I have come to accept that the sex I provide, even to strangers in the most random situations, is a kind of loving.
The young man in the park that Amanda points out, is not someone I love or need to love — he is a total stranger to me. But if I were to service his cock anyway, as Amanda would have me do, to give my mouth and hands to his manhood, the pleasure I provide would be an impartation of loving.
This is certainly a micro-act, a mere electron in the universe of people and life. But it seems to contribute something positive rather than something neutral or negative. I help in a smallish way to improve the state of someone’s life. So I tell myself.
If Amanda had made it happen, this frat-boy stranger would be standing, gazing down at me on my knees, watching his expanding cock bathe in the juices of my mouth. In time, he would tense and empty his cream onto my tongue. He would walk away from behind the tree, leaving me in the dirt, and later he would wonder how he got so loved.
The voices from the past would say that’s not real love. And of course it’s not — I am not claiming that, nor am I expecting that. But even so, is it not a kind of loving? Is this not an act of making love, even if just to one part of this stranger in the grass? Is it possibly a true moment of loving that improves this man’s day and helps him later to choose to do a better thing for someone else?
We are all strangers in a park.