I Miss The Body That Knows My Body
How many articles can be written about sex? And about being single? And how many about being single and having sex? Or being single and missing sex?
I have written about all of these, and the topic is so complex — despite how it looks— that I could write about it a lot more than I have already written. There are so many aspects and hidden thoughts in there.
Sexuality is one of the most important aspects of our lives — if not the most important. It’s an instinct, it’s a drive, it’s the source of our biggest pleasure and of our biggest frustration.
I am kind of balancing on the edge of being happy about being single, enjoying my freedom, my opportunities, my dates and the occasions I am having sex — and of being miserable and stressed out about not having anyone around, to love, to hug, to cuddle with, to talk with, to sleep with and have sex with.
And I am like a slow-motion pendulum — alternating between the two poles, the relief and frustration overwhelm me to equal measure.
It’s a hands-down bipolar feeling and both leave me breathless and confused.
Trying to make sense of it all…
I miss the body that knows my body.
For lots, sex is about pleasure. For me, sex is about connection and intimacy. Even if I know that it’s a one-off, I am looking for that spark and invisible thread that links us together for that time — to make our encounter special and memorable. And if there are love and caring and promise of the future on the table — then the sex gets even better.
Am I a hopeless romantic? Yes, a romantic who believes that physical connection, touch, taste and smell can perpetuate the feeling of belonging together.
There is a moment in time when the connection reaches a certain level and it transforms into knowing.
Funnily enough, you don’t need to spend decades with someone for this to happen.
I had this all-knowing bodily connection with two of my long-term relationships, and one that was unexpected and incredible and lasted only six hours.
The common thing was that their body knew mine.
I would never underestimate the relentless attention and the long years of practice — and that is just as incredible as meeting someone and without knowing each other’s family names falling into a bliss of cosmic connection.
The body that knows my body…
This body is listening to my breathing, paying attention or knowing instinctively how the air lingering between my lips means an invitation, a sign to wait, or an inaudible expression of total satisfaction and complete fatigue, that makes you splayed out like you were washed out on a shore, finding sand and earth beneath you — so now you can sleep.
This body is touching me with lips and fingers and its soul knows my soul through the touch. It breathes in the air I breath out and this makes me dizzy and lighter than bubbles.
It is about skin on skin — the silkiness of the inside of an upper arm that I can smooth my face to. It is about fingers circling the constellations of freckles on my cheeks. It’s about my spine arching back automatically at the touch of my venus dimples.
It is about a look that sees into the depths of me, reminding me of my pleasure and making me forget my own name.
It is falling asleep to the sound of steady breathing that is just calming down together with my own ragged breaths.
I miss the body that knew my body.
And I hope to find the one that wants to learn me — and lets me learn them.