was never serious anyway. The last thing I need is
another younger woman in my life, when Mary Anne and Peggy are quite enough.
I’m certainly not confident when it comes to Peggy, who very
much reminds me of my ex-wife, only infinitely more intelligent.
Peggy is also cynical, and suspicious, telling me during our
recent phone call for me not to hand her the same line other men hand her when
they are trying to get her phone number: “But baby, I’m different,” when Peggy
said no man is THAT different, not even me.
It’s hard to divide ourselves in two, keeping lust for
physical satisfaction contained while maintaining façade of dignity and
goodness on the other. To deny our need is stupid. This is where the game comes
in, dancing on the line between both, so as not to seem too lustful or too shy.
Frankly, the too shy angle seems more dangerous to me. It
hides things. Self-denial is like a smoldering volcano, and masking it, seems
dishonest. We feel guilty. We back off, scared that if we expose it we might
scare off the woman we desire. But then, I don’t want to come off like those
arrogant jerks at the clubs, spouting off, expecting to snatch what they want
off the stage with the promise of a drink, or maybe something else.
Is it any wonder I’m so confused?
None the less, I have a feeling that the whole situation is
about to erupt, whether I want it to or not, and I’m horrified at the thought
of bringing Peggy to my place only to have Maryanne show up at my door looking
for a bit of nooky.
Oh well, life goes on.
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