Notes on Lust

It is several weekends ago. Lady M, Dimples and I are back at the Sanctuary for a long grape sodden weekend. Spirits – all of them- are high. The air may be thin at ten thousand feet above sea level but this adds to the breathless exuberance of it all. If there ever had to be a case for a lack of oxygen, this is it. Between whiffs of grapeshot and Earl Grey we luxuriate in just being.

I forgot to mention the downside of a lack of oxygen. This manifests itself in a gradual lowering of inhibitions which are so marked at sea level. The conversation drifts, meanders, turns the wrong block and ends up in a cul de sac clearly marked Former Relationships. We giggle mindlessly at our past follies and our past passions. “How could you go out with him? He wore tight white polyester pants.” “He did? I thought they were cotton.” “Oh no, they weren’t. I accidentally dropped a match on him and he would have exploded if he hadn’t been so busy imploding.” And so it went. Until Lady M remarked “But that wasn’t love darling. It was Lust.” I scratched my head. This did not compute.

Lust, to a male mind, is sheer attraction without the added baggage of much emotion, responsibility or (if possible) thought. It is what lawyers call “a reckless disregard for the consequences arising therefrom.” Lust to a gay male mind is another trip altogether. I have seen gay friends perform lust ridden antics which make them cringe to this day. Don’t take my word for it. Walk into the back room of any gay club worth its salt and take a look for yourself. Have I been guilty of lust induced acts? I would be lying if I said I had not. In recollection, this usually takes the form of “What could I have been thinking of?” accompanied by a blush. I am therefore I lust. Or, (more realistically) I was and therefore I lusted.

So what happens over time? Well, for one, pure undiluted lust becomes somewhat dull. This is when the conveyor belt of emotional baggage enters the picture. Call it old/middle age, a lack of testosterone/estrogen or a refining/dulling of the higher/lower senses. The sense of lust is lost in these multiple choices. Other emotions kick in. I am forced to confess that I am sometimes more electrically charged watching a fully clothed man in a crowded cafe than I would be if he were lying across my bed with nothing between us – not even his Calvins. I am pornographically challenged. Do I mind? No. Am I weird? Probably.

Cut to the Sanctuary. Close up on Lady M. “Did you say lust. You went out with somebody for two whole years in the name of lust?” “Yes,” she responds defiantly, “men don’t have a monopoly on lust, you know.” We most certainly do not. But could I sustain myself on two years of lust? Lust, in my personalized lexicon, is quick, transitory, for-the-moment. I try challenging this assertion, but I am shooed away with “What would you know about women.” “A great deal more, given that I’m not sexually involved with them.” “Hah. That’s what you think.” I am now truly perplexed.

Do women lust? And, if so, do they lust in much the same way we do? I have yet to come across many women who confess to sleeping with someone just for the heck of it. Guys do it all the time. Gay guys do it habitually. At the risk of splitting hairs, women claim to be “attracted” to men – and sometimes to other women. But is this attraction just lust in drag? And is it the same emotion men feel? Perhaps, without the dumb assed things men do to satiate themselves. Common emotion different reactions ? Damn. Maybe I don’t know that much about women after all. Back to the drawing board.