The Body Is a Medium for Telling Stories

body as canvas

a medium for telling

stories about us

*

body as vision

a vessel for exchanging

testimony/truth

*

body as witness

universal offering

a light in the world

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Hunger, Thirst and Yearning: Haiku of Desire and Fulfillment

hungry for your time

and attention, affection

undivided and free

*

thirsting for your touch

and energy, your calm cool

hand smooth upon me

*

yearning for your words

your voice reverberating

sounds are all the same

*

take what you will now

give me what you want to feel

call me by my name

My Man Fast: Ten Days Without Men

I am taking a break from men, I said. A hiatus, a sabbatical, a cleanse.

For most of the last six months, I’ve been on a roll. For better or for worse, in recent times, more men have expressed interest in me lately than I can shake a stick at (and this is not my M.O., so it’s been strange, to say the least). The attention has been flattering and it has been humbling and it has been interesting; I can’t complain. But lately it’s been exhausting. Those among you who are hot commodities: my hat is off, I don’t know how you do it. For my part, the constant stream of attention from so many sources was overwhelming, and I decided, in the interest of my own sanity, that I had to take a step back.

So I did. For ten days, no contact with any of the men I’ve been in talks with, lusting after, or contemplating dating. The man fast was short-term, but its effect has been tremendous.

I cut the young one out completely. It was hard, because he was sweet and kind and terribly handsome (and he extended tremendous effort)! But it was also abundantly clear: he was not the one. When it’s clear that one is not the one, the only fair thing to do is let them go. It sucked, but it was the right thing to do.

The ex I adore but cannot get a handle on, I let him go, too. He’ll resurface, I am certain, but for now, he is out of the picture and I don’t need to think about him one way or another. 

The low-level friendcrush, man of my dreams, so close and yet so far, he of great flirtation and the ever-elusive withholding game? I’ve let him go, too. I remain open to the idea of him, but I am not investing any energy or effort there, for now. The ball is very much in his court. It may not be our season (we may not have a season); I will wait and see.

The fourth and final man who has captured my attention as of late has been out of town for most of the last two weeks, visiting relatives, offering a natural, and not unwelcome, reprieve. The interruption in this case would have been difficult to enact, but for this temporary fix: the short-term geographic cure. Like all things, the geographic cure will come to an abrupt end; this fellow returned a couple of days ago, and we have plans to see one another to tomorrow. I feel good about this, after a ten-day man fast, if you will. It’s been a full stop. No texts, no calls, no dates, no flirtation, no cutesy Facebook messages, nada. Liberating, and delightful.

It has offered the opportunity to not think about men at all, which has, in turn, afforded me the great liberties of time, distance, space, and perspective. It gave me clarity. It reminded me of what I want (with or without a man) and of what I’m looking for (in and from and with a man), of what I have to do and give. And I’m feeling good.

He Has No Game, and That’s Okay: Thoughts on a Younger Man

Do you feel 23? I ask him.

It’s hard to say, he says.

Okay, I say.

Like with you, he says, You’re a beautiful women who is very strong in a number of ways, and incredibly brilliant and kind-hearted, so the 23 year old boy in me just gapes.

Okay, I say.

But sometimes, he says, I’m immaturely sexual, if you will. I’m just like, “She’s hot, she’s hot, she’s hot.”

Okay, I say.

And then, he says, there’s everything else about you that I like in a much more mature way.

Okay, I say.

But the young primal male is there as well, he says.
Okay, I say.
I am used to talking, but for now, I am mostly listening.
And learning.
***
Not long after that, our conversation ends. I meditate on the roughness of his conversational edges; he is smart, but not smooth. He is earnest and his thoughts spill out, free-form and unscripted. In contrast to most of the men I have known, he speaks without premeditation, and without self-preservation in mind.
He has no game, I tell my friend Dave, like, no game whatever.
Maybe it’s up to you to teach him? Dave says.
Maybe, I say.
But maybe not. May there is an advantage to having no game. Maybe it is not about age–23 is not that young, after all. Maybe is lack of game simply means that he is not predisposed to playing games. And that is better than any amount of smoothness, savvy, or game.