The other day in a tricky
facebook argument about the porn industry, a twenty-something woman who was
mistaking my anti-rape stance for being anti-sex helpfully explained to me that
“Sex is good and people like having it.” She was on the defensive and making a
mistake about what my values are, but she got under my skin.
Being mistaken for a
Puritan got me thinking, where DO I stand with sex these days? This blog
wouldn’t be here if I didn’t find sex a difficult thing to wrap my head around,
and lately I’ve been wondering if I might be something like demi-sexual. I
almost typed demi-romantic but then I remembered what really sweeps me up and
carries me away.
One thing I’m sure of is
that sex is not presently the central force of my life. My wrongheaded friend
inadvertently shamed me for that, but most of the time, my life is a happy and
calm one, punctuated by marches and letters to congress. When I’m not working
or activist-ing, I prefer to be by myself, reading novels, drawing, singing
random songs to the cats. Sex is still with me, just quietly, a gentle tide
that buoys me up sometimes, but not the emergency it used to be. Sometimes I
miss it, but mostly I’m just relieved.
But also, there’s this: I
let my heart run away with itself for Mr. Makeout Music, and, to a more
sense-making extent, for The Professor. The pain of those two
failures-to-connect is still so much that it’s hard to see the good in those
attractions, hard to see what was gained. The sense of loss I feel around those
two guys has turned into a barrier against even the most modest fantasies. I’ve
dated since them, sometimes to great enjoyment, but those two still loom large
in my heart.
There’s no risk of
running into Mr. Makeout Music—I haven’t even been to the library where we used
to work together since I left. I didn’t go to the Big Poly Conference this
year, partly because of some misogyny in the organization’s leadership but
partly because the pain of seeing The Professor and not hugging him would have
been too much.
The thing with Mr.
Makeout Music ended in such misery and heartbreak that he is a lost cause, and
probably The Professor is too, but there was something so real about my
connection with the latter, something so sweet and easy about the physical
spark between us—I am still having a hard time convincing myself that there
wasn’t a potential there for love, a potential that I ruined in a flurry of
panic and, okay, both of us being jerks. I ended up feeling thoroughly
embarrassed, and because The Professor is so connected to the higher-ups of
that particular poly community, the embarrassment feels public and hard to get
past.
Oops, I set out to write
about sex and ended up writing about love. These are attachments built on a
workplace flirtation and a few days of glorious hotel-kissing, followed by an
almost-relationship where we talked on the phone while I colored in a coloring
book called “Secret Paris.”
Objectively I don’t see
what’s wrong with being a fool for love, I would never judge a friend for it,
but I am angry with myself still for the shame, loss, and trapped feeling that
went along with Mr. Makeout Music, for the miscommunication and can’t-keep-up
feelings of that connection with The Professor.
When I sat down to write
this, I imagined that it would be a post about being a little scared of sex
right now because of “metoo, because Trump is president (PLEASE WATCH THE BROAD CITY EPISODE “WITCHES” ON THAT
THEME) because activism is demanding and news cycles keep bringing new waves of
fight or flight, because it’s hard to relax and be vulnerable in the midst of
so much fear.
But it isn’t bodily harm
I’m afraid of, it’s love. I fall. I fall and it so seldom works out well. I
feel like I can’t keep up because I CAN’T KEEP UP—people can fall into physical
affection without worrying what it means, meanwhile my heart is sprouting
flowers and building monuments. I’m afraid of the addictiveness of those
flowers and monuments, and I’m afraid of the way everything else pales in
comparison. I LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, I don’t WANT it to pale.
So, the times when sex
and love are put aside are just as important to me, just as vibrant, just as
shiny with life-force. Love and sex are overwhelming to me and sometimes I like
to be overwhelmed by other things. I don’t want to be ashamed of the times of
solitude or of the romance that sometimes spreads rampantly from me like
morning glory vines. I want to accept that it happens at inconvenient times,
with the wrong men, or the right men when I’m unready for them. I’d like to
think that none of it was a failure at all, just awkward, messy collisions that
were just as important as the loves that make more sense, just as beautiful and
necessary.
Friday night at yoga, I
was stunned to notice that a beautiful man seemed to be flirting me, maybe seeing
through the veil of good vibes and invisibility I tend to bring with me to
self-care occasions. He was covered in tattoos that were clearly from a younger
part of his life. On one hand it said “fear” and the other it said “less.” It
was from when he used to think he was tough, he said, and I recognize a good
new mantra when I see one. So that’s the goal: while I work to accept my
solitary self, I can probably make a little more room for magic, I can probably
manage to fear love less.
