The Psychology of Arousal {Redman}
There's a gaggle of girls, ages 12 to 14, on my lawn;
our in the center of their giggle circle. As a
psychologist I look at them, reviewing all I've learned
of adolescent psych and all I've continued to apply in
my career. I can note their stages of development,
clinically assessing which ones are maturing, which
ones are delayed.
As a I can say with pride that our is
the best of the brood. More confident, more
intelligent, more generally well adjusted. Not that I
take much credit for myself. She's largely been raised
by her and taken most of her good traits from
her X chromosome and not my Y.
But as a man, I look out on this field of virgin soil
and a part of me is aroused. I think about the words
of a female colleague who just yesterday, throwing her
hands up in frustration with our clients, practically
screamed out, "Do all just want to have sex with
children?"
I didn't volunteer an answer. Thankfully it was
rhetorical. But her question has resonated in my mind
ever since.
I've examined myself and I think that I'm within the
boundaries of normality. I've never exhibited deviant
behavior, but I know that everyone (or perhaps as my
colleague's question begs - every man) has deviant
thoughts on occasion. So I think of all those deep
debates we argued over in graduate school. What is
normal? What is deviance? It's today's equivalent to
the debates of medieval monks. What is holiness? What
is sin?
I have no better revelation than the monks did.
Thankfully the world survived their dreadful dogmas and
will probably survive through mine as well.
My eyes and thoughts return to our modern day vestal
virgins. The in me sees their firm, slender thighs
and envisions their budding breasts. The psychologist
speculates on which secondary sex characteristics each
one would have: pubic hair, changes in body odor and
the natural increase in libido.
The in me can't escape the thought that perhaps
their mothers should be concerned with leaving them in
my presence.
So I raise my hand to my nose, catching the faint,
lingering scent of my wife's arousal. It's her way of
marking my boundaries. Whenever we go into a crowd with
women, she marks my hands. At the end of the day, if
she detects another woman's scent on my fingers...
Well, some things I don't want to consider.
I move into our living room, witnessing the gaggle of
mothers - laughing, sharing conversation. I catch my
wife's eye, noticing anew her lovely form and grace. I
raise my hand to my face, deliberately sniffing my
fingers as she looks at me. She grins; knowing that
something has aroused me. She looks from when I've come
and sees the on the lawn. Shaking her head and
laughing silently, she wags her finger at me like I was
her son.
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