This lockdown. This pesky, bloody virus, affecting my virility. It's not only making everyone scared and miserable, it's wrecking my damn love life. This pandemic is poking a hole in my perversions. Calling a halt to my hanky-panky happenings. Putting a stop to my sensual shenanigans.
I am a sixty-three year old man. And true, my better days may be behind me, but I still like to think I can make a young woman smile. I certainly have an eye for the ladies - and a good, strong pair of hands too. That's not changed, despite my advancing years.
The trouble is you see, I may get older, but there are always attractive younger women to marvel at. And how utterly stunning they appear to an old codger like me! Their smooth skin is a balm for my rapidly failing eyes, their bright, perfect smiles an ointment for the annoyances and inconveniences of middle age... going to the toilet at all hours is a bloody pain. And even when you're done you can't get rid of it all, no matter how hard you shake it.
I gaze at those unlined, glossy, painted faces, and subconsciously stroke my chin whiskers, imagining how it would feel to place a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand on that soft skin, to inhale that exotic perfume and body scent.
I look at beautiful hair on women in their twenties, thirties, forties... long, short, straight, ringlets, bottle blonde, jet-black, or pink; it makes no difference to me. It's the way it moves that I notice, that touches my heart; the way it smells too, if I am close enough to be so lucky. The 'swishier' the better, the constant movement of a glossy mane, making a mockery of my creaky old joints as I attempt to stand or sit.
My hair is not swishy any longer, though it used to be, in my younger days. Back when I was a 'catch.' Now there are only a few wavy white strands left, circling my bald patch. Yet hair is rapidly sprouting out of every other orifice faster than I could ever trim it. Even if I could locate it all and keep my hands steady enough, I would never be so inclined. No, I would rather gaze in wonder at my mirror-opposite, in the form of the face of youth, wandering about, gorgeously unaware of how much they affect me. How much they feed my soul, and how much I envy them.
Oh, but it gets harder, the older I get. It's got to the stage now where I'm not even considered a nuisance to a beautiful woman anymore, I am merely a harmless old fart to be smiled at politely, or worse, looked through as though I am not there. I am not sure which is worse; being tolerated or being ignored. To them I am harmless, but how wrong they are. They may have youth, and carefree-ness, but I have age, and wisdom, and a lot of patience. I bide my time. I window-shop.
These old eyes have seen so much, these hands have done much. If only the beautiful women knew and saw just how much; it would mess up their fragile, innocent minds. You see, I don't just want to touch a beautiful woman; I want to get inside that beauty, that innocence. I want to break apart that beauty, piece by shining piece. I want to cut through what is on the surface, and see the beauty that is also inside; the heart and the lungs, and the veins, and those sinewy muscles. I want to get inside that skin, let it slide all over me, feel the beauty all around me. I want to see through their eyes. And maybe I cannot have it, so I can destroy it.
So, you can see how much I truly want lockdown to be over, so that I can go back to doing what I once did best; observing beauty, and making it a part of me.
Today I go to the park, as I do every single day; just a harmless, doddery old man with a stick. I always use a stick now, even though I don't really need it. It makes me look less able, more vulnerable. A person is more inclined to find me harmless if they think that I am helpless. I have a cheeky smile, and people talk to me, laugh with me, wave with their dogs. But they have no idea how dangerous I really am, and what lurks beneath my kindly exterior, my twinkly baby-blues. The capacity I have to really hurt and destroy another person's life is an absolute secret, known only to the few I have killed.
A young woman passes me by; she is very attractive, with long, blonde, glossy curls. Her skin glows; I bet she moisturises. I want her skin. She beams a dazzling smile at me, and I wave and smile. I wish that I could close the distance between us, and that she could feel the full force of my cruelty and envy. If only this pandemic would bugger off. If only I could get my hands on her soft flesh.
My time will come again. I will be patient. I cannot wait to play once again with my gorgeous, young lovers.
About the Creator
A mum, a friend to many and I love to explore dark themes and taboos in my writing. I am an optimist with a dark side...
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