London in New York

The Paradoxical Pursuit of Love in Middle Age

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms does not regulate relationships between men and women. But maybe they ought to. The breakdown of far too many relationships in America often leads to use of not just one but maybe all of the above or at least the temptation to abuse them.

It could be the circles I travel in, the peculiar times we are living in and the confidences shared with me by those in pain. Having had the  opportunity to watch grown men weep on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams makes you wonder about whether in the end romance or at least the romantic illusion is really all worth it. As stated by Neil Diamond:

Love on the rocks
Ain’t no surprise
Pour me a drink
And I’ll tell you some lies
Got nothing to lose
So you just sing the blues all the time

As I attempt to gracefully enter middle age as a single man, I find myself realizing the truth of my father’s words.  ”Son, once you get an even partial hold on your testosterone filled impulses and become more secure in accepting your relative shortcomings as a man, especially when balanced with your strengths it is then that your greatest power over the opposite sex will emerge.”  He explained and assured me of this as truth even when the physical or outward evidence of one’s masculine prowess seems less compared to when you were a younger man. With hesitance I was willing to accept that truth if, say you aged more like Sean Connery than Marlon Brando (in his later years) or Homer Simpson.

Receipt of the occasional reminder that I really don’t look my age by a confidently flirtatious young lady, however, briefly stirs the illusion that I should be romantically linked to someone half my age. Before too long, after a visit to Valery Joseph Salon to get my hair cut just right, intensified workouts at Equinox to keep my body taut, a juice cleanse (see e.g., Organic Avenue or Cooler Cleanse) to insure that whatever youthful glow remains inside me surfaces and there I am seated across from that lovely young lady having cocktails. As I sip my Sauvignon Blanc, from New Zealand of course, she reminds me that it is refreshing to be in the company of someone who has such prophetic wisdom, insight and gentlemanly manners.  And truth is that I feel more relaxed in front of this refined young lady who can seemingly have any man she wishes. She seems to have the attention of most of them anyway.  She explains further that she is more used to guys who make it so clearly obvious that they seek instant gratification, and like a preying mantis they linger on every word as if waiting for the right time to pounce.

I assure her that as much as any man of whatever age, that likewise I am aware that she has been endowed by the gods and my restraint is due to the perception of women as a finally made wine to be taken in slowly, after it has time to breathe so that all aspects or flavors from the wine can seep into your senses.  After all, the right woman is not a shot of Whiskey to be guzzled and discarded cavalierly like an empty shot glass. Patience is not merely a virtue but a necessity to relish every moment in the company of someone who can literally light up your senses like a well played pinball game. And as if I am the Pinball Wizard.

He stands like a statue
Becomes part of the machine
Feeling all the bumpers
Always playing clean
He plays by intuition
The digit counters fall
That deaf, dumb and blind kid
Sure plays a mean pinball

When I drop her off in the taxi and she leans over I close my eyes like Lieutenant Colonel Frank Slade (Al Pacino) in Scent of a Woman to take in all the glory of her scent.

Women! What can you say? Who made ‘em? God must have been a fuckin’ genius. The hair… They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls… just wanted to go to sleep forever? Or lips… and when they touched, yours were like… that first swallow of wine… after you just crossed the desert. Tits. Hoo-ah! Big ones, little ones, nipples staring right out at ya, like secret searchlights. Mmm. Legs. I don’t care if they’re Greek columns… or secondhand Steinways. What’s between ‘em… passport to heaven.

The touch of her hand intoxicates me so much so that she could slap me, slap me repeatedly and I would only be even more electrified and enraptured by her touch.  But it is the feel of her moist perky lips as they press against mine that causes me to melt. And though the kiss is more Sixteen Candles than Nine ½ Weeks, it nevertheless ‘Awakens the Giant Within’ me, even if it is not so ‘giant’.  Tony Robbins flashes in my head holding up a bottle of Viagra saying “you can do it, only you have the power to unleash the giant within you.”

It is at this point that I realize that women should come with warnings for they are far more addictive than the nicotine in cigarettes. “The Surgeon General warns that despite feelings of euphoria upon first inhaling all she has to offer, you could be drunk, destitute and muttering in an old man’s Irish pub ‘I wonder where it all went wrong’ before too long.”

Despite my brief experiences with Cocaine, Xtasy and painkillers I fear that this Superman’s kryptonite is that unregulated bliss that emanates from the longing and respect you see in a younger woman’s eyes for a man who is already on the back nine in life. That girl that eluded you when you were younger because your enthusiasm for her reeked of desperation is now so utterly attainable….but at what price?

You reticence to embrace the illusion is viewed as a healthy respect and possession of the manners of a gentleman. Sure there is an element of that but what it really is, is a recognition that you need not take a step inside MoMA, the Whitney, the Guggenheim or Metropolitan for that matter to regularly see walking around New York City a feminine ‘ART’ form of a caliber and character that can leave you breathless if not literally stupified wondering whether our creator was a benevolent God or a Devil willing to forever lead men into a path of frustration and endless temptation. One gains a better appreciation for Henry David Thoreau’s assertion that: “All men live their lives in quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.”

For in the end it matters not whether you find yourself suffering in these times from the infamous Italian disease ‘Defundsalow’ or whether or not you have already hit your debt ceiling, no Republicans or Democrats are going to hold you back in your quest, even if it leads you back to the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. While you can be flying high in April and shot down in May, you thirst for the risk that may break every aspect of you and take that shield that you have worn for so long which made you Captain America in fighting off commitment, marriage and a responsibility to someone else and literally shatter it to pieces.  In my personal evolution, which some might call a devolution, I learned to be happy alone because I did not want to be dependent on anyone to have joy in my life.

She exits the cab secure in the comfort that she spent a fine evening in the company of a gentleman and a scholar, a man who will be patient and explore her soul the way a sommelier samples a new case of Opus 1. And she is right in that he will exercise all the power of the gods to summon the patience to withstand her womanly charms. Why? Because his power, his strength and his appeal lay not in his indifference toward her but to his desire to admire, observe and take in her grace, beauty and style while she is fully clothed, before he consumes her with the energy of a ravenous dog, who has been starved, pulverizes a prime rib. And it is not so hard because approaching middle age you appreciate the integrity of her maintenance regimen which has left her finely toned legs, arms and perfectly pedicured feet and toes as delectable as her more private parts which are tastefully under wrap but nevertheless subtly on display. To sit in her company is itself a privilege and honor but also a form of consumption. The Scent of [this]Woman ‘had me at hello.’

She texts me with the teutonic playfulness of Ivan Drago in Rocky IV. When she says hello how is your day, I hear “I will break you.” I try to remember ultimately Rocky wins after being repeatedly knocked to the canvas.

As one who has photographed regularly some of New York’s most elite, fashionable and beautiful ladies, I found myself wondering why not a single one of them has gotten me to drop my guard, open my heart and maybe take a chance on pursuing something with one of them. Yet with this one I seem poised if not completely willing to take a nose dive into the great beyond without evidence that it is not an even greater risk than I have taken before.

An’ here I go again on my own
Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
An’ I’ve made up my mind
I ain’t wasting no more time
I’m just another heart in need of rescue
Waiting on love’s sweet charity

But then I realized I am running out of time and it had been so long since a Jewish American Princess from Livingston, or was it Short Hills, New Jersey (as if it matters) shattered my dreams of a life together, however delusional they were.  It was especially disheartening because the woman was someone who at one time, I considered my very best friend. Hence, the idea of falling for anyone else again did not just seem unwise but in many respects it has seemed irrelevant, pointless and completely unnecessary. In my personal evolution, I learned to be happy alone because I did not want to be dependent on anyone to have joy in my life.

This kid from Brooklyn certainly has had his share of rides on the Cyclone at Coney Island. By now my heart may be as resilient as the skull of a crash test dummy. So, maybe if I fall off and crash again in this paradoxical pursuit it won’t hurt this time. And if I am wrong, my heart which now once again pumps warm blood may once again run cold. Rather that, however, than go to the grave with the song still in me.