| I wonder what other middle aged men, who are recently divorced, who have no careers or career prospects, who are lost and have low self esteem think about? I wonder if they think, like I often do, that it is quite likely that they may never have another romantic relationship with a woman ever again. And I wonder if, like me, they think about what exactly they miss most about that.
I think about that, the things I miss about being with a woman, quite a lot. Ruminate on it, you might say. Anyway, there are so many things to miss. I miss just lounging around somewhere with a woman, like say at the pool or after dinner at a restaurant, and listening to her talk. What she would be prattling on about isnít really important. Anyway itís probably just some story that I have already heard many times before. And so, I wouldnít even really be listening to her exactly. What I really would be doing is just settling in to the music of her voice; her gentle, soothing, dulcet feminine voice. It is sweet to my ears. It relaxes me. I canít get enough of it.
I know what youíre thinking. I should have actually been listening. Hey, what can I say? Iím not alone for nothing I guess.
I miss sharing a bed together. I miss rolling over and throwing my arm around over a woman when I can't sleep. And then to have her, as most compassionate women are prone to, instead of being mad for waking her up, instead sink back and nestle into me. I mean that is definitely something I sorely miss, but it isnít the thing I miss most.
I certainly miss be able to share my worries and concerns late at night in hushed tones with a woman. In the past when Iíve done that Iíve often been surprised at the good advice Iíve gotten from them. As I get older and older I think I'm becoming a firm believer that women are smarter than men. I miss a womanís intellect. Lord knows I can use their help in that department.
I miss times like when I would come up on a past girlfriend or my wife, doing something routine, like fussing around in the kitchen, and becoming so overcome by emotion over how beautiful she looks, how cool she is, how diligent she is, how much I love her, that I am shocked at how it moves me. Of how I canít resist, canít stop myself from, going up to her and ďtrappingĒ her in a corner where the counter meets the wall. I miss sliding my arm around her waist, of feeling her warm body press against mine. Of enveloping her completely.
I miss brushing her hair back over her ear because I think she looks prettiest that way. Of leaning in close to her, of tasting her lips, of the way I never tire of touching tongues with her, and of how I always like the smell of her breath.
I miss all of these things, but the thing I miss most (after doing all this), is looking up into her eyes and not seeing indifference, or even benign tolerance of my attentions; but instead seeing that look in her eyes, that proverbial and cliched sparkle in her eyes.
It is a look only women can give. It is part of their mystique. It is part of their magic. And they can only give it to the men they love. And they can only give it occasionally. When they can feel the love of their man so thoroughly, when they can see themselves thorough his eyes, and when they see that he really does see her as Helen of Troy. That he really does think she's a goddess. That he really isnít kidding when he says that she is flawless.
It conveys all this and more. It is a look that says ďI see you are thoroughly enjoying yourself right now. I see that you think I am a queen, that you respect me platonically, and that you also crave me sexually.Ē
It is a look that says, ďAnd yes, I am rather enjoying all this playfulness and closeness too. And so boy, you have my permission to proceed and carry on with any more worshiping you feel you need to do. You may even take me to bed, if you wish.Ē
That look, that is what I miss most of all.