Apparently, I am missed, but I was never lost

In a world of wanters’ wanting to be wanted, spring has sprung. Pheromones float in the air, beyond sight, ready to infect the masses. Winters nesting melts away into the stir craze of spring. For this particular individual, it seems as though the pot o’ love is just about ready to boil over into a frothy and unpredictable spectacle.
I call this segment of life, Six Beau’s, a Dame, an Old Dude, and me.
Finally, for the first time, I can remember, I am being called out and appreciated.
It appears as if I have created my own motley crew, an entourage if you will.
None of these followers hang out together. I am pretty sure none of them know one another. I am the Princess of the Ports. Somehow, someway, the hormonal aching of spring has drawn some unlikely suspects in the perusal of the Princess of the P.
Firstly, we have an Israeli. We met haphazardly last spring. After required service to his country, this ex-military turned bohemian was spending the last few weeks of the ski season hitting up Eldora. Minding my own business, as usual, I was embarking on a frosty brew and a heady writing session at the pub. Tokman, as I will refer to him, brought about a certain nostalgia in my mind.
Who did he remind me of???
Ohhhh, right, that guy Tyson I had a crush on in 7th grade. The guy who treated me like shit, and wrote: “dyke” (though spelled “dike”) in my 8th-grade yearbook. Yeah, Tyson, who dated my (at the time) best friend Lisa. Tyson, whom I ran into at the age of 24, working at a gas station in Cheyenne. Good ole, badass, Tyson, who found my face familiar but my name escaped him. Tyson, who has the worst case of “monk’s hair” anyone has seen in this era of plugs, sprays, and implants. All this, probably due to all the harassment he gave people like me back in the day. Yeah, Karma can be pretty heinous.
So, dear Tokman, resembles Tyson, in his youth and once hairier prime. Tokman, however, lacks much of the abrasiveness I associate to Tyson.
Two weeks after our initial meeting this traveler was bound for foreign seas. Apparently, I made an impression… a year later he is back in Colorado’s western slope and anxious to hang out… My biggest mental deterrent is knowing his hooked up with a red light district Miss, in Amsterdam.
Next, we have the pleasantly reclusive artist, we will call Bud. After a momentary interaction, I have realized that artists that reclusive must be sought out if they are to be interacted with. I ride my own rainbow, and honestly going too far out of my way to hang out with someone who isn’t “that into beer,” leaves a dry taste in my mouth. As luck would have it, the crazy spring vibe must be tickling him too, because he just started calling again.
Respectively in line is a handsome Punk Rocker. Dark, robust, pleasant to the palate, and more tattoos than me. The universe would have this hard-kore hottie living in the rough’s of Denver. It seems we can never connect via phone, and I am dying to see his band perform because from what I hear, there is stage diving and EVERYTHING. The truth is, I have never been with a musician… my ego wants someone to write me awesome songs, to call me muse and a find a fountain of inspiration in knowing me… This is something I may need to wait for. In no way am I even assuming that this specific rocker thinks I am song worthy… it just gets my imagination roaming.
Now… as if three fine young lads wasn’t enough, we have number four. Tall, ironically Jesus like in appearance, and very, very Southern. I can’t help but slip to a silly drawl when I imitate the things he says. This fine example of chivalry found himself in my way during a Lotus show. I only had a severe warning of flailing elbows for him, so he moved. Past the first set, we found ourselves sharing a smoke… and well, let’s just say he is anxious to show me all the South has to offer.

And finally, and most weirdly of all… Missed Connections on Craigslist, has recently allowed me to realize someone from my long lost past of lifeguarding and high school dances, still flirts with the thoughts of me that run through his head. I am almost certain I know who he is, and I wonder if all this nostalgia is just a quarter-life crisis. A crumbling moment most likely found in inebriation when one realizes all of the friends from their wily youth are either married or with a child. The realization that the singledom that was so bravely fought for in our early twenties is now slipping away into a need and desire for a partner in crime, not just any partner though… No, a partner you want to sleep with.

Long lost are the days of misunderstood youth, and awkward moments of teenage alienation. I have found my worth, and now those around me share their appreciation…

All the while, I am starting to wonder where the hell my sex drive went, because despite my ever broadening options and my wanting to be wanted, I know I don’t need to be needed, it just feels nice to be held once in a while… So until someone gets those old fires burning I guess I’ll let my imagination run wild, there really is nothing safer than masturbation.