A Eunuch's Love Life

The more personally intimate blog of the love life of an androgynous but not sexless eunuch in this post-modern world

Sunday, September 24, 2006

The Beautiful Androgyne in Her Prime

So, there has to be a new story, to replace the old sob story giving tragic meaning to me not having found Mister Perfect or at least lucked out with some spunk young barely out of uni (or high school)... The real reason I'm not getting any nooky is I only fancy the cream of the cream, the really pretty boys, and yes, they are usually by far almost always gay, and strongly phallophillic at that; I'm just a fag hag who knows the average bloke just don't turn her on, and I don't want what I don't want, and although I want what I mostly (but not always!) can't have, I get the BEST eye candy.

I mean, reverse the genders, and I am a straight man surrounded by hot lesbians, telling me all about their wild sexual adventures. Frustrating? Oh, only if I make unfair comparisons, and weighted misjudgments, to misappreciate God's wonders. From another perspective, it's HOT. And hot lesbian chicks know other hot chicks, man, and one of those hot chicks might be bisexual, and I'm THIS close to them all, they think I'm special, this old straight man hanging with the hot young lesbian uni student crowd. I mean, there are worse fates.

I swapped a massage with my best friend last week. Now, in the reverse gender scenario, I'm an middle age guy who fancies hot young chicks and I'm massaging my best friend who's a hot young lesbian. There's no boundaries in danger, I know she only likes chicks, and while I'm androgynous, I got a dick, not what she fancies, and so seeking sexual intimacy just isn't an issue. Hey, there's many guys who wouldn't be okay with that, but you know, I'm okay with that, and I'm glad I'm the type of guy who IS okay with that, and that doesn't make me some kind of mental neuter, man, cos I'm not, and like I said, hanging with this hot lesbian chicky babe, I meet the hottest girls, and my odds are maybe low in quantity but high in quality, and I know which I want honey.

Now, reverse the genders back to reality, and my superficially sexless life is more experientally fecund. My body is joyed by the smell of fresh healthy male sweat. I am forty five, but I am accepted on the young anarchist/ green lefty/ savvy/ alternative scenes in all my bare foot wildly dancing androgynous narcissism. I am on the cutting edge of social justice activism, joying in the blooming of the young organisers working for the love of humanity against the blindly evil machinery of authoritarianism. I work with such people, committed to sex positivism in a very sex negative society, to support sex workers against unfair treatments that range from the mild to the bizarre. Barefoot and of blatantly androgynous gender, I'm a fairly well paid and well respected professional Team Leader in a challenging and stimulating NGO. I'm the editorial cartoonist for the local newspaper, put out by my local church of actual social justice activists, people actually meanigfully seeking to follow Christ, as honestly individually interpeted and felt, from both the Gospel scripture, and our own lived realities, putting our shared humanity and inclusivity ahead of dog-eat-dog competition and separatism.

I have quality of life, and quality love.

I'll take that over time wasted breathing chlorine and amyl and maybe having vaccuous sexual congress with a nice guy who just isn't my type. I like my spine being straightened by all the hot young guys around me. And life is full of seen and unseen possibilities. I have real love and integrity in my life. And great eye candy ; )
And the more she appreciated what God had given her, and the more she accepted responsibility for her own nurturing, and the more she lived joyously expressing an uncompromising love for humanity and the All that Is, the more full of love her life was.
Now I've just got to live that in the first person... But my odds are god. I mean good. The first typo was unintentional but probably Freudian. You get that.


Last Friday week my best friend took me and some hot guy in drag we met at a night club skinny dipping at a heated public swimming pool at 3 AM, and after a lovely splash I had the thrill of escaping naked with my clothes in arms running across city street with security guards in hot pursuit.

And Friday just gone I danced and played jazz jam at a huge party in student public housing that didn't stop till four police cars turned up at 4AM. Cheerin'.

Yesterday I celebrated a prisoners' rights activist's birthday with the cream of the cutting edge social justice activist set, including an MP or two and the odd convicted murderer (and I must add that the odd one I know well is a really good bloke and extremely worthwhile. Not that either of us condone murder, and he's the first to point out that it's a really fucked up thing to do, but we are all capable of doing fucked up things, particularly when we don't know any better. Bloke's so smart they passed a law against him especially, and he had to beat the state government in the High Court to win fair release when his long sentence had been duly served).

This was after six new visitors to Villawood joined me yesterday, including my best friend's sister, and I met the Morroccon guys who survived a month with no water in hold with their dead friend's bodies. See my other blog for their story (I May Well Be, there's a link over on the right probably, yeah, go on, risk really engaging your humanity, please, for the love of God, read their story...)

Anyway, it's a good life, and not only because I've never been stuck down in a hold for a month with no choice but to drink my own piss while my friend's corpses rotted.

I have real quality of life, and not the materialistic quality, but the real stuff, everyday meaningful rich connection to humanity and the triumphs of the human spirit, and the joys of the world and all the amazing talents and gifts and serendipity and bliss the Universe sends me.

And the more I appreciate what God has made me, unique and androgynous and specially talented (as we all are in our own ways), the more I become confident that some hot spunk will catch my eye and be keen enough to kiss me.

Oh sure, I can cry and wallow in self-pity at being alone, or I can marvel at all the amazing love and everything in my life, and be glad I've got the time alone to appreciate and nurture myself. More nurture, less wallow, thank you doctor.




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