Older women.

I had a wank at dawn, rising from bed to a yearning for light croissants, a heavy shit, and one of Arvo Part's better known concertos. It all made for a pleasurable stroll to work and a desire for a therapeutic, perhaps even honest, conversation with Helen. However, as I made a strong coffee in the kitchen, avoided Neil in the hallway, and took the stairs to my room, I finally and firmly rebuked myself for the stupidity of this innocence. Helen is fifty two. How crude to try analyse your sexual relationship with an older woman. The beauty of sex with older women lies in the mutual need for acceptance, confirmation, and not all that tiresome talk of attachment and meaning. While we may both be therapists, there are perhaps, in the violence of biology, things that not improved by discussion. And sex with my menopausal maid is one of those things.

And so, steeling myself for the visit tomorrow to my father, I decided it was best all round to have a friday of unending fucking. So, at three, I entered her room. I saw her back stiffen and her mouth open as I approached and, assuming the gesture, I clasped her breast from behind, kissed her neck, thereby forcing her to admit my interpretation. And so it slid from there to the floor where I understood, again, the occult knowledge within an older women's body. And when we ended I understood, too, that Helen had a deeper and calmer acceptance that we had nothing, really, to talk about.