Gentleness in Middle Age (Repost)

Epigraph: I told my wife: You are my kite. Although you are my beloved, I still hope that you will marry the blue sky for freedom. What should I offer you, my love? — I believe every loving couple has this feeling and wish: mutual love is the emotional foundation of a long-lasting marriage and also the content of life. Mutual loyalty and dedication are the essence of life. Love can be traditional or modern. Traditional love includes mutual respect, sharing joys and sorrows, and remaining devoted even in hardship. Every loving couple has tasted the sweetness of married life amidst difficulties. Modern love includes traveling, singing karaoke, and going on adventures together. It's romantic and exciting, and every modern couple understands this. Modern marriage and family offer endless joy and enjoyment. However, life is infinite, love is infinite, and we always feel that our life hasn't reached its peak, we haven't yet experienced the true meaning of love, and haven't reached the pinnacle of love. — What should I offer you, my love? — Faced with a relatively mundane life, we often have this feeling. How can I dedicate my life to my loved one? What kind of life should I offer them? Perhaps a trip, a delicious meal, or a gathering cannot fully express the most beautiful blessings in my heart. In reality, our expressions and presentations to each other seem somewhat pale. Life is becoming increasingly calm and mundane; the colors of our feelings have faded, the passion is gone, the warmth and romance are gone. How can we escape the confines of marriage, break free from its constraints, and rekindle our lives?
First, seek companionship. Exploring relationships outside of marriage is perhaps the most longed-for thing for middle-aged people, and also the most worthwhile emotional experience to try. My wife and I had no plans, not even clear expectations, yet we both embarked on this journey of searching. It was 69 that provided us with a space, a path. After registering, a flood of affectionate messages appeared. "She," or "He," one after another, tender and passionate, entering our emotional world. The quiet world of middle age suddenly became lively. We believed that everyone who appeared in our sight was sincere. Whether man or woman, married or single, young or old, they all came with a searching heart, seeking romance. Therefore, we treated them with enthusiasm, daring not to be perfunctory. This was a feeling beyond mere affection. Everyone had to abandon selfishness and cowardice. With a secretive longing, playing a game like an affair, using veiled words, we created and enjoyed a long-lost romance and innocence. Some were bold, some direct; but many more were timid, hesitantly trying, mostly just scratching the surface, disappearing quietly after each greeting and probe, like clouds in the sky, drifting aimlessly, rarely forming a pleasant rain to fall on our hearts. —They appeared, they persevered, and finally, we became friends with them—a couple, strangers yet familiar. They were friends from afar, far away before we sent our friend requests. Perhaps, without June 9th, we would not have had the chance to meet, nor would any emotional entanglement or romance have occurred. But they came from afar, right beside us, surprising and warming us—our kindred spirits, so far away, were actually right before our eyes, so close. In their forties, they embodied both the wisdom of life and youthful vigor. The man was capable and honest; the woman, sexy and gentle. Their world blended seamlessly with ours, like a tempting mix of colors, creating a new allure. They lived in the same city as us, we were in the south, they were in the north. We had brushed past each other before, but those opportunities, because we couldn't grasp them, became regrets time and again. There are too many regrets in life, but the greatest regret is failing to seize opportunities. Today, we met, we seized that fleeting chance, and we didn't want any more regrets. Same age. Similar experiences. The same lonely hearts, the same passionate yearnings. A few online conversations made us feel like we'd known each other forever. We felt we couldn't wait any longer; we should communicate, cooperate, add some color to our mundane lives, and stir up some ripples in the river of our lonely hearts. That night, in front of the computer screen, we expressed our sincerity to each other with the utmost honesty: we were naked before each other, admiring each other's passion. My wife had rediscovered her girlish shyness, her love juices gushing forth, bathing my body in an ocean of desire. From the video, we saw that the other felt the same way. Finally, we stepped down from the virtual world and into reality, meeting in a teahouse.
II. Meeting Under the ambiguous starlight. Candlelight reflecting our hearts. The aroma of tea lingering. We felt an instant connection, our conversation flowing smoothly, every word penetrating the depths of each other's hearts. It turned out we were so alike; we could see our own reflections in each other's experiences and feelings, and a sense of shared suffering and mutual understanding arose. Like us, they had experienced the vibrant youth, then struggled and strived, established families and careers, and finally entered a stable middle age. Middle age is a special stage of life, a vast and boundless river, a middle-aged heart of greatness. But the heart of a middle-aged person is fragile, like the stillness of a river, afraid of the impact of a pebble. The heart of a middle-aged person remains as sensitive and vulnerable as a virgin, not numb with age. Middle age is not burdened by career and family, nor is it weathered and lonely because of too many experiences. The heart of a middle-aged person is still full of longing, yearning for a kind of inexplicable care and comfort. This is probably the most secret expectation in the heart of a middle-aged person—a longing for an adventure, a romance, a spiritual experience beyond reality. Romance and novelty are not the exclusive domain of youth; on the contrary, middle-aged people, having embarked on a stable life, having experienced and felt so much, crave new flavors of life. The conversation ranges from distant to near, ultimately reaching the deepest, most tender parts of each other's hearts. From work and workplaces to family, children and the elderly, and then to private matters, the conversation grows increasingly joyful and relaxed. The doors of their hearts open to each other, open hearts yearning for the other's exploration and touch, yearning to enter the unfamiliar world of emotions, seeking familiar pain and itch. As the distance closed, and our voices mingled, the dormant desires of our youth began to ignite. I believe that middle-aged men and women all possess hidden sexual glands, and in the face of such allure, these glands, driven by animalistic instincts, release an aura of courtship. That aura grew stronger as it drew nearer, and I believe we both felt its presence, both overwhelmed by its hormonal effects. Our hearts began to race, and the yearning for love repeatedly assaulted our thin flesh. Cheeks flushed, hands warmed, and the deepest desires of both man and woman swelled. The conversation could no longer continue. Emerging from the teahouse, it was dusk. Dusk, with its setting sun and flickering lights, was brewing a passionate night. We didn't part ways, nor did we go home; instead, we strolled along the road. The flow of people and cars subsided, leaving only the resounding beating of our hearts. We felt as if we had returned to our youth, our emotions ignited, fueling a vibrant array of desires. We temporarily forgot home, forgot life, forgot the joys and sorrows of life; we were willing to become wanderers of life. In fact, we are all wanderers in life. Life and family are external things; only emotional experiences and psychological insights are truly our own.
III. Hotel Exchange. The Lechi Hotel in the city center, situated between their home and ours, was neither their home nor ours, yet it was our shared home. We gave ourselves to each other. We offered our deepest love to one another. A wife is one's own, yet also another's; a husband is another's, yet also one's own. We entrusted our hearts to another, allowing the loneliness and grievances unique to middle age to find a place to confide. Two rooms, two worlds, two temporary new homes. We warmed another woman, another man, with the tenderness of husband and wife. Hearts pounded in our chests, colliding with unfamiliar emotions; waves of feeling crashed against tradition, morality, and shyness. Strength and softness, clashing yet intertwined, coming and going, drawing and absorbing, made the air in both rooms chaotic and intense. For the first time, I experienced a woman who wasn't my wife—a different softness, a different grip, a different tremor, a different acceptance and gasp. Yet, the moans were familiar, the open and honest offering and acceptance were also familiar. I sank into her soft bosom, inhaling a different kind of floral fragrance, and the same suffocating feeling of those towering peaks pressing down on me. Middle-aged women are generous; they can treat any man as their own. They possess the widest and most fertile fields, offering them to men to cultivate. They accept the sweat and ravages of men with their smoothest and softest breasts. Women are great, and I was intoxicated by her embrace. That woman, the woman beneath me, I didn't know her name, and I still don't. All I knew of her was the feminine half of a middle-aged couple searching for true love online. For the first time, I offered my woman to another man. The act of giving and sacrifice was soul-stirring. After calming the waves in our room, I suddenly wanted to see the ebb and flow of the waves in another room. I gently opened the door and peeked into the lovemaking. I saw my wife's familiar figure, legs raised, her lower abdomen like a hill, flat and broad, allowing a stranger to ride her across the room. Unveiling her secrets, like a flower in full bloom, like a cry to the heavens, she welcomed the man's powerful thrusts. Moans rose from deep within her body, mingling with the rapid rhythm of flesh. The wife's throat could no longer suppress the supreme bliss, like the soft soil, finely tilled, capable of transforming the entire spring. The man charged with abandon, from one position to another, until finally, he collapsed and died on the gentle hillside. I was shaken by the man's unrestrained frenzy: jealousy, hatred, envy, and revenge burned within me. I turned and pushed his woman onto the bed, pinning her beneath me, thrusting my spear. Our arrival startled the man and his wife, lost in their lovemaking. They were astonished by our arrival, delighted by our presence, and surprised by our sudden conquest. The two middle-aged couples finally began to ride together on a bed as vast as a prairie. For a moment, they and we shared the same physical pleasure and emotional release. In an instant, shyness and shame, romance and excitement, exhilarating catharsis, and uncontrollable restraint intertwined, tormenting us, burning us, and unleashing our wild side. We were like galloping horses, herded across the grasslands, herded by the blue sky and white clouds. We let our bodies move and shout according to their instincts, without any restraint or control. The wife and the man's desire, which had just been extinguished, was now reignited. The wife mounted her horse, riding her unrestrained emotions into paradise. I thrust my most powerful male desire into the other woman, who roared like a leopard, arched her back, and then bent over, opening her deep back, as if inviting me to explore her deepest secrets. It was as if I had explored the deepest part of some cave, only to fall into the softest, most tender place, sinking deeper and deeper—that deep cave seemed to become bottomless again, allowing me to wander and bewilder within it—they, along with us, tasted sacrifice, felt the emotional rupture within sacrifice, and the pain and love of that emotional rupture. I turned to look at the man's wife beneath him. She nodded contentedly, then swiftly entered a blissful daze, buried and consumed in a springtime prairie. Two women, ravaged by emotion, lay limply together, like two fish with their chests up, white and shimmering. They were exhausted; only their breathing, the rise and fall of their bellies, told them they were alive. At this moment, life could pause, a pause to savor beauty. We two men lowered our proud banners, fell silent, and sat to the side, sipping tea, savoring the women, savoring the climax and ebb of our recent encounter. Undeterred, the man placed his woman on top of mine and began to teach them about same-sex love. This seemingly simple man was surprisingly sensual. He intertwined the two women, their limbs outstretched like a wondrous octopus. The two women's softest parts rubbed against each other, causing them to gasp and moan, reaching another peak of desire. The man's purpose wasn't for the two women to play a game, but for them to experience emptiness and thirst within that game. Sure enough, the emptiness of the untouched shaft made the two women yearn for it. They leaned in and sucked on the limp member. They used their hands to stroke the now-lowered penis. My man and I were reawakened, and so we charged once more into the rosy, full flesh of those women. This time, we cultivated our own private plot. The woman who had just been plowed by the man was now being plowed by herself. The women wept with shyness, grievance, and fear. They returned to their men's arms, lying beneath their mountain-like bodies, feeling immense happiness. Their warm love juices gushed forth, an unstoppable flood overflowing between their thighs. We two men were immersed in it, willing to die for it. The crackling music echoed through the room. The groans and moans spoke of the release of our hearts. The sound of hurried footsteps came from the hallway; had our love moved everyone?
IV. The moonlight was like water. After parting, there was no goodbye. Perhaps happiness doesn't need to ask its origin, nor does it need to ask for a next time. Perhaps one act of indulgence is enough to enjoy for a lifetime. To this day, we still don't know who they are; we only know they were a middle-aged couple yearning for love and romance. Back home, the blush still burned on my face and danced in my heart. My wife and I were speechless, unable to believe what had happened. With the composure of middle age, we couldn't believe we had experienced the most outrageous thing. Yet, middle age is also the age when romance should blossom, the age when we are most entitled to enjoy it. Sometimes, life bestows unexpected gifts upon us; perhaps that unfamiliar couple was a blessing from heaven. What can I offer you, my love—I give you selfless love, I give you boundless care. How is he? How are they? I asked. "Yes, very good, worth remembering," my wife said. "Thank you for everything you gave me." My wife nestled in my arms, quietly savoring the warmth and sweetness of first love. The scene from just now replayed in my mind, wave after wave of emotions crashing against our hearts. I felt that youthful desires were sprouting, blossoming, and bearing fruit in my heart. Lust arose from the depths of my being, and the vigor of middle age was stirring. I knew that love was gushing from the depths of my heart, and the contours of man and woman were bathed in the dawn of love. Reaching out to caress her, I found my wife's vulva already surging with moisture. Before my eyes, I saw my wife's body alternating with that of another woman: rounded breasts, full buttocks, long and shapely limbs, and the deep lotus flower opening in longing, heavily and firmly stirring my male instincts. Clothes are shells that bind the body, but the fire burning within makes us unable to bear the restraint of clothing. My wife and I threw our clothes aside, like butterflies emerging from their cocoons, freely displaying the brilliance of our nature. By the window, my wife and I stood naked, radiating the splendor of youth. The moonlight, like water, nourished our burning hearts and washed over our radiant bodies. We seemed to return to our youth, which made us believe that youth is immortal, forever buried within our hearts. As long as we ignite it, it will burn us with intense brilliance. My emotions soared, and I thrust my firm desire deep into my wife's body. My wife moaned: "You are him, with a unique strength!" I gasped: "You are her, just as gentle!" I said: "Please forgive me, my giving is precisely offering you up." She said: "My greatest feeling is, the feeling of being raped the moment I leave you." She asked: "When I lay beneath another man, did you feel bitter?" I said: "I admire your ecstasy when you are being cultivated"— We reminisced about our experience at the Lechi Hotel, unable to stop our battle for a long time. My wife's body went limp, like a tender leaf bent under the weight of dew. My wife lay across the window like a bridge, my nose touching the petals of her offering, and I greedily sucked the clear dew flowing from them. Then, with the power of the mountain, the bridge crumbled; with the weapon of God, the woman's depths were pierced. At that moment, moonlight flowed like water. We didn't draw the curtains; we faced the brightly lit world, displaying a passionate, naked middle-aged world.

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Gentleness in Middle Age (Repost)

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