The hunter

The endearing qualities of the other sex has again drawn me in and I have become an internet stalker. As I see my ever increasing age approach rapidly I have become one of those women who look up their newest conquest endlessly online. With a mix of excitement, horror, embarrassment, endearment and outright curiosity I search for whatever information I can get my eyes on. What were the days like before the search engine I wonder? Where did one find out all the littlest details about the person of one's fancy? I think the internet has made me want to know, see, understand everything - it is a curse! In my 'old' age I have started caring about the impression I give on the phone, in person and above all on the social networks to which I subscribe. Why? Am I that lonely now that I have to make every little fuck into 'the one', who knows? Or am I just seeking out whatever little I can to satisfy my need to make it ok to feel something for someone 7 year my junior. Or the fact that I like the thrill of uncertainty that comes with someone who does not, for the first time in a very long time, share any of my acquaintances, friends or even know any of my colleagues. Probably the latter entices me more than anything, so I look around the cyberscape for anything of meaning(less). I ask myself why I don't just pick up the phone and call/text. I have decided not to, it has become as if an addiction. I have decided to be more timid, maybe this is a good thing or maybe just maybe I am playing a game (not with him as much as with myself). I have decided not to be too Scandinavian, too open, too different - this last one is probably, come think of it, not a good thing. The decision not to make any contact is one that is making me stressed, yet also prolongs the thrill of waiting (and maybe by effect of hoping). It is one made on the basis of interest I guess, one in which it should be proved to me that the other is worthy of my affection, of my caress, of my longing and essentially of my bed. However, we all think differently and he might not think my silence is due to a test in which he should preform in a certain way, yet such is life and inevitably fate itself. In my defence he is not currently in close proximity to me, or so I was led to believe. It might have been a lie, I take a chance and say it wasn't. Even if he is somewhere else, somewhere further away, somewhere out of reach, it is not too much to ask for a recognition of my turning-even-older-day - is it? Probably! Yet I cannot help it, I want to be wanted again. For him to pursue me. It is very non-feminist of me I know. So I continue my hunt for any remnant of him across the interscape.