Sex is sex and love is not just love

Yesterday I talked about sex. Talking about sex is quite fun. Let’s do it again today. (no, still not kidding)

Sex is…

A very very important thing – as equally important as love – in our lives.

(okay I can hear some protests.)

But then like I just said. Sex is sex. Important. No more no less than some others things in our lives. Like many other things, it is good to have. It is even fabulous to have. Like many other things, it is fine not to have too.

(okay some more protests on the way.)

Talking about sex is much more difficult than talking about love. Because sex is sex. Simple. Sex is instinct, natural, even animal. It is there inside of us, the needs. In a natural way. The thought of sex or the non-thought of sex is the same. Like eating, like drinking, you do it, you have it. As a basic need and instinct. No need to hide. No need to get rid of. Rarely the thought of it is useful. Just like we don’t THINK about eating unless we start to feel hungry, we don’t THINK about drinking unless we are thirsty. Sex is that.

And because of that, sex is as important as love but never as powerful as love.

(now I am back to love. Can’t help myself.)

Love is powerful because it is both a construction of the mind and at the same time something that we cannot control. The combination of something which could be totally a product of our mind and also something irresistible coming directly from our heart, amplified by our senses. Love is both, this crazy feeling yet totally possible to explain with rational thoughts (that is when we say: I love him because of this, because of that). Sex does not have that power. Sex blows our mind in that moment, is exquisite in the moment, but the effect is immediate  and primary, and the after-effect does not last long. While love is exquisite for a long while, we can be happy for a long moment, feel great and embrace the world with confidence for a long moment with love. Love makes us feel good physically and intellectually. Love makes us miserable when we lose it, when we don’t have it. We are all looking for love, or some kind of love in our lives. To a certain extent. Rarely we feel deeply miserable having no sex. Rarely we need to chase for sex (yes, maybe for some people but not for the majority).

That is why sex is never as powerful as love. And that is also why sex with love, sex with the person with whom we are in love is indeniably the best. Because it is the greatest combination of everything. Feelings, senses. Everything has its place and a wonderful one.

That is why any mental construction combined with sex could either make it worse and great. That is why “thinking” during sex could be a disaster. How many of us (especially women) think during sex and suddenly don’t feel like going on with it? Just the start of a thought about the partner (he is this, that, I don’t fully like him anymore) during the act could stop right away all desires and the heat of the moment.

That is why memories of sex with the loved one are always the best. Languishing in memories, daydreaming about the night before, feeling the sex inside of us, being one with the loved person, thinking about his/her body, his/her skin, his/her caress, his/her kiss. Best of the best. Every sight, every feeling, the scenery, everything comes back. In its unique beauty. Especially when we are in love.

Sex is sex. And love is not just love. Because it is always the last thing we keep very preciously in our mind. In order to fully enjoy every minute of our deep animal instincts: sex.

Let’s talk about sex

“In the world we live in, what we know and what we don’t know are like Siamese twins, inseparable, existing in a state of confusion.” (Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami)

I always talk about love. Today let’s change. Let’s talk about sex. Rough sex. Just kidding. No, no kidding.

A few days ago, I went for lunch at a sushi place, where sushi was displayed on a rail like a train rail, you pick what you like to eat. I was sitting there, waiting for my lemongrass tea and was about to choose my first sushi, when suddenly a young man, sitting next to me started to say hello. I said hello back. He was less than thirty years old with a student style look. I could see that he wanted to start a conversation and not just stop at a hello. It was okay with me to chat a bit. Small talk first for ten minutes. Usual stuff. He looked trustworthy and kind. Like I said, like a student. He could be my student. Then suddenly he asked: “Could I tell you something quite delicate? I just feel the need to tell this to someone I don’t know.” I was like, okay, shoot! “What do you think about sadomasochistic practices?” I looked at him. Quite surprised. “Where are you going from now, young man” I asked myself. I answered: “Never thought about that until today. You bring up the subject so you want to tell me something. Please continue”. As a criminologist with a very brief education of profiling, I was interested to hear more. Of course. Sociologically speaking, it could be an interesting observation. Also because he was kind of sincere and he did not look like he wanted from me anything else than just an ear to listen to him. So the whole story was about he could only get excited with SM practices. Normal sex never turned him on. And he knew that since the age of 24. He had a girlfriend who did not know anything about it. And he could never reveal that to her. He did not suffer about it. Just some guilt he could feel sometimes when he had to satisfy his needs somewhere else.

He said he wanted to tell me his secret because we would never see each other again, and behind my serious appearance with eyeglasses and all, he somehow thought that I could have some dark secrets too.  The conversation was not about me so I did not answer him. We said goodbye and I wished him a great day and always a good sex life. It happened to me a few times already that people confide to me some secrets. Probably because I look really serious.

I thought about that encounter for a few days. It is always strange for me that some people totally need to live in a kind of fantasy to spice up their sex lives. I am so far from that. I have no idea of how that could feel. But I just think even though when one thinks he is free while putting a mask, wearing leather clothes, whipping his partner, how free is he really in that moment? His freedom of wanting to live that fantasy, being another person, playing another role, going through with his fantasies, is all that really liberating? Of course, the excitement is real, is fabulous, I can understand and concur. But is he still kept prisoner in his own fantasy and sex scenarios? New scenarios need to be invented each time, and finally it would be all about the scenarios, the fantasies, the accessories and not about the partner, anymore.

I don’t really know. I just ask questions and think about it. I don’t have any judgments, whatsoever. I don’t know which sensation one could have before, during and after a SM session. Totally an unknown world for me.

But it leads me now to share a small story about fantasies. I once had an affair with a man who was all about fantasies and scenarios. It was a very short affair as we spent more time arguing about me not having any fantasy or desires for fantasies and about him who was too much into it. I remember I commuted sometimes to see him, after a long day of work and he asked me to come to his place, dressing like a nurse. I remember that time, I texted him and said: “No, no way! I come back from 10 hours of work, do you think I would go to a shop now and buy a nurse dress??!!”  I remember I cancelled that date. Another time was about “you let the door open in the night, I will come, you don’t know when and I will be like a stranger”. I was like “come on, drop it, I will know that it was you and really it does nothing to me”.  Yes, it was a short affair.

And yes, maybe because I am a scientist with a rational brain. I am never turned on with scenarios. Wearing no clothes but only sexy lingerie under your coat. Going to a bar. Meeting your partner/husband/boyfriend and pretending not to know him, then hitting on him like a stranger. No, not for me. My only explanation for that is maybe because I have a poor imagination and I am a down-to-earth scientist.

But to end this long post, do you know what really turns me on?

His eyes turn me on. The expression in his eyes when he looks at me. The way he talks to people in front of me. The way he carries humanity in him. That turns me on. So badly. His mails turn me on. His songs turn me on. Our talks about movies, love, life turn me on. The way he laughs, the way he talks, the way he feels free, his witty spirit. Yes, all of that.

My fantasy, yes, it has a name. I just found it. My fantasy is called “HIM”.

Love

Early this morning I did what I had never done before. I started to read again my first post of this blog. “His ears” – I went back to the past for a long moment. I was not surprised by the feelings carried in the post. The immensity of my love for him. The deep and sincere love for him. It was so powerful and sincere that I almost fainted while I read the piece. How can/could I love that much? Loving that much just empties you all inside. But I don’t feel empty at all. I feel lucky somehow. So many things had happened in between. Between this first post and all the other ones in my blog. However the power of that love just stands out among all other things.

I don’t know what I am feeling right now. The question is not if I still feel that love. The answer is in the fact that I had once felt it so strongly. How can/could it be possible? That is the question for today. It is not scary. It is just a wonderful feeling. There has nothing to do with him, where he is/was, who he is/was. It is just me and myself and that immense love, once being out there for this person. It came to me that way. When I read “His ears”, I have lived each sensation of that love, again. No words were exaggerated. I just love/loved that person so much.

Yes, the question is: “How could it be possible?”

There are/were so many possibilities, so many opportunities, so many aspects in everything. How could it be possible that a love of this kind exists/existed/lasts/lasted?

Can you see the difference?

It’s hard to tell if you really care

It’s hard to understand all you mean, say and do

It’s like trying to see the difference between sea and ocean, wind and storm

You are like ice and fire

But does it matter to understand why you are hot and cold?

Or it only matters to feel that heat and cold

And accept it all the way long

Like sea and ocean are just water

Wind and storm will blow my heart away

Still it is good to know if you really care

I am just a human being

What can I say?

What do you think?

Even though I live in my dreams, made up by my fantasies

Even though I extract myself from past and future to give you my present

Even though I follow and understand your reasoning and your absence

I am still a human being who breathes better with love

What can I say?

What do you think?

Of course I will be hurt

I bet it is just a matter of time

So the question is why I am still here

I am just a human being who breathes better in love

The pumpkin soup

“In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion,'” she repeats, making sure of it. If she had paper and pencil, it wouldn’t surprise me if she wrote it down. “So what does that really mean? In simple terms”
I think it over. It takes me a while to gather my thoughts, but she waits patiently.
“I think it means,” I say, “that chance encounters are what keep us going. In simple terms” (Kafka on the Shore – Haruki Murakami)

Maybe it is the color of the leaves turning these last days into a warm orange, leaving little by little the light yellow tone of the last weeks.

Maybe it is the view of some pumpkins arranged with some beautiful seasonal flowers in front of the same flower shop where I pass by every day on my way to work.

Maybe it is the smell of the huge pot of pumpkin soup in the canteen of my school, prepared by the same old lady working there since years and who only communicates with me in her dialect, which is difficult for me to fully understand but the sound of it is very familiar to me by now.

Maybe it is the combination of all these things. It brings me back to the memory of the last time I had tasted a pumpkin soup.

I had never been travelling somewhere without first having booked a hotel or a place where to sleep, or having known the address of where I was supposed to spend the night. I had accepted to come visit him, whom I had never met before. Not because I was particularly a curious or adventurous person. I had accepted the invitation because I had never been to his country, which is so close to mine and which is also famous for its beautiful landscape. Because his mails were warmhearted and his invitation sounded very genuine. I felt like I could trust him even though we had never met. I had made the trip knowing only that I was invited to stay for one night at his sister’s place. That was the only thing I had known at the time.

A few years before, in his country, there was an ugly sad story of a man who had abused his daughter and kidnapped her for years in the cellar of their house. The story was a shock and had thundered all over the world. When I told my best friend about my trip to this same country, without knowing the man with whom I had communicated through mails, my friend told me to leave him at least the name of this man. He said that with a smile. He did not particularly worry about me because deep down there was nothing to worry about. I laughed back and I told him that I would text him beyond arrival to tell him that everything was fine. He answered me: “Do you think that you would still have a phone connection in the cellar?” We both laughed and I was more than confident that I would be fine. The tone in the mails of my “pen pal” was a strong hint of his kindness. I could be wrong because we never really know a person until we really know, but I was still confident.

When we arrived at his sister’s home, she was preparing a pumpkin soup. His sister was his twin. She was beautiful and shy. Her boyfriend was there too and it was a nice coincidence: he came from where I come from. We started to joke around our own dialect. I felt at ease. I remember the smell of the pumpkin, mixed with ginger and cinnamon and some other spices. I remember she put quite a lot of spices. Then she prepared the table for us and went out for dinner with her boyfriend. It was a nice gesture to have prepared dinner. I was in the middle of the countryside, somewhere in a new country for me, in an apartment of a nice young lady who did not speak my language but who did prepare me a soup and who only smiled to me as an answer to all of my questions. The smell of the pumpkin soup started to embalm the kitchen and slowly the whole apartment. My “pen pal” opened a bottle of red wine. We spent our first evening with pumpkin soup, wine and music. Later in the evening, I told him the story of the “cellar-psychopath” and my best friend’s joke, he gave me the address of his sister. I did not text my best friend to tell him that I was fine. I did not need to know where I was. We probably finished the pumpkin soup by then. I drank one glass and a half, at most. He had to finish up the bottle instead. Then later in the night, his sister called him to ask if we were alright and to tell him that they would be back in half an hour, so that we could get dressed in case we were already undressed and might be in the middle of something. She was funny for having thought of that. It was a spontaneous thought though. Then they came back later on, she and her boyfriend. We opened another bottle of wine. We had chocolate and pistachio. She lit candles everywhere in the apart. We chatted for a while. Nice country, nice people and nice pumpkin soup.

The next day, as planned, we left her place. I was supposed to stay one day in his country. I stayed four days.

The pumpkin soup or anything related to pumpkin, even the color, always remind me of them. The twin sister-brother, she was sweet and he was spicy. She was shy. She stayed in silence but was easier to understand. He communicated but his words were enigmatic. Their country was beautiful, as beautiful as mine. Trusting his mails was a good thing. Not booking a hotel in advance was also an awesome idea, after all.

Equally good

Sometimes you are like a melody

Sometimes you are like a whole song

Sometimes you are like a paragraph

Sometimes you are like a whole book

Sometimes you are like a day

Sometimes you are like a whole year

Sometimes you are like a tiny fragment of the universe

Sometimes you are like a whole world

Sometimes you are like a friend

Sometimes you are like the love of my life

But as small things and important things

All mean the same to me

And matter the same way

You can be all or nothing

Equally good to me

As it is

The back pain

The back pain gets worse. I acknowledge the pain and don’t want to think about it anymore. I still cannot sit. So again this morning I went for a long walk. I walked uphill and just a few minutes away from my home, all these views and landscapes offered themselves to me. I would never walk that much if I did not have that back pain. So finally in every bad thing there are always some good things coming up.

The only thing with pain is it absorbs somehow all my energy. I could not think of him today. I took me long to get out of bed without feeling like torn apart inside of my back, like each nerve was broken one by one. I remembered having dreamt of him. Images were blurred. No continued story in the story. He was skinny in the dream. It was brief. When I was awake, I did not know if the pain came from the dream or from the back. But after a second, I knew that it was from my back. I had ordered myself  the end of suffering a while ago. But the dream with him still had its effect. I was impervious to emotional pain but I am not indifferent to memories.

During the walk, for a moment I stopped in front of this pond, trying to think of him. Not quite I could succeed. The back pain was stronger. 

On the way back, I took the picture of this red flower posed on someone’s fence. It was for him. I like the bright red color. Our memories are vivid. But probably in a softer color. Maybe in an old rose pink, the one of a wilted flower. 

Crossing paths

I woke up this morning with an atrocious back pain. Maybe due to the flu. Sitting is the worse option. Walking is the only way for me to feel good. The weather was on my side. After a small breakfast, I went straight to the forest not far from home. I walked, walked and walked. On my way. Some early birds strollers. A lady with her jack russell. Some couples jogging. Some couples with small kids. We always greeted each other when we crossed paths. A friendly “hello” or “morning”, a quiet smile, a quick glance. Then each one pursued his own path. Without turning his head once.

I thought of you. As usual. We crossed paths some time ago. We said hello. We stopped for a while. To talk. To share. To befriend. Somehow I just hope that we would not say “good bye”  as quickly as the people I had run into in the forest. I wish we would stay for a while, be friends for a while. I wish we would see each other again. Here or somewhere else. At any intersection of our lives. And I would always stop when I hear your steps and I hope you would too. We would cross paths again. Not by coincidence. But because we would want to.

Healing

Instead of staying in bed because of a light flu, I decided to go for a walk this afternoon. Three-hours walk by the lake. The precious sunlight of October was there. In perfect harmony with the water. Like long-time partners or close friends.

I was there. Being one with the nature. Feeling cured from the cold. Feeling especially blessed and peaceful. Thinking of him. Missing him. As an evidence.

Accepting to be one with the wonderful landscape, without him being part of it. But the beauty was still there. Complete. As an evidence too. Sending him the tenderest kiss. Sending him the purest smile. Sending him the perfection of  a deep friendship.