Sunday morning arrives cold and blustery. I’m hesitant to exit my warm cocoon of soft blankets to shut the window to keep the frigid air out of my otherwise cozy bedroom, but I bounce up and do it anyway. Hot coffee and fuzzy socks. I snuggle in and grab my notebook.
I sketch out an erotic scene about a male Dominant and his lady submissive at the breakfast table. As I write the words, my entire being comes alive, intrigued, invested. I don’t know if I am obsessed with the tingling heady buzz erotica gives me or inspired by it, but either way it is such a delicious high for me.
All these fantasies in my brain feel like they come from my bones and blood. I don’t share them anywhere which perhaps is stupid and perhaps is for the best. I write them to force myself to explore my own desires and creativity. To uncover my own dark secrets. To push myself to new depths and heights of feeling. To open up and look where I was told never, ever to look. He knows I do it and he thinks it’s hot. But there is pleasure for me in remembering that my sexuality is my own and that I can stimulate, excite, entrance, and turn myself on all by myself. There is sexuality in the way my mind works, in my artistry, in the way I touch and taste and see the world and myself in it.
Perhaps this is one of the cruelest things this world repeatedly denies a woman. The freedom to be herself in front of herself and no one else. So driven we are to only imagine ourselves as objects to be observed, judged, and dissected by others. We are so much more than that. We have so very many more intricacies inside of us that are hidden even from ourselves. Writing erotic scenes opens me up to myself in such electrifying ways.
I cut the scene before it’s over. She is on her knees asking for permission to suck his cock and he has a tight grip on her hair as he instructs her in response. She and I are now both dripping with need.
I decide right there and then that I am out of my goddamn mind and I kinda like that about me.
Inhaling a smooth bit of the cannabis, I refill my coffee and pick up my new copy of The School of Life: An Emotional Education by Alain de Botton. Within the first few pages I am fully transfixed. The very notion that we could have more people with higher emotional intelligence among us makes me want to scream for joy. We are constantly surrounded by the painful disasters brought on by emotional ignorance and if we can educate just a handful of us to become more evolved with awareness about our own interworkings it would be a major victory for us all. I am not optimistic. But I don’t think it’s entirely impossible either.
The rustling of the autumn trees is soothing as I take a break from reading to scroll through my media feeds. I come upon a pop star who is trying to convince her followers to get to church and something about god and forgiveness, resurrection, redemption, and caring for thy neighbor. Something about this strikes me as comical but I cannot put my finger on exactly why. There’s an absurdity there that I can sense but not explain. Maybe it’s the idea of spirituality and celebrity all mashed together. The boob job, the glossy plump lips, and the crucifix. Maybe it’s that church to me is an atmosphere I can create anywhere – or not. Maybe it’s that god to me is most beautiful and alive in the sweet frustrating ache at the hot apex of my thighs on a cold Sunday morning and the way my lover won’t judge me for being the dirty little head case that I am.