voyeuristic desires

Lately I've been thinking about getting in touch with someone on craigslist to make a pornographic video.  I think all the sexual deprivation has led to strange fantasies on my part.  I have been thinking more about having sex with old people lately.  Old, disgusting, near death people with wrinkly skin, who smell like a combination of baby powder and adult diapers.  I want to fuck that.  Sort of like where people have scat fetish, I realize that if I did get myself involved in that kind of situation, I will never be judged, and not being judged is always a good thing because at home I'm constantly being judged.

It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her.  When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body.  And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter.  Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts.  Is it a necro thing?  Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?

D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month.  She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside.  I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together.  And yet I don't hate her.  I hate myself.  I want to be whipped.