Rather than focusing on the anxiety-producing "what if..."s in that time, I wrote a poem to shift my focus to another kind of "what if." I began to wonder what would happen if "what if" were an invitation rather than a roadblock.
*****
Intimacy
I am more akin to a Pablo Neruda poem1
than a Georgia O'Keeffe painting.2
I am full and fleshly.
My genitals do not look like a flower.
What if my partner does not like the way I look?
...the way I smell?
...the way I taste?
(What if I end up judging myself by the standards of church culture rather than the standards of the divine?)
What if these "what ifs" do not matter?
What if I open myself completely to whatever the moment holds?
What if I invite my partner to see in me that which I see in myself?
That I am beautiful, lovely, and worthy.
That I am powerful and mighty.
That I am tender and soft-hearted.
That I am the best there is
and I share myself freely with my partner
as a gift.
Never to be diminished
in either the offering or accepting.
Because I am still wholly me:
tender and soft-hearted
powerful and mighty
beautiful, lovely, and worthy.
*****
It was hard and somewhat painful when, after a lot of work went into re-writing the script in my head, my potential sexual partner bowed out at the very last minute.
Still, I decided to carry the confidence of invitation with me moving forward, trusting that even if I never again considered the possibility of having sex with another person, I could still invite people into my presence, space, and life in a way that is hospitable and joyous.
This is the best decision I've ever made, though it took a very long time and an intense breaking to help me to live more fully into this reality.
Somehow, though, the insecurities always creep back in.
I returned from my business trip yesterday. A trip that was much harder than I had anticipated due to the way my body responded to sex with Doc. I spent the second day of that trip trying to work through pain and when I finally had a moment to myself, I was bent over double, tears streaming down my face, unable to walk, stand, or sit without feeling like I was going to die. It was the most intense pain I've experienced.
Because of his size and the positioning, Doc's penis had struck my cervix leading to nausea and uterine cramps. This was not entirely unexpected, as it's happened with other partners in the past, but I expected it to clear up within 8-12 hours. Instead, it intensified to the point that 36 hours later I was on point of asking someone to take me an emergency room because I simply could not function.
Thankfully, after a shower and crawling into bed to lie on my side and cry for a few hours, my uterus finally calmed down. This, however, made me determined to seek out an honest conversation with my health care practitioner because I'm kind of pissed at my uterus.
I don't want every sexual encounter with Doc to be carefully choreographed. I want to make love with abandon. Don't get me wrong, I love and want negotiations, but I don't want every encounter to be undergirded by fear about whether or not I'm going to be capable of functioning physically tomorrow because I've chosen to have emotionally satisfying sex today.
Having determined to make my sexual health a priority and feeling better, I enjoyed the remainder of my trip.
When I returned home, Doc picked me up at the airport.
I don't know if it's related to my low cervix, crampy uterus, painful intercourse experiences, but suddenly, I was terrified to see Doc. Actually, terrified isn't the right word. Or maybe it is. I'm not sure how to qualify my emotional experience at the anticipation of seeing Doc again.
I do know that I was suddenly feeling a great deal of body shame. In truth, I'm quite a beautiful woman. I have excellent bone structure, gorgeous hair, and lovely eyes. My features are well proportioned and I like the way they work together.
But, I'm overweight. My body carries the scars of years of morbid obesity. My skin looks similar to a balloon that has been inflated to the point just shy of spontaneously bursting and then deflated until all you see is stretched rubber and flaccid wrinkly surface.
Doc is amazing. He's passionate and kind and generous and respectful and considerate. Doc knew I'd be traveling all Sunday, and so he planned to have dinner ready for me when we got back to his house after my trip was over. Despite the fact that my plane landed around 10:30 and then I had to pick up my checked bag, making it near 11:00PM before I saw him again, Doc chose to postpone his own dinner so he could eat with me. And dinner was delicious.
Doc communicates clearly and openly. He answers my questions honestly even when it's awkward for me to ask and it's awkward for him to answer. Doc listens when I speak and he does not judge. Doc treats me in a way that leaves me feeling cared for, cherished, delighted in, respected. Doc treats me like a human being with agency. Doc has expressed his belief that being treated like a human being with agency should not be impressive; it should be an everyday experience!
And Doc is intentional about respecting my boundaries and allowing me to lead in areas where he does not know what the boundary might be. Doc is happy to let me initiate intimate contact so that we are both clear that I am giving enthusiastic consent and not feeling pressured or unable to say no. Doc is willing to take it as slowly as I need.
When I told Doc that I appreciate all of this and that further, I was offering him blanket consent for the evening for any activity he wanted to pursue, Doc simply delighted in touching my body, worshipping my every infinity, margin, river and village with his eyes, hands, and mouth. The expression on his face told me that he genuinely enjoys touching me, kissing me, teasing me - not because he's intentionally building the aching need for him, but because he really just enjoys my body.
When Doc and I did make love, we found a position that may require a bit more work. We found a position that was pleasurable but awkward. We found a position that was so intensely powerful I'm rather amazed the sheets did not catch fire.
Though historically, missionary position has been an intimate position that was pleasurable and in which my partner's penis did not strike my cervix, it is the position in which Doc's penis strikes my cervix and leaves me incapable of functioning.
Though historically doggy-style has been my favorite position, it has also been the position most likely to lead to my partner striking my cervix. Not so with Doc. Doggy-style with Doc is hot and passionate and frenzied and our bodies are perfectly matched. As he hammered into me from behind, his testicles pounding my clit, Doc gripping my hips, digging his fingers into my back, biting my buttocks, I began to stroke my clit and when I came I couldn't help but scream with the intensity of my release.
And when we were done, we collapsed in a heap. And then, we did it again before collapsing into a heap again and finally drifting to sleep.
When the cats woke us in the morning, Doc fed them and then rejoined me in bed to cuddle. Once he kissed me, I couldn't keep my hands off of him.
I asked Doc to get a condom and if he was okay with it, could we please try missionary again, but I'd need him to thrust really, really slowly, and maybe a bit shallow. Doc was willing to do that, and he began to thrust into me as we kissed, touched, held hands with our finger entwined. It was exactly what I wanted in that moment, this intimate expression of care.
When I felt fully satisfied with our exchange, when I felt that I had everything I had needed in that moment I said to Doc, "If you need something different, I'm okay with that."
"Are you okay? Is it painful?" he asked, concerned that we'd crossed the line of what my body could handle.
"No," I said with joy. "This is good, it's exactly what I wanted, I'm satisfied. I want to make sure you're satisfied and your needs are met as well. So, if you need more, I'm okay with that."
"I'm just enjoying this," he told me. "I'll need more eventually but right now, I'm really enjoying this." When Doc was ready for more, he let me know. I rolled over and he took me from behind again. It was just as good as the first two times.
When we were finished, we curled up again in bed until we had to get up and get ready for the day.
This was a hard exchange for me.
I am not shy around Doc. I do not feel a need to hide. I have no problems stripping naked before him and allowing him to see every part of me in full light.
But I am ashamed of my body in other ways. I am ashamed of my body as an instrument of Doc's pleasure, because I want to offer him the best. I want to give him more. I want my body to be perfect and beautiful because Doc is a good man, a kind man, a man of integrity. Doc deserves the absolute best in life and in many ways, I think who I am and what I have to offer him is the best.
But I also know that my body is less than. Less than the best. Less than perfect. Less than beautiful. Less than lovely. Less than worthy of the way he worships it because it is less than good enough.
So, I go back. I go back to the work I did that allowed me to be ready to have sex in the first place. I go back to the work I did to accept that I am exactly as I am - and I am good. I go back to the work I did to accept that who I am is far more valuable than what I look like.
1. Neruda, Pablo. Sonnet 12, 1959.
2. O'Keeffe, Georgia. White and Blue Flower Shapes, 1919.
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