My confessions: I’m a hardcore romance junkie, like heroin and crack. And I can’t seem to confront myself directly without going through a man to do it.
What is it in here that is so disturbing to me that I can’t face it?
Perhaps the squirming snake of my own immense hunger, endless and ready to swallow the nutrient it craves whole. The moral-less flavor of it, the disregard it has for human life, for values, for ideals, for feelings, for “where people are at,” for slowing down and for “holding space.”
It’s this coiling boa constrictor of appetite that is simply meant to eat. The hunting predator in the woods doesn’t think at all except to calculate distance, how to make sure the wind doesn’t carry her scent to her prey, and how to have it be that her final powerful leap lands her right on top of her target.
This is the one in me who craves the romance. I don’t know why romance is the thing. I don’t know if it is because my dad used to drink and he used to leak emotion all over me when he was in his cups deep, emotion that had this thick sweet cloying romantic quality to it. Well yeah that’s probably it. All I know for sure is that it’s still something that has dominion over me, for better or worse. And now I find myself winding my way through another romance.
The stage is set. We have been seeing each other for a few weeks and while it’s new, there is a deep spot of involuntary that got touched in us both.
So there’s me: unconventional relationship practices for the last decade, anything close to monogamous not among them. And there’s him: if you love someone and they love you, and you have sex, you are now monogamous. And if that changes or goes off-course it equates total psychic devastation.
Some might see this as an impasse, but my mind is in heavy play-mode these days, so… I came up with a game. Thirty days of research – I am monogomish (I still practice Orgasmic Meditation with others) and he has to sleep with other people.
This is a huge edge for both of us on each side. For him, having me and having other women totally cracks open his concepts of conventional relating. What woman would afford her man these luxuries? Does it mean I don’t want him enough? Does it mean he might become some kind of “lesser” man who just likes to fuck loads of women?
And for me, well… I’ve prided myself in being a free woman for a number of years now. Free in her thinking and in her sex, a rare breed we call “turned-on women” who won’t allow themselves to lock down into too much conventionality lest they lose their ability to move freely in the world and liberate others. This looks different for all of us but for me a huge component of it was non-monogomy.
My sex is my furnace, my generator, my power; to hand the satisfaction of it all over to one person feels terrifying. Does it mean I’m not free anymore? Does it mean I’m going to sleep inside of my addiction to romance? Does it mean I won’t be able to produce enough fuel for my fire and my power will dwindle?
It’s day three. All I know so far is that there is a vigilant hunter that usually sweeps through the area as I walk through London, as I chat with people in a room, as I surf the internet. And this hunter is suddenly quieting in the arena of searching for prey.
Some part of me is softening into allowing myself to be pet and taken care of. This was so not the stroke for me in the past but now here I am and it is.
I can feel my insides relax into it unexpectedly and sink into a deeper sense of femininity and reception.