Sunday, 5 August 2012

VIII. Too hot to handle

I went soaring off the cliff of reality in my last entry. Carried away by the evocation of unrequited love and sexual possesiveness. My feelings were not consistently so strong for my coveted virtual counterpart but I suppose I slipped my toe in that water at times. I also chose to keep him at a distance, and to use the strength and intense energy that I was able to muster by thinking of him as a catalyst to launch my exodus from my under water marriage. My muse, and I told him so. I moulded him to perfection, to give me power. I was a creative genius in my contruction, my fabrication. But love? No, love requires flesh and attachment.

I need a different fuel now. Or I need to remove the need for fuel. Tap my own fire, integrate my parts, stop thinking that I am alone encased in this skin that grows more flimsy with each day. Be at peace, alive, a gradually evolving, dissolving, remoulding part of this earth.

I went out dancing Friday evening, fired up a little on alcohol and anger.

A man I know whispered in a reverrant tone to me on the dance floor that I was too hot to handle. An awkward phrase delivered in a drunken haze but I was pleased nonetheless with this. I think I have a marauding inner vixen who hungers for every man to fall at her feet and declare their besottedness. BUt the more gracious side of me, who wants to inspire people with her shows of kindness and love, doesn't believe I should desire that kind of attention. Not because of shame of my sexual nature, but because what I seek is power over another individual, to elevate myself, through sexual seduction. To fill some sort of dark void within my soul. To be needed, to be an essential element of the universe. To be greedy for ownership of the hearts of men. To fuel my childish ego.

But hush now, vixen, I want to enjoy expressing my sexuality without having to become the seductress that harms.

Perhaps I'm castigating myself unecessarily. Perhaps it's the years spent living with a judgemental person that has caused me to doubt what is merely natural. I talk about having two sides to myself - the sexy vixen and the heroine of good heart. Why can't these be integrated? Meshed. Interwoved into a striking pattern of femininity.

Woman in Western culture are taught from a young age that they should make attempts at desirable. I rebelled against this in my university years, following my understanding of a feminist ethos. Made myself as unattractive as possible refusing to shave my legs, wearing torn camouflage pants, demanding to be judged by my intellect. It was my very own version of a Burqa, with a different set of cultural implications. A sartorial rebellion. But then motherhood came along and wreaked some havoc on my body and I lost any pride in the way I looked. Became invisible to the eyes of men, and this time, not by choice. It was, surprisingly, hard to take, and not assisted by the overwhelming return of my sexual drive once my babies became young children, and my increasing resentment of my husband, who I hid my sexual self from, less he ridicule me.

And I did not like it. Rightly or wrongly, I craved a lustful gaze. So I fought my way back. Trained harder than I ever had before. Watched what I ate. Learned what make up was for and fell in love with dresses. Reached to be beautiful, desirable. Too hot to handle.

No comments:

Post a Comment