Yes we do. And it’s a fire that runs through all of us.
I’m separated now from my husband of 17 years. And it feels amazing and also I’m experiencing grief like I’ve never felt before. The kind that sneaks up on me and sends me to my knees in heaving sobs and anguish. It hits hard and fast and I fall down and into it, and just as quickly, I sit up again and it’s like nothing happened. Did anything happen? What was that?
I’ve taken lovers since January. Each one teaches me something new.
The first one taught me that I was fearless. That my body responds to the body of another person with only a few lines of conversation. Whose body is it, then? Who is making me feel this way?
The next one showed me that I like a firm hand and a deep voice and that laying naked across a table in the middle of a room with multiple eyes on me at the same time — well I’d rather be watching than watched. But he can choke me in the park, while I think, hmmm, maybe this is my death. And I don’t think about my kids. I just lose myself in the pleasure.
The next showed me a deeper desire. A desire for adventure and boundless freedom and creativity. I too want to do drugs, dress in costumes, and stay up until dawn in warm cities with streets full of revelers. He showed me how to find the novelty in everything, including love making. I miss him the most. But it wasn’t supposed to last. That’s the thing about adventures. They end.
Then there was a man who plays the saxophone and fixes them too. With him I didn’t just moan. I commanded. I demanded. And when we were done, I drove myself to a group singing event at the shipyard in Oakland. I remembered the words. I didn’t need the teleprompter. What made me feel the most alive? Sex with a stranger or singing in a room full of strangers?
It was actually the moment when I was pumping gas by myself in Richmond and it was cold and I was alone and I felt my nipples harden and I felt empty and afraid and small.
That’s when I shuddered.
