Deep Currents

This journey through our lives, unplanned and random, develop our personas and our personalities through experiences, partners, and actions.

Every fuck and every fetish. Every decision and every mistake shapes us, every horny conquest and drunken flirtation. Each experience adds notches to our belts, builds our confidences and refines our ability.

Yet with every new sexual experience, it stands in relief and in contrast to the previous ones. I still remember the first time, in the backseat of the car at the drive-in. The sweaty urgent fumbling. That shaped every fuck I attempted since.

I remember the cheerleader dropout I lusted after and was never able to get close to. She ignored every comment, every word as I watched her at the pool. Her rejection broiled and obsessed me and still informs my approach when I'm interested...verbally or in writing, anywhere.

I remember the ones I wished didn't happen. And I remember the one that happened over and over, hotter and hotter every time - a volcano of sex, until the inevitable break with her about something else unrelated.

These experiences are no longer within my grasp. They happened and left without my letting go. My memory is caressed by the teenage girls I see, flat stomachs, still exploring in the afternoons how much to let me feel them once, beneath their silken elastic.

Now they let the young jocks feel up their titties, their budding pussies. Not for me anymore.

My desires are a continuum that shift and evolve. Layers of senses co-mingled upon previous urges. The stirrings inspired by the divorcee at the end of the block who flashed us, accidentally on purpose, the beginning of my erotic gravitation to milfs. Her tank tops loose and open, drooping to show no bra, her shorts a little crooked, low down on the crack of her ass. I now suspect she grew into her sexuality just as her husband split the scene, and she was left to look locally, desperately, for anyone to notice her. In that way.

That scenario still completely gets to me. I was once free to flirt and kiss anyone I fancied. I caressed, licked, and came upon the thin red pussy hair of my ex-wife, a visual dream space that satisfied and is still a primal sense memory - my continuing obsession / fantasy with the light thick amber hair between her tall thighs. A fetish for redheads - formed first by the previous images in magazines, furtive glances, and personas I encountered in my horny adolescence - flows deep in my sexual psyche.

Each woman I fucked was a redhead wanting to get out. These currents I can't escape - my closest fantasies not possible to again be possessed or attained. They boil under every caress, every glance of hanging tit, every rude or flirty gesture, every exhale of orgasm.

My wife is not a redhead, nor tall, nor as young as she used to be. But her other attributes are the fuel I fuck to get off on, and they fuel the kindling of my sex, layering over older memories of summer beaches and bikinis, back-of-car fumblings, and red-haired masturbation. Seasoning and complimenting the present with more innocent past, that was full of promise for a future that was undetermined and endless with opportunities.