Shunga-Sized …

… park, morning; bright sun, blue sky, air crisp with the smell of fallen leaves … amateur photographers, oldsters mostly, walking about, in search of autumn foliage nature shots and/or birds, I suppose, toting cameras with telephotos of a length and girth, proportionate to their body size, that rival even the most supersized among the schlongs at the shunga (erotic manga) exhibit I recently viewed …

… kindergarteners and pre-kinders running about, searching among fallen leaves for gingko nuts, though most, it seems, have been gathered by previously visiting groups, leaving slim pickings, but the kids seem happy enough …

… and yet despite the pleasant ambience I find myself feeling some sort of anxiety as I make my way through the park, thinking of a woman I love–whether our relationship will grow closer, enter the realm of the carnal; remain one of what I would currently describe as intimate friendship with a leitmotif of flirtation; or slowly or quickly fade … anxiety as I consider the possibility that there may have already been, in our interactions, a number of moments when, had I been given to dramatically impulsive action, we might have become carnally active … wondering if I may have already missed the boat, if there was any potential boat …

… and yet, another part of me feels comfortable in my, so far anyway, non-impulsivity, at least in any carnal sense … if something develops it develops; if not, not … and may develop whether any dramatic, carnal impulsivity on my part occurs or not, for sometimes things may develop by the most gradual of degrees, the smallest of gestures …

floating light

… park … blue sky daubed with fluffy clouds … bright sun, cool but warming air, more fallen, autumn-turned leaves … something floating catches the sunlight; floating among the tree branches … on the other side of a playing field a woman blows bubbles for a small child; they float across, float above me among the branches, catching light …

… fallen …

… park … bright sun, blue sky, some fluffy white clouds … sunlight on tree trunks, damp ground from yesterday’s rain, fallen leaves …

Teen-Like Angst

Posted by VERITAS
About to go out for a walk in the park when I realize, starting to become hard as I visualize, and otherwise muse upon, fantasies of sex with … and with …., that wearing boxers for underwear, as I am, in combination with the thin, loose-fitting Columbia walking pants I’m now wearing will produce a distinct possibility of any penal engorgement, however incipient, being noticed by others in the park – why even when my penis has settled back to a completely non-engorged state, a partial outline of my shaft presents itself in topography of the pants fabric’s folds.

Realizing this, I switch from boxers to briefs – which, in my experience, manage to adequately suppress visibility through fabric of, at least, milder degrees of tumescence – and leave my apartment with greater confidence.

All of this brings me to a mediation, as I walk through the park, on the suppression by the human animal of things sexual in most aspects of its everyday life – not to say that such suppression serves no beneficial purposes.  I say “most aspects” since, for one thing at least, sexuality comes out all over the place in various aspects of the arts, and on a spectrum ranging from highly sublimated to highly explicit (which doesn’t necessarily mean pornographic).

(Note: I wish to emphasize that I of course realize that having fantasies of sex with … and …. might well be different from what actual sex might turn out to be like with either of these women, and that sex provides no guarantee whatsoever of intimacy on the level of thoughts and feelings – an intimacy I’ve already experienced with these women and continue to desire in my relationships with them at least as much and perhaps more than any intimacy that might arise from or find expression through sex.)

 

… park … tranquil … but …

Posted by VERITAS
… walking in the park at midday … blue sky, not too hot but the sun warm on my skin, humidity low … summer’s semis (cicadas) pulsing their last … an occasional breeze moving through the trees … feeling tranquil … but not entirely so; thinking of DNA’s complete indifference about, or, rather, incapacity to “care” about how much pain or pleasure … or indifference we feel in our lives — how it’s all a matter of whatever works best for re DNA’s perpetuating itself, and if being able to withstand 100 or 1000 times or even a seemingly infinitely greater amount of pain than pleasure, and/or being equally deadened — indifferent — serves the end of DNA perpetuation (though I would think that under most, though not all, circumstances it wouldn’t), then so be it. …