I’m going to say this quietly as I don’t want to scare it away (yet), but it appears that my sexuality has slunk back in the door and is sniffing around, growling quietly to itself and sharpening its claws on the cat post in the corner as we speak.
Know how I know?
Well apart from the weird horny dreams I’ve been having of late, I am finding my encounters with some of my partners at ballroom lessons a whole lot more uncomfortable/exciting.
Since I hit 40 I’ve always managed to persuade myself that women who pray on younger men were tragic, and to date I only ever viewed boys as (a) little brothers (b) amusing/irritating in equal parts, or (c) a target for any tiny shreds of maternal instinct that I have left.
I have nephews, my friends have adult sons and I’ve had to deal with young, handsome men in the workplace for years, but my role was never in question then. My natural instinct was to ‘Auntie’ them, that is to say give them the benefit of my experience of the world when needed/requested/essential (not in that way), cuff them around the head occasionally and bung them a tenner or the odd bit of cake when the mood took me.
Everyone knew who they were and what their roles were.
Now I find it increasingly difficult to look some of my partners in the eye whilst lumbering around the dance floor. Especially one young, doe eyed Latin bloke who, like most mediterraneans has no problem with intimacy whatsoever, and locks eyes with me flirtatiously whenever we partner up.
I like to think that I am a sexually confident, formidable, sophisticated woman of the world who is beyond being unsettled by any man, let alone some little slip of a thing that can just about grow a beard, but the other night, quite frankly, I barely knew what to do with myself around him so I alternated between avoiding him, being silly (cue mad, overly dramatic tango promenades), and locking eyes with him, pretending to flirt and then being totally unnerved by the genuine chemistry that sprang up between us like, well, like a big, happy, bobbing man’s member. Eeekk!
I know I should be pleased that my Mojo has returned and I haven’t totally dried up like an out of date vanilla pod, but I find this attraction to men young enough to be my son absolutely mortifying, as it is something I never dreamed would happen to me. In fact whenever I’ve seen an older woman slobbering over some kid (I had to use eye bleach for months after one particular holiday in the Gambia – don’t even ask) I’ve told friends that if I ever did anything like that to put a bullet between my eyes. Right. Between. My. Eyes. Don’t even think about firing a warning shot or winging me, because if I’m behaving like that, I’ve already hit the slippery slope (missus) and there will be no coming back from it.
Not only that, but I’m not even good at going out with good looking men of my own age, let alone half of it, because, as a very insecure women who has little trust in those of the male persuasion (romantically albeit), I don’t like being the less attractive one, as, as far as my twisted logic is concerned, the odds are higher with regard to my being hurt.
Plus waking up next to someone who looks like a Caravaggio saint, whilst I look like Bette Davis in ‘Baby Jane’ is quite frankly, my idea of hell.
And then, if I had any doubt about it, the final bit of evidence came to light today, as I have spent most of this evening tearing various BT operators limb from limb because their service is shit. In the end I had to put the phone down because I was shaking with anger and frustration, and my higher self was scared of what I might say, and that they might end up calling the police or needing therapy or something.
As I sipped a G&T to help me calm down, it struck me that I haven’t lost my temper like that for a long, long time, and then the final bit of the puzzle clicked into place.
My most angry, resentful, temperamental time on this earth has been during my potential child bearing years.
Anger = passion.
Passion = sexuality.
Sexuality – jiggy jiggy = cranky + Scary Man Juice = homicidal rage.
It’s official. Somehow my Mojo has been rejuvenated and amped up my tendency to fly off the handle, and now, something that has teeth, claws and appetite is stalking around the periphery of my flat, glaring ominously and demanding to be fed.
But how? Scary Man Juice hasn’t really worked before now?
And then I remember. I haven’t taken my meds for two days. And whilst I’ve always been aware that Sertraline is hardly an aphrodisiac, this is clear proof that it has been having a libido stifling, bromide like effect on me.
So I face an interesting dilemma; Sexuality v Sanity.
The choices here are:
1. Release the Kraken and potentially unleash a scarier, more unhinged Sista on the world?
2. Keep taking the tablets?
This I need to think about.
Lives are at stake here….