Infatuation From The Inside

Infatuation is a madness, it's true. I saw a girl at the internet café whose cute looks and ways compelled me to get up, walk over, smile like an idiot and drool out a lascivious hello, gleam lit up like a hundred watt light bulb, shake fingernail
forward fists side to side like Wallace looking at cheese, and bounce up and down and saying “you're so cute!”

One date later, and I'm all buzzed, not eating or sleeping right, and can't relax. I have to distract myself with other dates until I can see her again.

Two dates later and my whole world is glowing and more colorful. My face has a healthier glow. She doesn't seem to mind that I'm crazy about her, and often says that I say those things to all the girls, but sometimes my gaze and
comments are near lecherous – she's just so fantastic I could eat her like a steak. I can't stop staring at her.

Oh – more more more. Let's start with her fingernails. They are painted as a ten year old might – with a light pink background and yellow flowers. It fits. She is as girly girl as all that. She's 22 but her naked little
body could be that of a blossoming fourteen year old, and the face that melts me could be that of a sixteen year old. All the proportions are feminine – small hands and feet, daintiness without fragility. As feminine and young as feminine
and young can be when combined.

Aie Bibir is unusually cute, but also beautiful and warm and tender and sharp eyed, but mostly of all so playful and cheerful. A smile and a laugh is natural to her face. Definitely, again, one of the cutest girls in a large city. Not as
sexy as volcano Sarah, because Sarah is a freak of nature – the sex of 10,000 people packed into one, but wonderful eye candy and we will take pictures and do porn and sell it and it will sell well. It's so fun to look at her, taking
pictures will be a treat.

It's all of a perfect piece – the ambivalent age, the girly girliness, the full sensual sexy lips, the penetrating eyes, and her bright cheer that animates her presence as a force. All of that just sends shakes of joy up my spine
– I'm enthralled – totally hypnotized and nearly shaking with infatuation. And her smell soothes me so I can sleep. I haven't breathed in a woman like that for ages.

I think the intensity of my interest in her is seducing her. Aie sees my eyes on fire for her, and I just won't shut up about how much she turns me on. I'm just eating her all up. And she's squirmy delicious.

I nearly asked her to marry me during sex – but I know those strong feeling bubble out of the belly then. I just relaxed and enjoyed the mixing and pleasure, and forgot about totally owning just yet.

Later she said that she felt good, but it's just fun and not serious. She just wants a man to take care of her, financially, and if I do, she'll be monogamously mine. I keep thinking that over time she'll become mine in a deeper
way, as lovers usually bond – but it's not a certainty. She's a party lovin girl, 173 platonic contacts on her cell phone, and not as easy to ensnare with sex as some are. My looks won't do it. I'm guessing she'll
avoid romantic entanglements if she can, and just hang out and get taken care of. And as that feeling settles in, so does an emptiness, and then, thankfully, the obsessive thoughts about her diminish. Time still to butterfly and date as much as
possible, so as to avoid unrequited love.

But though the infatuation is a delicious madness, it is, I think, an inspired one. Not everyone gets as infected by love rabies, but the swoon isn't the whole thing anyway. There is also the fire and the passion and the tender sharing
and care. Temporary or not, that addiction opens to an essential essence. And it's pragmatic to have that entwined an ally. Married people are overall happier and live longer.

And more than pragmatism and happiness, there is a magic to the fire of love. The gaze of a passionate lover can burn into the loved and awaken, deepen experience, consolidate all the hidden parts into one glowing loving whole. Being loved
is to be transformed, and to love is to have power.

But there aren't that many fire people, people who naturally understand the intense emotions of love, attachment and sex, hold nothing at all back – throw themselves full force into a bigger force. It is more than a madness, screaming
for all the neighbors to hear, hour after hour, day after day, month after month. Displaying love bonds hand in hand at the mall, or with sneaky and not so sneaky public sex, in the restroom, in the ocean, on the rocks at a public beach, in the
taxi, in the middle of the street in daytime. It is more than a madness to leave ownership markings as hickeys and bruises. Because there is life in it. A glow palpable, a shared fire in the belly, a baby of energy called a couple. Sex in the
morning isn't just for kicks and release, it's food and nourishment without which the baby hasn't been fed, the day not inflated enough with warmth to start. It's an addiction to more than dopamine, it is an addiction to a
force like breath. It fills spaces and is shared and we burn it and it makes our eyes bright.

Speaking of how love transforms, I'm reminded of virgins. A girl who dances floppy and fun and discombobulated will become an earth volcano after orgasms and passion consume her and connect her to a deeper source. Her pelvis will sway
side to side and down in a squat that reaches all the way into the sex of the planet. Her forehead, heart, eyes, will all glow together in a fire inviting and consuming. She'll have the power to gaze with her belly at you. She'll be
more of a piece, and what was latent will course as force.

I danced with Ai yesterday, and you can teach an old dog new tricks. She's young. Entering her world is like staring into the eyes of a baby. It all gets fresh, you open up and let go, and the next thing you know, you are outside of
habit, dancing at forty in a nightclub gazing into a fresh faced beauty, laughing and bobbing up and down. It's good to be an idiot. Music about, pretty girls and boys about, and the social mind is stretched from solitary habits into a social
milieu, people mixing and looking and bobbing and checking and leering, then later, fucking. A lot of new stuff happens – these girls keep us young too.

Ya, it comes with prices – frustration, infidelities, crazy fucked up useless shit, the break up. A few months later and you're good to go, no worse for wear, more informed, better able to see and therefore love truly, hoover
more of her into your passionate lecherous being and let her cook in your womb of love. After all is done, she'll come out roasted to perfection, more of a woman, more ready for the next round with the next man, and I'll be older and
contain more too.

There are special joys of dating the young and innocent. The freshness they give, the life and life force, the newness, and also in giving to them, piecing them together and awakening. It is like parenting and loving and love making mixed.
They do become as daughters and child brides – intimately connected by all the firsts in their life that they had with you. Even an older woman can have firsts, too. Lighting a deep fire will change a person, and if she's young and
there are many firsts, she'll be inextricably bound to you as if you created much of what she is, showed her herself, awakened her up. She'll never forget you, and that's family. And I've been changed – I'm not
just an

experienced male, I have been experienced. Going into a woman, deeply and mixing in that mutual space, is meeting the muse head on, and resting there. An old dog isn't old in love in a young woman – he is as fresh as the next breath.

For us divorced men in Asia, falling for opportunistic cuties, viva la difference. Young and old, flint and stone. Out of all the painful cultural frictions comes a better understanding of how to see people and what to put up with or avoid
or change. We are forced into fresh perspective after fresh perspective. The bubbling mess isn't a cauldron of mud, it's a stew of human liquids. I don't know about you, but I still have sex during mense time. A little
bloody mess is welcome in my life. Bloody bloody mess, better for the vitality than a rainwater bath and organic carrot juice – it sticks to the soul and makes a man out of you.

Stickman's thoughts:

I really liked the last paragraph.