I just got back from Phoenix, and my head is still ringing from the impact. I found this beautiful little Mexican woman—light-skinned, eyes like a fever dream—and we are currently engaged in a high-speed demolition derby of the soul. Is she playing me? Am I playing her? Does it matter when the bedsheets are screaming?
She’s a natural. Usually, I have to train a woman, give her the manual, show her where the load-bearing walls are. But this one? She’s one step ahead of the blueprints. I give her a hint of a desire, a whisper of a command, and she jumps at the occasion, taking it to a level I didn’t think existed. It’s full throttle. No “let’s go to a movie,” no “let’s have a long, expensive dinner and talk about our feelings.” It’s just raw, unadulterated design. She drives me nuts. She looks conservative, sensitive, even fragile—but there is a strength in her desire that’s currently redlining my engine.
I look at the ghost of my father and I laugh. I remember thinking he was an ancient relic when he was in his 40s. Now I’m 57, and I’m heading into my second “love weekend” in a row, with a third and fourth already scheduled. We’re doing four days in Bisbee for Christmas. We’re doing five days for New Year’s. And all we’re doing is having sex.
It sounds crazy. It sounds like a one-night stand that forgot to end. But it’s deeper than that. When you spend four days inside a woman’s geography—when you’re the one who gives her the first real orgasm of her life, watching her body convulse and her eyes leak tears of pure, unbridled shock—you realize you’ve achieved something. Is it a noble achievement? Or is it just my “evil” way of hooking her? I play the upper hand. I work her over until she forgets every other man who ever touched her. I want to be the only ghost in her room.
But there’s a darker shadow behind the bed.
I remember my organic dad when he got prostate cancer. He told me he “pointed on his wife.” I didn’t get it then, but I get it now. The “use it or lose it” philosophy isn’t just a locker room joke; it’s a medical mandate. I spend most of my time making sure the machinery doesn’t rust out. I’m 57, and I’m treating my body like a high-performance vehicle that’s about to be retired. I want to know where the limit is.
Is it “lonely”? People ask me that. But how can you be lonely when you’re running a five-woman rotation? I have people for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. They move up and down in the “Moon Rotation” based on their performance and my mood. It sounds horrible to the “normal” crowd, but what’s the alternative? I’m leaving Tucson. I’m 47 days from a one-way ticket. Women aren’t built for “temporary.” They want the value of what’s between your legs to be tied to a permanent contract. They want to be the “Wife.”
So I give her the label. We play “Husband and Wife.” We tell the stories. We do the rituals. It’s the lubricant that allows the connection to go deep enough to matter.
I’m hoping all this sexual energy finally breaks when I land in Vietnam. I’m connecting physically because it’s the only honest language I have left. I don’t want to stop being a man when I change zip codes, but I’m tired of “stacking” people. It drains the marrow out of your bones. It reminds me of the guy I used to be—the guy who needed a crowd to feel seen.
This is my last big haul. My last big poof of smoke before I vanish. I’m enjoying the hell out of myself, but I’m also counting the minutes. I’m going to beat the hell out of this drive. I’m going to squeeze every ounce of energy out of this body until there’s nothing left to give.
I want to walk into that airport in February completely zeroed out. No regrets. No attachments. And definitely no erection needed.
