He was handsome, as i could see from the outset. It was an agreeable handsomeness, a poignant handsomeness.I was uncertain whether my visceral response constituted a sexual undercurrent. In general i am wary of certitudes. Their unambiguous certainties are too pat, too foreclosed.What exists in their interstices, as a space for uncertainty, is often deliberately bypassed. A certainty confers an illusion of safety, a bulwark. Accustomed to witnessing my own sense of certainties dissolving i hesitated to indent an intractable imprimatur of irreproachability. I waited out the development of my feelings to disclose unconscious currents of lubriciousness which inevitably do rear their heads.
A sanguine view of human nature is inadmissible to me. Most of us are shameless solipsists, concealing our self regard under a patina of the admissible, the moral. When i use the word solipsists i both affix the pathology while simultaneously disavowing it. Our true natures are indiscernible. An ostensible seemliness is, though indubitably comforting, scarcely compensatory. Aspects of our inner reality invariably emerge and disquiet with their intimations of unrestrained primal impulses.
So it did seem that perhaps my unconscious held some mysterious key to my inner truth. But the passing of time did not obviate the salacity i attributed to myself. Rather it offset it by quotidian reminders of my rather asexual propensity. I strained my mind, forcing a conjunction wherein the unconscious could be actualized.I relied, perhaps foolhardily, in the idea that, in a freudian sense, repressed sexuality lay at the heart of all human nature. Freud's sagacity, unerring in certain respects, foiled me in this regard. There were no subterranean impulses immanent, awaiting actualization. There was simply, incontrovertibly, my asexual unimpeachability, augmented through a process of assiduous self analysis, circumventing prevarication, compounded by excoriation, confounded of evisceration.
It wasn't as though his handsomeness was misrecognized by me. But what clarified, indeed deepened our subsequent interchanges was the absence of an underlying sexual impulse. That such impulses predominate in quite a few relationships, indeed dictate them, is conspicuous, as real life evinces. It is also possible, given the capriciousness of destiny, that such a fate, given my knowledge of my unconscious or rather my idea of it may still beset me with contradictory significations. My current putative anomalousness intensifies a friendship whose protracted intellectual pleasures i anticipate prepossessingly. The randomness of the subsequent betokens both ominously and pleasurably. I am still uncognizant of my unconscious reality. But my contingent self understanding equips me to tackle the here and now with sufficient equanimity.