Avoid the idea of “an affair”

It was an illusion for her to think that she wanted to see him because she just physically desired him and wanted to see him. She hadn’t seen him for a while. The pandemic situation was not conducive to meeting and reuniting. They had tried to see each other several times after their weekend in the mountains. This was not happening. Perhaps because of a lack of will. But the desire was still there. They did not live in the same city. Perhaps this factor had also contributed to the difficulty of organizing a meeting.


He was very free in the early years of their relationship. Then his children came to live with him. Reunions became rarer. They tried to meet each other somewhere else than where they lived. But this was not always easy. When restaurants reopened between the two lockdowns, they could see each other for dinner, but she could no longer sleep at his place after dinner because of the presence of the children. Then the restaurants closed down again and they had no solution. Those long dinners when they knew they could not spend the night together, when they spent the whole dinner touching each other and kissing.


One day, they took the afternoon off. She had booked a hotel in the center. A nice hotel, yet deserted because of the confinement. He came to join her in the middle of the afternoon. He looked tired. His hair was even longer. He was wearing the same jeans he had at the last meeting. He had called her at the reception and he gave his name. She picked him up at the reception. They were wearing masks and they couldn’t kiss each other. When they got to the room, he hugged her for at least five minutes. She caressed his hair. The same gray, rebellious hair that she loved so much. He looked at the room and its arrangement. He talked about the architecture of the room, the use of concrete and the transparent shower. He thought the room was well decorated. Then he got into bed and undress. He asked her to join him. She undressed too. But she kept her underwear on. They made love for an hour. Their bodies were sweaty. The kisses. The whispers. Moaning. The screams. The caresses. The hugs. The two bodies embraced to become one. The hands grabbed the bodies. Fingers sought the lips. An hour of pleasure. Or can we say one hour of love.


They didn’t talk much. It seemed like they had used all their energy for sex. He had asked her if she was happy. She replied that the sex lasted longer than usual. He protested with a slight sneer, it lasted longer at times. She thought in her head that maybe it was with someone else. Not with her. But she didn’t say anything to him. His body was filled with desire for her for an hour. Tense with desire. As if all his muscles were made to give her pleasure, every part of her body.


She hadn’t asked him anything about his children. She had felt that he didn’t want to talk about them. She hadn’t asked him about anything at all. She had never asked about anything in two years. His wife separated but not divorced. In the same city, not in the same city. Maybe even she was in the same city that afternoon. He didn’t feel like sharing anything. She didn’t feel like asking.


The hotel restaurant was deserted. People don’t travel anymore because of the Covid. They were alone in this hotel. He could not stay the night because the children were waiting for him. He asked her if she was going to stay and enjoy the hotel’s spa and the gym. She answered yes. She had chosen a hotel with a gym because the gyms were closed.


When he was gone, she continued to work a little. It was the first time they had only been in a hotel for a few hours and only for sex. It was the first time she had been in a hotel for only a few hours for sex with a man. It was the first time she didn’t spend the night with him after sex. It was the first time he didn’t cook dinner and they didn’t watch Netflix after sex. It was the first time they spoke so little to each other. It was the first time they made love for so long.


She decided to leave the hotel and go home and not spend the night at the hotel. The idea of eating in a restaurant empty of customers during the Covid depressed her. She wanted to see him, she wanted to have sex with him, it was her idea to meet in a hotel. It was an illusion to think that she only wanted sex with him so much. Their story had never seemed to her to be just “an affair”, even though she was always very certain that he has never been an available man, precisely because they had never seen each other in a hotel just to have sex. It was an experience to understand that she didn’t want to meet him just for sex. She wanted to avoid the idea of an affair with a man who was not available. The meeting in a hotel, the sex in a hotel were symbolic of being in an affair. For a thousand of men and women who are not free. Whatever the situation, she wanted to experience some semblance of a situation that would allow her to believe that he was free. The rest didn’t matter. Whatever form their relationship would take. The idea of being in an affair never pleased her. Lovers. Friends. Mates. But not an affair. She just wanted an illusion of not being an affair. 

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”.

Ultimate surrender

What would be more erotic than a platonic moment taken to extremes?

They are there.

Legs and arms crossed

A reasonable distance.

Silence of their mouths.

Imperceptible sounds in their eyes.

No touching.

No smiling.

No laughing

“Don’t move”.

Frozen time.

They push their desires

to an extreme monastic situation.

Hardly they breathe.

When would she succumb?

When would he surrender?

Explosive latent tension.

“What would be your solution for us?”

He asks.

She stays in silence.

One last deep look from him.

He now closes his eyes.

Only an angelic face remains.

He stays immobile.

Checkmate for her.

She leans forward

Posing a kiss on his blond curl

Another one on his forehead

Then slowly gets down to his lips.

His eyes still closed

He catches her between his legs.

She gives up

Like a trapped animal.

Not a wounded one.

A domesticated one.


Subway station Harajuku – exit West Omedosanto, 6pm, in front of a well-known department store. He thought I could not get lost as Harajuku is a small subway station with only few exits. He was there five minutes ahead, I was there on time. That rainy and windy evening.  He looked young and jovial. He suggested we went for a dim-sum dinner in a restaurant nearby.

He told me he had been in Tokyo for exactly a year. Every day he had Japanese class and he was learning some kind of traditional therapy called “seitai”. He took a sabbatical year and travelled to Japan. What surprised me a lot was his enthusiasm. He laughed easily. Maybe it was because we spoke the same language in a foreign country. We talked about our mountains, our traditional food, what we liked and disliked in our country. It was obvious we were immediately connected and the feeling of belonging to the same culture was exacerbated because we were abroad.  It was easy to talk to him. I come from a big city back home, him a tiny town. He possessed the authenticity of people living in a small town. He was forthright, his words were simple. He immediately found me a little unconventional.

It was still raining when we got out of the restaurant. I laughed at him because he had a white transparent and womanish umbrella. He told me not to make fun of him that quick, me and my black common umbrella. He explained to me that in Tokyo, with thousands of people walking towards you under a windy rain, the only way to avoid bumping into them was to use a see-through umbrella. I understood what he meant when I tried to walk against the wind with a black umbrella in a horizontal position a few minutes after that. We had our first big laugh.

He insisted in bringing me to a small sake bar somewhere in Shibuya. He got lost and we cut through some dark small streets bordered with all these “love hotels”. The colorful signs flashed between “Rest for 70 yens – two hours” or “Stay for 100 yens – the whole night”. Love costs in Tokyo. It took us more than half an hour to find the bar owned by a young couple, two punks with red hair and piercings. The marathon of sake started. We seemed to laugh more. And at times, I just wondered if it was good that he could laugh that much because of what I told him. The traditional type of ideal woman might not be a “clown” type in front of a guy. But never mind. The taste of sake was sweet as that of the plum liquor. I was sober. I remembered saying to myself that Japanese alcohol was not strong enough and I could go on like this all night. Yet I did not remember when I decided that he was charming and that I could like him. I did not know if I was his type. Anyway, it was not the purpose of the evening, checking who is whose type. We got back to the subway station around midnight. We said goodbye in the train, he got out two stations before me. Suddenly and very quickly he asked: “Could we see each other tomorrow evening again, your last evening in Tokyo?” I had enough time to answer: “Hum…yes, maybe, ok, I will call you?” He was already out of the train; he looked at me and the wagon pulling away. I did not have his phone number.

The next day, I canceled my plan for the evening. I dropped him a word by mail. Same time, same subway station, he was there before me. He took me to another neighborhood and we discovered together a new restaurant, some picturesque lanes, some small streets and again some bars. I have to admit: there were two key moments to this encounter. These moments, which may seem totally insignificant to other persons, appear to me as crucial as it could be. Though I have to confess the way I determine when and how these moments become essential is totally hazardous. I have no precise criteria. I go for a feeling, something I get to grab emotionally at the moment. Details can suddenly become important and mean everything, in just a second. It is the moment where I feel like my whole life or my perspective of life could tumble completely. It could be a physical detail, a simple gesture or maybe a right word placed in a right sentence.

This time, in Nagano, in this small restaurant, something of that kind happened, a detail caught my attention. At the end of the dinner, he had meticulously cleaned the table and solemnly put away all the dirty dishes. Then he handed them out to the waitress, with two hands. Like a ritual. In a few minutes, I found myself in front of a bright, clean table. I don’t know why but there was something touching about this act, the way he executed this task, it was as if it had been entrusted to him by an important person and he needed to perfectly execute it and not to disappoint the other person. I observed his seriousness and conscientiousness. It was very particular. The same way of how he controls his body. With this same meticulous manner. I had never seen someone who had such a perfect straight posture when sitting or walking.  There was something powerful about his gestures and body. A posture of a ballet dancer.

One magical moment after another, I found myself in Harajuku, in his apartment located in an upscale neighborhood of Tokyo. I was pretty sure that it was not a typical apartment because it was way too spacious for the Tokyo standard. Things happened very naturally as if we had known each other for a life time. He gave me a T-shirt, mentioning that it was the smallest one he could find in his closet. Then he handed to me a bath towel, a toothbrush and a tooth paste. Very often when we think of the adventures of one night, we associate them with the act of sex itself. It could be good, great, fabulous; it could be bad, catastrophic. Usually we think more about the act and its performance than the rest when it comes to a one-night stand. As we were there most likely for sex. Most of the times, we don’t give importance to this kind of experience/adventure afterwards either. For me it was also the same. I am no difference. But not that time. I was in a whole different dimension.

The next morning, indefinable, intangible. Yet so real and true. We made love again, with more laughs, more tenderness, more kisses in a kind of urgent needs. Our desires held us in emergency. We had given it all out. And we had taken it all back too. We had very few minutes left. Everything was sweet and sober, then fiery and impetuous. Never clinical, never fake.  It was not one of those awkward mornings when all you want to do is to escape. I climbed on his back. We stayed naked in this position for a while. We wanted to stay longer like that. I was the one who had to get out of bed first. My departure from Tokyo imminent. My flight was in less than 6 hours. I had not packed yet.

Then right there another detail that I would never forget. The second key moment of this encounter. Walking out of the apartment, he had held my hand firmly the whole time and had never let it go. His energic hold seemed to express his desires to keep me a little bit longer with him. In the elevator, then in the streets until we arrived at the subway station, he squeezed my hand stronger and stronger. I felt dizzy. It was very hot and humid. Tokyo seemed foggy but more romantic than ever. At the time, I thought he would be a very well-educated man. He was surprisingly courteous, especially for a « next morning » situation. I did not know if his manners and politeness were learned in Japan where people seem to be raised to serve and to be extremely polite or he was just born that way. I never had a chance to get to know the truth.

There were no good-bye kisses. In Japan, people don’t kiss in public places. At the time, I thought he would mention that to avoid kissing me. Later on, one Japanese acquaintance confirmed me the fact. He told me he would go back home for good in a few weeks and probably we should meet again. This information was left out the whole time we were together. I was confused. I did not remember having answered his question; the subway’s door had already closed on us. I had no particular thought. I ran back to the hotel, packed quickly and took the bus to the airport. I avoided thinking. Sometimes it’s better not to think. Memories and thoughts are good friends of nostalgia and melancholy.

From Harajuku, I have kept the mosquitoes’ bites. There were some that night.

From Tokyo, I have kept the fragrance of the man of Harajuku, his sweetness and stylish manners. Two days later, waking up in my bed, I remembered that day was his birthday; he had mentioned it to me. I wished him a happy birthday in my thoughts. It was my closure for the Harajuku magic.