Waking From A Sex Sleep...
After a year of self-chosen and empowering celibacy, there came a fork in the road, but how could I ensure I took the right path?
Waking from a sex sleep, and by this, I mean a deep hibernation from the sustenance of intimacy with another, not the delicious nap after a love-making session, is an interesting time. Naturally, there was a period of exiting the cave while rubbing my eyes and trying to adjust to the light, but once acclimatised, the deep rumbling in my sexual tummy eventually made itself known. I was hungry.
Should I forage or find the best restaurant I could? I didn’t know where to start, and all the while, the socialised narrative was winding itself around my brain, asking me if I was even entitled to eat. Metaphors aside, I posed many challenging questions to myself during my gradual awakening. The first was whether a revival could occur if my sexuality didn’t even exist anymore. I wasn’t immune to the gnarly whispers that women were a lot less likely to attract a lover the older they got (this is utter bullshit, by the way). And supposedly, we’re not meant to want one anyway.
The first inkling that the journey had begun occurred on a turbulent flight from London to Naples. I was in an aisle seat, and my trigger-happy flying phobia was sensing imperceptible changes in the turbulence levels, which accurately heralded a period of shaking about in the sky as we flew over a mountain range. The sexy young Italian beside me noticed my body language and asked if I was okay. I confessed my fear of flying, particularly turbulence, to which he proffered his hand, saying I could hold it if I wanted. At that point, the girl, the maiden, and the crone all smiled to themselves, all for slightly different reasons. But the overriding response from my psyche was, “Oh, I wish…but it is impossible, so just be cool if you can’t be sexy.” (ouch) This is the sort of self-talk that ensures we align with outdated paradigms around female age and sexuality.
It was a beautiful interaction, full of kindness and regard and agelessness. His doctorate in jet engines helped talk me down from anxiety ledges, and I reciprocated with a lesson in meditation, which was slightly ironic given my inability to medicate my flight anxiety with it. I did not perceive attraction or lust in either of us, but I knew it was the beginning of my questioning about what happens next in a woman’s sexual life.
From Naples, I drove into the mountains of the Amalfi Coast to a village called Bomerano. Over the next fortnight, mainly through writing, I continued my exploration of self in the garden of my bed and breakfast.
It was so, so hot, and while revealing my body to the sun, it became apparent that my relationship with this vessel needed some attention. An intense discomfiture arises when confronted inadvertently by a rejected body part, and it was during one of these episodes I began to understand how much we ignore the parts of our bodies that we don’t like. I realised I didn’t just want to examine these opinions and attitudes towards myself; I wanted to transcend them. An overwhelming desire to look at me and genuinely love every last inch of my flesh blasted into my heart and mind. But this isn’t possible without staring the beast of self-hate down, letting the whole experience move through so we know exactly what we don’t want in our lives anymore.
Most women don’t love their bodies. We like certain parts of our bodies but fucking hate other parts, and I didn’t want to be a prisoner of this mindset anymore. And if we’re not loving our bodies, there is no way we can expect anyone else to, and even if they do, that love won’t reach us through our despising.
But it’s not easy. Wanting to and doing it are not the same thing, but one does lead to the other. Negative self-talk is like any habit that needs breaking and requires commitment. There is a little bit of faking it until you make it, but that’s okay because every time you tell yourself in the mirror how much you love your saggy belly, you’ll be shifting the dial down on the destructive self-belief. Our gloriously flawed flesh is getting us from one end of our lives to the other. How lucky are we!
There in the garden, my transformation continued as I tentatively held my breasts and belly in my hands and started to love them more. The awareness of how much we are hindered and ultimately controlled by the investment of hate grew. Deep down, I knew I would only become the goddess I was always meant to be if I unlocked the chains that inhibited my potential. This was only going to happen with an endless supply of self-love.
Part of my process included an early evening ritual of getting ready to stroll up to the village square to immerse in the quiet hum of people waking from their siestas. I would face the mirror and stroke the places that screamed to be hated, then dress them lovingly in whatever helped me feel slightly more delicious. At times, it was excruciating, and I would breathe through the pain of my conditioning. Half-forgotten but powerfully directive phrases would flutter into consciousness, trying to remind me that I wasn’t worthy of life’s riches, that they weren’t my legacy. Fuck that. One of the ways I would respond to this affront would be to swagger purposefully as I walked the cobbled streets. It was hugely empowering, and I recommend trying it. It is the simplest exercise, but watch what happens to how you feel about your body; notice the sensual fluttering between your hips as you move them exaggeratedly (or not) from side to side.
I still had a way to go, but I knew in my soul that I was on the right path. I was on a journey towards something that was always intended: that we adore the hell out of ourselves. It makes sense. Hating could not possibly be part of the design…think about it because it’s too obvious to ignore once you do.
I know the cosmetic industry is largely built on the back of this hate and is invested in perpetuating it, but this is not an anti-cosmesis diatribe; it is far from it. Part of our rebuild is about identifying changes we want to make in our appearance, and it can be anything from surgery to injections and tattooing. But those decisions must be made based on the foundation of being our own best friend. If we are driven by viewing our bodies as the enemy, no amount of enhancing our physicality will do anything but move the obsession to a different location.
I know I’m not saying anything that any reader doesn’t already know on some level. The challenge is shifting from knowing to doing.
The last part of the Bomerano chapter included taking myself out for a romantic date. I had found a fancy restaurant in an ancient stone building covered in ivy while exploring the village earlier in the week and decided to treat myself. I put on a beautiful green linen dress with a plunging neckline and went through the battle of deciding whether to fasten the ‘modesty’ clasp. My current weight and breast size were objects of disdain by the hateful fairy perched on my shoulder, “…you’re too old…too big…too fucking too…” she would taunt. I decided not to listen to them and let the girls finally come up for air. I took a few selfies to show the world how beautiful I felt and sauntered my hips up to the restaurant. I was met by a suite of hospitality staff whose sole objective was for me to have the best date ever. I did. I could feel myself healing as I dined, sitting quietly with myself and enjoying the sexiest food ever.
The maître d’ was attentive in a way that I missed at the time because I hadn’t gotten to the part where I was visualising another person’s interest in me. He fumbled and stuttered endearingly as he handed me the restaurant’s business card after I had finished dinner and told me the cell phone number on it was his. “I love what you’re doing,” he said by way of an explanation for his interest and meant my solo travelling. I wasn’t attracted to him, but I felt intense gratitude and admiration for his heart at that moment. I kept the card and tucked it next to the memory of the young Italian guy on the flight to Naples. It was as though I was following the signs towards my resurrection.
The journey didn’t end there. It had only just begun. I was standing at the fork in the road and was slowly heading towards the “Juicy” signpost; I just hadn’t realised it yet. There was a long, arduous pilgrimage in Spain to come and a road trip with a couple of girlfriends that would make sure I indeed chose the right path for me. But first, I had to confront the tiring belief that I was ‘over the hill’. Mark my words, you and I are NOT over the hill. The sex sleep is temporary…and sating the hibernation hunger is another essay.
Be willing to surrender your “story” to open the way for a new one.
Kate Messenger
Thank you, I loved reading this!!!