Viewing the local antiquities

I can’t bring myself to say pussy: the plosive “p” followed by sibilant “s,” then the clamp-toothed grin of a long “e”: Yuck. I prefer the tough, straightforward cunt, but playing at being a furry pussy makes me forget some things. Like that I’m 34. Thanks to a genetic gift, my age is often taken for mid-20s. As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve gone the reverse of most people: I’m more shallow, not less; more superficial, not deeper. In my early 20s, when I received admiring looks from men, I’d bristle, unwilling to be turned into a sex object. Then, after gaining weight, I wanted ever more to be loved for who I was. On the inside.

But now, slimmed yet on the cusp of losing my youthful looks, I crave those lustful glances. I want to be coveted. Cat-like, I need to be constantly petted and admired. To that end, I’ve tightened my pants, donned push-up bras, raised my heels. My initial reluctance to pose for photos faded away as compliments came in (even the weird ones are appreciated). Now, each compliment, each assessing look, each flirtatious encounter flows straight to my cunt.

I used to believe in the importance of being happy with what I had. If I had a man, he was enough. If I didn’t, well, I was enough. No more. I’m becoming more aware of the feast before me, the soft lush lips of a younger man, hard thighs moving under loose clothing, the hot masculine scent of a man brushing by.

I don’t want that to be a one-way thing. I don’t want to be a dirty old woman, invisible, my lust unreturned by a society with no real models for mature sexuality. When will playing the pussy, flaunting my ass, stop being cute and start being desperate?

Fuck that. I will not age “gracefully”; there’ll always be someone who wants pussy this good. I’ll make them want it.

Meow.

9 Comments:

I am 45. When I was 34, I was taken to be in my 20's also. In fact, when I was out with my daughter age 20, and I was 39, they thought we were sisters. Since age 40, it's changed drasticly. Trust me, sooner or later age shows. I'm not letting that weigh me down, but it's a fact, that's all...

By  Trishymouse, at February 17, 2005 8:24 PM  

Lovely job, Hiromi; and thanks again, John, for the great idea!

By  Anonymous, at February 18, 2005 6:17 AM  

The emphasis on youthful appearance is so limiting. When are we going to learn what the Europeans already know, that sexuality is life-long and that every age is beautiful and sexy? All we need is eyes to see. Oh, and open minds.

By  Anonymous, at February 18, 2005 11:57 AM  

Right, Freya. A woman must be sexy inside, before she can ever be sexy outside, regardless of her age.

By  cj goad ~ photography, at February 18, 2005 1:02 PM  

Grrls, it boils down to this: we're not getting older. We're getting hotter.

;)

DTG xxoo

By  Anonymous, at February 18, 2005 4:16 PM  

I am 47. I have men 20 years younger after me.

I look great for my age, but I own my age.

I don't only own it..I celebrate it!

By  Anonymous, at February 18, 2005 5:20 PM  

I'm a guy, and from my simple, happy perspective, whatever may motivate Hiromi to put on her cat suit is a fine operational definition of The Good, The True, and The Beautiful.

That said, we all agree, I think, that Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding. (For background, see here)

By  John Psmyth, at February 18, 2005 6:07 PM  

"No higher currency than youth"?

If you really believe that, and if you need the "constant validation" of men's looks, you've swallowed the North American pop cultural/media propaganda hook, line, and sinker, and I feel sorry for you.

It takes courage, but older women can refuse invisibility, and I don't mean through the the use of cosmetic surgery to prolong youthful looks, either.

Just dare to go beneath the surface.

DTG xxoo

By  Anonymous, at February 19, 2005 9:48 AM  

Sounds like you've visited Paris lately, bella fica!

By  Anonymous, at February 22, 2005 7:24 PM  

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