Once upon a time, my brains fell out of my head and buried themselves between my legs, where passion breathed new life into them, carrying me beyond the threshold of reason. My hormones were playing havoc with my cool common sense, heralding a vista of inspired dreams where infatuation ruled supreme. It wasn’t just any man, but one I worked with, my boss, no less, who helped lead me astray with his flirtatious banter and lustful comments. My intelligence got lost (what I had of it!) in an imaginative illusion of illicit romance (or should that be complicit!) It wasn’t the first occasion my hormones had rendered me helpless in the face of an imminent frolic; indeed, my lusty landscape had fallen victim to my rampaging hormones many times before, only to end up in bed with some men that left me wanting when it came down to it (Or up to it as the case may be!) Indeed, my twenties and thirties were full of fanciful fantasy that lounged from the waist down and distorted my longings, where I lusted after a lot of the wrong men all because of sexual attraction. Certainly, my work always came first and rationality reigned sacrosanct, but after hours, it was an altogether different story. I was in pursuit of a playtime that promised loads of good fun, and I battled with the relics of my brainpower that too often landed me in bed when I didn’t really want to be. Somehow, my hormones got the better of my sound judgement, with good looking and sexy men evoking a penis power that could transcend all the neurons of my cerebral cortex.
Of course, I was young then, when frivolous fucks were ordained by a sexual revolution that offered us females freedom to indulge wherever and with whoever we liked. But all too often, we could be victims of our hormones, where lascivious lust was inscribed on our agenda for a new style of sexual rapport. When my boss remarked “Don’t wear your clitoris on your sleeve!” I walked out of his office embarrassed, red-faced and totally stunned, (I was wearing a tight t-shirt and skinny,clinging jeans) but instead of being angry at his sexual harassment, I took it all in my favour and thought he fancied me. I laughed to myself as I returned to my desk, not imparting what he said to anyone and secretly flattered that he thought I was sexy. I also believed it was a funny line as humour was another aphrodisiac that attracted me. My hormones ran rampant. It was the beginning of my undoing; as he was just cavorting with my cunt with comic cleverness, while I took it as a cue of greater significance. I knew he was divorced but what I didn’t know was he was about to marry another woman who also worked in the company. Not wanting to have an affair with my boss (I was determined to advance in my career through my own efforts and hard work!), I resigned and exited quickly only to face a prolonged period of unemployment. I was in love with him, smitten by the allure of sex with a man whose witticisms worked wonders with my brain cells. (And where were they when I needed them?) That was my fate; tossing over in bed at night in frustration and waiting for the phone to ring, hoping it was him. I clung to the fantasy for a long time; about 18 months, and when it finally dissipated, I vowed never to fall victim to my hormones again. But he never rang and suffice to say I never saw him again. It destroyed my career; (I don’t know what others in the TV industry in which I worked really thought) and I could never secure a job that matched what I had been doing in that company. (But I don’t regret those feelings or what I did; only that I was a glorious fool to trust the honesty of that particular man and lose my brains in the process!)
As divorce statistics soared in the 70s and 80s, I pondered on the portrait of marriage as a whirlwind of lust that couldn’t survive hormonal hazardry.. How many women, (and men, too, with their testosterone waning!) had recovered their reason to realise that hormones had dictated their vows of togetherness and blinded them to the reality of love? More than 40 per cent of marriages now end in divorce in our 21st century, and it appears our hormones still wreak havoc with our plans for happy ever after. Lust, despite being one of the deadly seven sins for humanity (and who declared these anyway?) is still alive and thriving for most people, where our hormones inspire us to realms of fantasy we otherwise wouldn’t reckon with. People talk about the raging hormones of teenagers, as if they are simply a product of time, but they live on in our psyche long after adolescence has passed. Indeed, they continue to rule our routines all our lives, and it saddens me at times that I have been unable to surrender to my hormones again. Indeed, I am scared to lose my sanity and fall in love, instead, I cling to my reason in a way that is too serious, wanting some sexual flirtation that can create new longings and lust. At an older age as I now am, I see people coupling up for convenience and companionship rather than sexual attraction; an indictment of the loneliness of a lot of people who would rather be with somebody even if bedtime is a prosaic affair. I know one woman in her 60s, divorced, who now lives with a man over 70 and she looks forward to him going away so she can be on her own at night at home. But his presence at other times is a bonus, she told me, someone to go out with and share time with, but bedtime, she admitted, is not what she looks forward to. She may no longer be a victim of her hormones, but is another kind of victim; to loneliness and creeping old age. Hearing real stories like these only heightens my sadness; is the human condition so complex that we dismiss good sexual relationships for the sake of company to thwart our loneliness? Moreover, others are so concerned to maintain control (or that’s what they call it!), that they live on such a straight line only to miss out on the gradient of emotional passion. Like automatons, with everything in its due place, their lives are devoid of real feeling and empathy. There are no surprises, no spontaneity, just order and control. Not for me, at least.
Indeed, I still hope to meet someone who can play havoc with my hormones in a fashion that allows real love to flourish with strong friendship as important as sex. Idealistic? Maybe, but in my menopausal ripe age, I still feel the odd tingle between my legs, often fantasising about footballers and other men I espy on the beach or in a bar. Now I know it’s a fantasy that allows me the fun of daydreams while I wait for the Real Thing! May my hormones have a healthy, long life where I’d rather they ran amok than live as a control freak!