Jealousy: My Hot New Friend

Photo by Melissa Adret

Originally posted December 27, 2012

View this article on elephantjournal.com

“Do those ruffles have ridges?” squealed the blonde, 20-something hippie chick, indicating my lover’s shirt.

“Why don’t you take a look,” he said, presenting his chest for her to slip her fingers over the scarlet fabric.

“Ugh,” I thought.

It was a crisp, crackling night at the Symbiosis Festival at Pyramid Lake, Nevada. The shimmery water reflected the moonlight and neon LEDs. The air pulsed with a blend of beats. The earth hummed with dancing festival-goers and Paiute ghosts. We were approximately 18 hours before a total solar eclipse. I could not have asked for a more breathtaking landscape to share an evening with the man I loved.

Except I had to deal with this crap.

I mean really? My heart was wide open and he had the balls (or the stupidity) to flirt with this vapid little tart in front of me?

OK, OK. I did yoga. I believed in open relationships. I read Byron Katie. I should have just felt loving compassion for them and recognized my own insecurity and judgment rising to the surface, right?

So why was I so mind-splinteringly jealous?

An electric fireball ball rose to my throat.

When he came back to me, I couldn’t hold back. I felt hurt that he could have taken his attention off of me—even if only for a moment. I felt selfish for wanting him all to myself. I felt stupid for allowing such a petty little thing to crush my heart. Shouldn’t I have been above all this by now?

No. I was not.

I pulled out one of my lethal feminine ninja tricks.

“You can go back over there if you want.”

What a fucking lie. There was no way I wanted this man more than two feet away from me. In fact, my whole body ached to crawl on top of him, wrap my legs around his thick, furry torso and crush him. Consume him. I wanted every broken piece of MAN inside of me.

“No, I want to stay with you,” he replied.

Good answer.

We headed out into the night. He stopped, lingering to take in some art. In vain, he rallied to try to get me to enjoy it, but my hunger cracked the ‘good girl face’ I had plastered on.

“No,” I thought. I didn’t want to look at any stupid art or analyze my stupid fears or process our stupid feelings.

Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy…dear God! What was this all about? Why couldn’t I just let go?

The moment I got curious with her, she spoke.

“Desire.”

Specifically, unspoken desire. Kept inside, it would kill me. Anger and resentment would boil to a toxic brew, destroying everything that mattered to me. But revealed, it would fuel my transformation.

“I want to go back to camp. Now.”

Orgasm trumped all.

Inside the tent, I straddled him. My burning pussy lips wrapped around his cock. My forehead pressed to his. Deep, full wanting rose over me. I desired to both suck him inside of me and to be totally consumed by him.

“Get on top.”

He obeyed. His hair and heaviness annihilated me. I opened my mouth to taste the salty wetness of his skin. My nails dug deeper. A low-pitched scream tore from my throat. I brought his face to mine, biting his lower lip. I enslaved this man with my trembling limbs and held on as the force of blinding orgasm seared our flesh together.

A whispered ‘damn’ was all that remained.

Thank you jealousy for reminding me of my hunger.

Thank you jealousy for connecting me to my power.

Thank you jealousy for being my hot new friend who demands no less than the fullest expression of my deepest desire.

Happy OM-iversary: The Terrible Twos

La Vague Violette, Georges Lacombe

Originally published February 11, 2012

I feel like I am going out of my mind right now. Truly bonkers. Climbing out of my skin, bloodying my nails, ready to scream and looking for anything, anything, to deaden the intensity of this sensation: food, cock, wine, Facebook, TV, picking a fight, obsessive cyber-stalking, inert-your-checkout-vice-here.

On the verge of tears. Can’t make a decision. My feelings get hurt at every turn (even though I try to play it off like I am so caring and understanding). And here comes the entitlement. The anger. The bitchiness. And a splashy cameo by the Princess (or is she really front and center?).

Two years to the day. Two goddammed years doing this crazy stroking practice and I feel like it's only just now that I have begun to lean against the membrane that surrounds my hunger…and everything catches my attention and whets my appetite like the smell of freshly baking bread (or is that sizzling raw meat?).

What. The Fuck. Is Going On?

I ask for what I want. I get it. I get angry. I deserved more, asshole—didn’t you know?

I ask for what I want. I don’t get it. I get angry. Fuck you.

I feel your resentment (or is it mine?). I get angry. Go away from me.

I want. A lot. And I want that to be ok. Why is it not ok? Don’t warn me against greed or consumption or that I am setting myself up for samsaric suffering (please, spare me the self-righteous bullshit, thank you very much. Your greed to collect income in the spiritual bank is just as comparable to my carnal hunger).

Who is this person I am fighting with? Of course, the obvious answer is myself. Yes, yes, yes…like a good little coach I “inquire” and “take responsibility.” I see all the faults and fears and scarcity in others and project all my shit all over that. Where am I saying YES when I mean NO? Where I am giving in to unspoken requests, when deep in my heart they are not in alignment with my integrity? Where I am acquiescing as opposed to surrendering?

But as a real live human woman, I just want. So very much. And the most pressing question in my mind is “What do I want?”

I was originally thinking of calling this post “The Sex I Want,” because I was feeling confused and hurt and angry about my sexual hunger. Was I craving sex to fill a void, which will ultimately leave me undernourished and depleted? Or was there really a desire to intimately connect and express. I think it’s a little of both. And there was this overwhelming shame that came with wanting more. More than 2 OMs a day. More than sex twice a week. And once that faucet started to turn on, a whole flood of other desires started to flow. Beyond the sex (which was just the catalyst). Into the shoes I want. The clothes I want. The acting roles I want. The money I want. The job I want. The car I want. The travel I want. The writing I want. The awards I want. The glamour I want. The beauty I want. The people I want. The freedom I want. The life I want.

So…this is the process of “turning on.” I get flooded with energy (orgasm). My system comes alive. And what no longer serves me comes to the surface like salt in a wound. All the ways I played small so as not to acknowledge that very dangerous appetite. And then comes all the anger I feel for playing that game. Oh God…I don’t want to see that. And then, my poor little body (which isn’t used to this much activation) tries to do anything to expel this energy.

Growing pains. It hurts to expand out. To break through the old armor and feel the raw, exposed nerves and tender flesh of something so well-hidden that I feel too humiliated to share it. Not knowing anything anymore. Not knowing what’s right. Having really no clue what the future holds for me. Just sitting here with an unbearable ache and no way to find relief.

Just sit. Just sit. Just. Sit.

I could search around for the some lame piece of self-help advice. Some momentary aphorism that may inspire me for the moment. Post it on Facebook. Secretly hope all my friends like it and think what a cool person I am.

Or I can just be here and listen to the quiet little voice in me that has one simple message: Live your life.

Huh? That’s not very comforting. But on some level, it’s the only true thing that exists right now. There is nothing to figure out or fix. No map or plan or prediction that is going to make it easier. It’s only through simply living my life and cultivating a relationship with all that arises—the fear, the confusion, the pain, the joy, the love, the heartbreak, the rejection, the surprise, the anger, the hunger, the magic—that I will come any closer to knowing what I want. If that even matters anymore. What if trying to “know” anything is in and of itself an attempt at triggering the pressure release valve?

Just live my life. It feels so simple. A moment-by-moment fumbling in the hot, blind, wet cave of my wanting. And in that one stroke, I suddenly feel just how very sexy this place is. This void. This empty hole. This cavern wanting very, very skilled penetration—to cut through the briars of my NO into the aching warmth of my YES.

My heart is racing. My genitals pulse. My belly is swollen. My breath is slow and deep. I feel the cool wood of the floor against my tingling feet. I feel…alive.

OK, Orgasm. You win. Gratitude washes over me and I suddenly know that I am capable—more than capable—of holding this and so much more.

This is the process. The alchemy. Orgasm in. The fire burns. The pain. The fighting. The acceptance. The surrender. The insight. The gratitude. The expansion. The love. The pouring out. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Two years—a lesson in unbearable patience. I’ve been hungry for so long that the moment I see something that remotely resembles nourishment, I clamp down on it and I want it all for me right now. A vicious cycle of feast or famine. Now the work for me is to simply sit. Sit in the hunger, trust that she is loved and will be fed and that with the passing storms, the next right thing will appear in time.

And breathe. Always remember to breathe.