Trim and slightly sexy scruffy, I notice that he is too young for me…and of course I am married, so it’s not so much about availability as awareness that we are a generation apart. This will torment us shortly. I use that word again.
I’m still on a natural high. Strike that, I’m on an orgasmic high. Caressed here and there, my skin is on fire and I want to savor the experience and also do my best to describe what just happened to me… this moment is timeless and full of joy with day and night dancing together, no space between the molecules of who is me, who is you and the world is one beautiful tapestry.
What’s this feeling, I mumbled to Sexbod, tumble tongue tied. It’s called Bliss, he said with a smile. I think to myself – those three words are the greatest speech ever given in the English language.
I carry this sensation - or does it carry me? – with me on the plane, and I know it shows because people are staring at me.
It’s in this ecstatic state that I greet my plane mate. We are nestled and all snug in our seats, and he begins to read…and then he laughs. He’s laughing aloud and it’s a delicious throaty man laugh an alto that pulsates so nicely in places and on skin that is alive and finely tuned.
I am drawn to him, to his man chortle, to the hairs on his arms and the fact that he doesn’t take up the armrest.
What are you reading, I ask kittenish.
He looks up at me and says, do you have an open mind? To which all I can do is smile and show him the book resting on my lap: Vagina by Naomi Wolf.
Laughing Man then hands me what he is reading and says, these are true stories of this rich guy in New York and his friends. Here, read this chapter. It’s about when they go to a club together…
I should point out that I read quickly but even skimming doesn’t prevent my eyes from seeing the repugnant language.
These are stories of punks masquerading as men thinking and sharing awful things about women, about what horrible things they want to do their mouths and bodies and how they will gleefully discard them once they’ve silenced them with their sexual conquest.
I hand him back the book. I’m quivering. Is it cold on this plane and why are the lights so bright? Please, someone erase these images from my mind. My heart is feeling that grief again and I feel covered in slime…falling, falling, falling back into reality.
How did we get to this place where degrading words are used in abusive ways towards women like this? Casual and common.
Man isn’t Laughing anymore. He probably thinks I’m a prude and wears Regret for Sharing all over his face.
I take it that you don’t think this book is funny, he says.
We meet eye to eye, and I say to him:
“I’ve just spent five days at a retreat where two of the most amazing and sexy men spent seven hours a day between the two of them giving six women ecstatic massages. They brought us to orgasm and held us while we cried. We sobbed for all the times our hearts were broken and our p*ssies were used and our bodies were paraded and we were made to feel inadaquate. Like filth. Or invisible.”
But it’s just a joke! he insists and implores, wanting to convince me that making fun of women is fair and fun game, harmless really. Sure it is. Sigh.
I look at him and I am sad. I see his youthful earnestness and desire to find some funny common ground. We won’t in this book. How about our world, I wonder?
Now the tears are forming and I can’t stop them and I suddenly feel the age between us well up like a time capsule that neither of us can open because we are a generation apart and in his world, p*ssies are shaved and porn is king and women are smut if they aren’t sluts. AND HE’S STILL A NICE GUY.
It’s not funny, is all I can say while he looks at me and is shaking in his seat like, WTF is happening here?
It’s breaking your heart is all I can mumble out of my shrinking mouth, sinking into this despair-meets-ecstasy with a beautiful young man who knows no better, desensitized to what the world is teaching us about love and sex and intimacy.
We sat side by side for the rest of plane ride barely moving in our seats. We don’t talk. I hold the necklace my friend M gave me like a talisman to connect me to the magic of the retreat, her ecstatic friendship the salve to my quiet tears.
I don’t even remember if I breathed beyond a whisper, enough to keep me alive so I could run off the plane as fast as my feet would take me. Post-haste to the real world where sexophrenic books about women make millions of dollars for goons who could really use a lifetime of sexological bodywork to undue the dis-ease we have with sexuality…
If he somehow finds this blog and reads this, I wonder what he thinks and feels now? If I could, I would share this euphoria with him too. Sprinkle him…sprinkle you…with orgasmic Pixie Dust.
You see, in the world I envision love and sex and intimacy make you tingle all over and forget about time…and lovers only weep because they feel really, really good.
That is the ultimate sexual freedom. That is what I stand for. That is what I yearn for this world, my loved ones and you.
Read more Sexbod Diaries:Getting Naked with Strangers (vol 1) Working out the Kinks (vol 2) On the Scenic Route to Ecstasy (vol 3) Voyeur to Pleasure, Witness to Healing (vol 4) Easy Writher (vol 5) Orgasmic Friendships (vol 6)
Tinamarie is an Intimacy, Love & Libido Mentor for Women. Read more at www.TinamarieBernard.com.
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