The Taste of the Nectar of Youth

We all have an odd self-delusional photo shop mechanism in our brains that freezes the way we perceive ourselves at about the age of 25.

And as we age through the decades, like the fairest of them all, when we view ourselves in the mirror, our eyes transmit an image of ourselves frozen in adolescence.

Our consciousness loves us so much, it perpetuates a grand delusion of peak physical attractiveness….our sexiest selves.

And therefore, almost every man and woman, against all reason, fighting the headwinds of reality, believe they possess a unique, everlasting, erupting fountain of youth.

We all know ‘that guy’ who contrary to any semblance of truth, believes every woman who crosses his path, wants him sexually, so badly that if she doesn’t have him her life will no longer have meaning.

Of course if a man or woman decide their mission in life is to attract, excite, or create an earth-shattering romance with someone a generation or two younger, eventually, they will likely succeed.

And once they get a taste of the nectar of youth, like an alcoholic or drug addict, they can never fully recover, the demons remain caged. Contained in the recesses of their mind, always on the verge of breaking free and having their way.

When people see a significantly older man with a younger woman, or vice versa, they assume the unspoken arrangement is sex in exchange for money or lifestyle. And sometimes that’s exactly what it is. And sometimes not.

Regardless of underlying secondary considerations, for those involved in a relationship with a much younger partner, it changes them at a cellular level, perhaps down to their DNA.

For a man in his forties or fifties, having sex with a woman in her twenties or thirties, particularly as part of an ongoing relationship, is impossible to compartmentalize, rationalize, or process. A logical brain would, at a minimum, be curious as to why a woman would be emotionally, psychologically, and physically satisfied with a man old enough to be her father, with all the associated generational and physiological differences. But that would be a misreading of the truth.

The mind has an astounding way of creating a desired narrative. When the joy, passion, exotic, playful, experimental, power differentiated sexual engagements and interactions are so intensely intoxicating, the age difference melts away not by choice, but by necessity. “There must be something about me that is different. I must be a supernatural lover. I must give off a unique signal and aura. I must have a God-like presence to young women,” a man’s ego dictates.

And when the relationship dissolves, it is infinitely more damaging and devastating to the older man than to the younger woman.

For once a man experiences forbidden love and it is snatched from him, he can never fully move on without an itching….a persistent scratching of his psyche, a wondering of what he could have done differently and a perpetual curiosity of whether the young woman might someday return.

But when you peel back attraction, what are you really looking at?

What is the foundation of desire?

What is really turning us on?

Once every molecule of sensation has been explored, every forbidden, unexpected, mind-blowing explosion of fantasy, control, power, and disbelief experienced, what is the glue that continues to bind?

The answer is: peace.

Even the most passionate, erotic, attractive, sexually active, multi-partnered man or woman, can only ride that horse so long before something deeper, more meaningful, spiritual, and lasting must arise.

“The whole package,” many proclaim they must have, compatibility, an emotional-spiritual-physical connection, trust, loyalty, dependability.

Perhaps love is when all the pressure to be the best lover, a compassionate listener, the most devoted parent, the wisest, most industrious, hardest-working, provider of every desire and need, no longer matters the way we think it should.

Perhaps true love is the absence of the pressure to be anything at all.

Perhaps the deepest love is bestowing upon another person the gift of accepting them for exactly who they are, not who we thought they were or who we dreamed they would become.

If the definition of love had to be condensed into a single word, perhaps that word would be forgiveness.

Forgiveness for not living up to an unattainable standard.

Forgiveness for not loving someone as transparently and effortfully as they so richly deserve.

Forgiveness for loving ourselves so much that it sometimes feels like there is no room to love anyone else.

But most of all, forgiveness for not achieving every goal, for over promising and under delivering, for trying too hard to be the man you needed and deserved but never became.

As I age, I become more and more convinced that love is often the opposite and absence of what we believe it is.

Maybe love is when despite someone’s faults and imperfections, we love them anyway.

Maybe love is determining whether someone’s heart is in the right place.

Maybe love is knowing that no matter who you are, or what you think, or dream about, or proclaim, that no matter what stupid, idiotic, or foolish nonsense that occasionally spews out of your mouth, it’s okay.

Just maybe, there is a love out there that is easy. That doesn’t hurt. That doesn’t require you to transform or conform or contort yourself into someone you are not.

Maybe love is unattainable, or fleeting, or a foolish concept we conjure up to make life worth living.

Maybe love is indeed sex with the youngest nectar.

But I don’t think so. I think love is an eternal search and journey. One where regardless of verbal or legal commitment, regardless of pain or disappointment, or jealousy or betrayal, lives on eternally, not because it should, but because it must.

Love is when you pour your heart and soul into someone else, get nothing in return, and are satisfied with the possibility that your kindness and passion still made a difference in their life.

Love feels good. Love makes you whole. And when it penetrates your soul, it never dies.

Never.