I thought today I might die.
Long story short, I managed my way out of it, the burnt smell of brakes still permeating everything I am wearing.
Two weeks ago, I was in an emergency room.
Two months ago, I could not move.
And it has all made me think, what is erotic?
What is erotic?
I thought of this as I yearned for the arm of my lover, wanted so much to feel his skin, his warmth.
I went last week to the museum, sat beneath Caucasian rugs on the leather chairs nestled in dark corners, so inviting. I wandered through the Chinese furniture, the scenes so beautifully recreated, the grace, the peace. Wandered through the Rembrandt etchings, the exquisite detail, and understanding, and I loved it, loved it all, loved the day, the glorious sunshine and breeze, the books, the perfume, the plum I picked up along the way.
And I dreamed of you, and the glory of life, and the erotic, yes, the fullness of it all, yes. I wanted you, here, wanted you so much, yes.
And yet, you are not here.
Oh, not here. And I wonder, then, of my words built in a boudoir, wonder, is this all there is?
It has always been more than the scene–the debauched thrill of the moment, the sensations of the flesh. No. For me, the erotic is always about the connection. And dare I say it? About love.
Where does this leave a dragonfly? I wonder sometimes. I have so rarely written lately, disillusioned by disappointment, perhaps. By loneliness. But perhaps most of all, by the opinion I hear all too often that erotic means always hot, always sex, always … something. I’m not sure what. But I hate feeling pigeonholed into a definition. Be more erotic. What does that mean? I ask again and again, because I am not sure I understand even myself. Is life not filled with the erotic?
When I started out here, I meant to write something free, something that captured what I could say in no other forum. Have I been a sanctuary for pleasure, for freedom? I hope so. But more than that, I wanted to escape boundaries, but sometimes it seems rather that I am just bound to new ones.
Lately, I want attachment. I want more, want still the freedom to be more, to love freely, but oh yes, to love. To admit love. To embrace it. To plunge wholeheartedly into it, no matter what, to grow from it. Mainstream. Maybe. But it seems too easy too assume that familiarity precludes the erotic. It seems to me that the biggest adventures may be in the everyday, and not only in attempts to escape it.
I remembered how preciously short life is today. It is a bit staggering to me to think of how badly all this might have turned out, the blood, the things I might have left unsaid in a mangled car. And I want you to embrace your lives, your love. Want more. I want to hold you, sink my face into your imperfection, the acidic scent of your sweat, your strong arm wrapped round my head, my hair wild in the breeze, in your face. I want to shout, and curse, want you to quiet me, want the things that I do not deserve, that you do not deserve. I want your skin, want to laugh when I feel more like crying. I want to be loved… but more than that, I love, want to be freed to do it, to love. I already do, but cannot, But want. Ah, the erotic, the letting loose, the understanding. I want so much, want enough. I want to be tethered to love, enough to fly, and fly back to tell you all about it. Is that too much?