Reason, and reasonable doubt.

Sometimes, more recently of late, I wonder if my untouched state at the advanced age of 28 is symptomatic of something else entirely. As I have no sapphic leanings of any sort, I am sure that sexuality is not the issue. Although I can appreciate the aesthetic of a beautiful woman, it is, and has always been, exclusively male beauty that stirs my interest. I say beauty, because beauty is not only the preserve of the feminine and gentle - there is an undoubted beauty in the clean lines and leonine grace, restrained power, of the male physique at its' best. 'Handsome' has pejorative overtones when applied to a female, unless by a person of a very specific age and class, and in its' true usage implies a certain generosity - in any case, it is a term I dislike when used as a descriptor of masculine beauty.

I digress... Although I respond quite viscerally to a well-crafted description or depiction of sexual desire, I cannot ever recall having that reaction to any man I have met. Certainly, I have been attracted to a face or figure, an intellect or a perceived emotional state, but put bluntly, I have never felt the animalistic desire to rip off clothing - his and mine - so that we might be skin to skin, to physically become two parts of one entity, or even the desperate urge to kiss furiously, as though, in kissing, one's oxygen supply was restored. Is this animalism, this desperation to connect, truly a part of desire, or merely a construct of literature, art and film - a device to excuse physical infidelity or incontinence? I do not know. Perhaps I have simply never met the right man to inspire these overweening feelings, needs, that seem to be a part of the lives of others (in a side note - do see the German film of the same name - spectacular, and, in an age of increasing governmental surveillance of our lives, containing an important message).

Or, to avoid being vulnerable, to avoid the possibility of being hurt, have I erected - no pun intended - walls to contain any physical expression of desire? It cannot help that I inhabit the physically-restrained spheres of upper- and upper-middle-class Britain - famously repressed, though often deeply sexually deviant beneath the layers of Victorian starch. Between social mores and personal insecurities, am I trapped forever as a victim of my own failure to develop past the pre-adolescent in terms of all things sexual? I read in the Sunday papers of the 'rise of the asexuals' and wonder if I fit that description by dint of circumstance, and how many others find themselves there, unwittingly. What is often ignored by a society that involves sex in everything, is that desire must be not only reciprocated, but matched by opportunity, openness and freedom from fear if it is to be consummated - that the fire must burn fiercely in both parties in order to create a bonfire of the self-doubt, self-protection and lack of opportunity that characterises so many lives, my own not least among them.

Finally, is it not me and my issues at all, or is it a product of a world where the old ways, the old orders have been so completely discarded? In previous eras, although virginity was prized, rather than disdained, venues existed, ways existed of meeting partners who might conceivably have the particular combination of features, both physical and non-physical, to excite desire. 'Suitable' sounds dull, but does at least imply some chance of agreement on fundamental issues, which enhances the likelihood of desire founded upon intellect and personality, and the old rituals of courtship might reasonably have been expected to provoke physical desire, not least by the manner in which it was repressed. I suspect that desire, true desire, like curiosity and art, flourishes in adversity. Without these avenues, how many of us - virginal or not - remain stranded in some sort of purgatory between innocence and truly adult relationships?

I have no conclusion, only my observations, my worries, my fears and regrets, and the hope I attempt to nourish, even when my reason suggests that to hope is foolish. "Le coeur a ses raisons, que le raison ne connait point".