My psychotherapist has offered me an hour and a half of a regular psychotherapy session, on each occasion we get together, in the future.
This will be a wonderful opportunity for me to become a lot more whole, on a more dynamic basis, as an individual person, than anything that has been offered to me so far, at least recently.
She has been very interactive, so far, and the results have amounted to freeing me up to write a lot more prolifically than I’ve been writing recently.
Considering I’ve been quite prolific for quite some time, to increase my output as much as this therapist has is remarkable.
I had gotten blogged down in my conceptualizations.
My creativity has doubled, just as I’ve needed it to do, with two blogs to feed whatever writing I can piece together.
I spent some time with my psychotherapist yesterday, while the whole day seemed to be in one, perpetual fiasco, in an ongoing comedy of errors, which neither my therapist, nor my transportation, could adequately calm down to an acceptable level.
By the time I was done talking to my new therapist, I was pregnant with so many ideas about what to write, I was able write prolifically again, the way I’ve been doing for quite some time until I’d gotten bogged down.
Our session was liberating.
I’m becoming progressively more healthy, with all the health my environment is offering me, as time goes by in the most unexpected amount of novelty.
I may find that my health insurance won’t pay for so much therapy, but I think I’ll just wait and see what happens.
I have a new blog partner, on Don Martin’s blog forum, because Don himself has found himself remarkably busy recently.
Her name is Alice Blackheart, and he says she’s a rookie.
I’ve heard she’s got a lot of talent, but is kind of shy.
I certainly hope her bravado will not be nonplussed by my openness and candor on our blog.
I’d like her to understand that I’ve learned rigorous honesty over years of psychotherapy and long term sobriety.
I just spent some time reading Alice Blackheart, and I must admit that her work is a little steamier than I had expected, even when I had been advised that she writes adult work.
I’m not really accustomed to reading erotica, being an old bachelor man myself, having developed milder tastes in my old age.
The story I was reading reminded me of my own, wild youth, of the way I was always so cocky with my girl when we were young people in university.
We were always playing Russian Roulette with the possibility of an untimely pregnancy, that the way of young people to do with in their brazen youth is not the slightest bit tempered by reason.
That was a day and time which is so foreign and irrelevant to the person I am today.
Today, I’m the adult abused child, with complaints to voice about my abused childhood, which has nothing to do with my young adult relationship with Kathryn some 40 years ago.
When I was a young man, I had all the bravado of a young man.
My girl responded to my brash attentions, as though there was no tomorrow.
There were no rules, no regulations, no consequences to consider about our brazen behavior together in those days.
There was no taboo to be tempered to.
There was only the urgency of youth to be placated in an ongoing series of perilous behaviors that no one knew the bounds of it.
We interacted in the most open and honest passions of our youth, when we were young adults together.
Eventually, she let me know that she was ready for all the passions of the most intimate relationship, with all of the behaviors she eventually reciprocated freely, in those days.
I was in love, and so was she, and she made it clear to me, from very early on, that she knew no other young man who was as masculine, as daring, or as cocky, as I was at the time of our wild relationship at the university.
I dared to introduce my blushing young lady to all sorts of erotic treats of openness and intimacy, the likes of which were not equaled in either of our lives until that time.
I did not reject Kathryn easily, or carelessly.
I began to understand that, because I was having nervous breakdowns, and had my father’s mental condition, it became obvious to me that I was not going to be a competent husband or father.
At that point, I did the mature thing and took responsibility for my own illness, and broke off with Kathryn.
But there is more to say about my relationship with the love of my life.
We proceeded with our romance, in ways in which I’ve enshrined in my memory, as though in a sacred dream, for a lifetime of comparative deprivation, mostly, ever since.
Our intimacies have become entombed in my cloudy memories of an idealistic, platonic imagination, until I’ve honestly wondered whether I ever really knew anyone by the name of Kathryn, in reality, in the first place.
Kathryn was beautiful, with more than ample breasts, whose passions I had the rare privilege of awakening from the sweet sleep only a virgin girl could slumber.
I’ll never forget how her legs always had goose bumps.
There was only one other relationship, when I was middle aged, which dared to hold a candle to the mutual passions of the young Kathryn and I, in our prime.
Kathryn and I had been a mutual couple of young adults, daring to go to a motel room together, for a surreptitious night of clandestine intimacies that knew no bounds, except for my own inadequacy.
The other woman, being much later in my life, was someone I met one of the insane asylums, who apparently was into our whole relationship thing, in the first place, for the sole purpose of conceiving a schizophrenic child.
Neither one of us could have ever been capable of caring of a growing child of any kind, much less one that was as much of a challenge as our possible offspring might have been.
Consequences be damned.
June and I went at it like a couple of wild bears, deep in the woods.
We easily slipped into our bear skins, to do perfectly natural things between the two of us people while we were allowing ourselves to be human with each other.
The non-written, non-verbal language that is not meant to be carelessly bantered about in print all over sticky pages, proceeded fluently between the two of us for quite some time.
I was never as awkward with June as I was with Kathryn.
Our love making had no verbal images involved, to enhance the attempt at speaking a non-verbal language no one else was meant to comprehend in the first place.
I found myself thinking that I was speaking that nonverbal language with my lover, as if it were a divine providence that I finally found sexual fulfillment with June, which I had lacked until well into middle age.
Now, I intend to just do without intimacy, because I don’t happen to be very athletic.
My memories of childhood sexual abuse have become more vivid in my thoughts recently.
It was the universal language of lovers, idiosyncratic and comprehensible, only to the two lovers themselves, and only for those few moments when we were inseparably together.
I’ve never been notified, if in fact, due to the passions of either Kathryn and I, or June and I, have ever born fruit to be notifying any aunts or uncles with.
I’ve been a lone gentleman all my life, who desires, above all things, to treat a young lady respectfully in my elder years.
So, that’s about as close as I get to writing erotica.
I think I’m too old or too old-fashioned by this late date in my life, to be doing a girl a favor all that much, the way I used to be able to do when I was young.
Passion is for the young.
Youth is for the young.
All that’s left of my passion is to idealize handsome looking young women.
This new therapist of mine should prove to be an interesting addition to my therapeutic life.
I’m hoping she’ll have a considerably positive effect on my thinking by the time I’ve been seeing her for awhile.
She’s already got me writing like a house afire.