Happy Birthday

Today is the day that we celebrate you

You, whom I love
You, whom I long to have
You, whom I need to survive

Today is the day that we sing your praises

Your beauty that only increases over time
Your charm that makes everyone who meets you, love you
Your strength that envelops everyone around you, protecting us

Today is the day we express our gratitude

For caring for us
For tolerating us
For loving us

Today is the day we tell you how happy we are that you exist

My Bliss

My bliss is in the connection to her
In watching her
In touching her
In texting her

My bliss is making her smile
Making her shiver
Making her exhale
Making her moan

Resisting one’s bliss requires effort
Like fighting addiction
Like running uphill
Like hiding from your pain

But she needs space
She needs me to let her be
So she can recharge
So she can love me the way I love her

And so I do that

But giving her space
Is resisting my bliss
And resisting my bliss
Is exhausting

When it comes to her
The hardest thing
I will ever do
Is nothing

Cuddling

“See?” she asked.
“Wasn’t it nice to just cuddle this morning?”

Wasn’t it nice?
To press our bodies together,
To share our warmth,
To match our breathing,
To connect our chakras

Wasn’t it nice?
To rest my lips against her neck,
To taste her skin,
To smell her hair,
To hear her pulse

Wasn’t it nice?
To nestle my hand between her breasts,
To feel the curve of her flesh in my fingers,
To feel the hot, wet cleavage against my thumb,
To feel the weight of her femininity against the back of my hand

Wasn’t it nice?
To press my thighs against hers,
To feel myself tumescent, pinched in a crevasse,
To sense each tiny tremor as though it were an earthquake,
To slowly bleed in anticipation

Wasn’t it nice?
To raise an army,
To set the front,
To plan the battle,
To turn, and walk away

“Yes, dear,” I reply.
“It was lovely.”

Love is Anesthesia

We all have pain
Pain from the past
Pain from the present
Internal pain

And sometimes we need to deal with the pain
Root out the cause
Fix it

But sometimes you can’t

Sometimes it is what it is
You are doing your best
But the pain is just going to be there

Maybe the fix is worse than the pain

And when that is the case
You can use love as anesthesia

Just losing yourself in love
Feeling it throughout
Reveling in it

When all you feel is love
It is impossible to feel pain
The two feelings are incompatible
And love will always dominate

The love comes from within you
Like endorphins, you can conjure the anesthesia on your own
But if you can be bathed in the love of another
That is like a double dose

But the problem with anesthesia
Is it isn’t a fix
And you must not forget that
Because the love is what keeps the pain at bay

It isn’t a fix
But perhaps it can be a solution
Because feeling love
Losing yourself in love
Reveling in love

That’s always something you can do

Leap of Faith

I’m falling.

I’ve been falling for a while now.

It’s what happens after you leap.

When you are young and stupid, you leap easily.
Without thought.

And then it happens. You land. Ungracefully.
You smash into pieces.
And it hurts.

But you pull your pieces back together.
You stitch yourself back up.
Get a few scars.

Some places still hurt.

And then it happens again.
You leap.

And then it happens again.
You crash into the rocks.

Your friends shout, “Enough!”
They don’t want you to leap, because it hurts them to see you hurt.
They don’t want you to leap, because they know how it feels to hurt.

And then what?
Well if you are me, you leap. Again.

But you try to learn.
You learn where the rocks are.
You are leaping in your mind—your mind makes the rocks.

And that’s important.

Things can go well.
You can fall forever.
It can happen.

You have to be leaping with a partner.
And you have to trust them, and they have to trust you.
If you lose the trust, the rocks appear.

But there is time.
The rocks are there, but they are not too close.
And if you are careful, you can push them away.
Maybe make them disappear altogether.

Don’t fuck this up.
Don’t make the rocks happen.
Just trust.

Take the fear and the pain and put it in boxes.
Put the boxes away.
Don’t open the boxes.

Just trust.

And in the end,
if your partner violates that trust so badly
and you can’t stop the rocks from appearing
and you get smashed into a million pieces
and there is no way you will ever get put together…

Shhh.
Don’t worry about that.
Life isn’t about that.
Life is about the falling.

Sweat

Sweat is pooled on her solar plexus
I trace my finger through
Is it hers, or mine?

She is divine
She doesn’t snore or swear or sweat
It must not be hers

I am mortal
I lust and covet and consume
It must be mine

Or perhaps it is ours
The remnant of our moments together
The echo of our whispers

The cool breeze from the fan
Slowly diffusing this moisture into the ether
Cooling her skin, making her shiver

I trace my finger through
She is mine, I am hers, and the sweat is ours
Our boundaries are undefined

Her soul and my soul
Her love and my love
Entangled like these molecules of water and salt

Evaporating
Cooling
Yet remaining as one

On Connection

I was chatting with a dear friend this morning, and the crux of our discussion centered on connection. And as we argued (because every chat with this friend seems to have some level of “argue” in it), it became clear to me that what I think of as connection is not a universally understood concept. I’m not sure if she understands what I mean or not. I wonder how many people have even experienced the thing I refer to as connection.

I wonder this because I didn’t experience it until I was about 33 years old. I had been in love five times by then. I had been married for nine years. And I had never experienced this thing, which I now think of as pretty much the only defining characteristic of true, deep love. When I was 32 or 33, I experienced it with the girl I was dating, and only because she insisted. She was an especially intuitive woman. A social worker by both training and deep in her bones (as I suspect is the case with all social workers), she was able to sense that I lacked connection to her, which after a few months became intolerable to her. So she set about training me.


She is the one I’m referring to in that tweet. She had me read Please Understand Me: Character and Temperament Types which covered the Myers-Briggs classifications and emotional intelligence. She uncovered the fact that I have basically no empathy at all, and helped me find strategies for compensating for that using my intelligence in other areas. And she trained me to be connected during sex, which was a completely foreign thing to me. That was my first experience with the kind of connection I’m talking about here.

I had always been a very generous, pleasing lover. I focused on the needs of my partner and was very attuned to whatever feedback I could use to ensure she was in a transcendent state of bliss. But at the same time, I was detached. There is an old saw about men focusing on baseball statistics in order to last longer. The implication is that by being detached a man can avoid climax, and I suppose that is true, because I was detached and I could last pretty much forever. Up until this woman, that had never been something a woman would complain about.

But she taught me to connect during sex. It’s somewhat like learning to meditate. You stop thinking about anything else. You don’t even think about what you are doing at any one moment. You don’t think about what you might do next. You just exist in the now. You let your limbic system run the show. You do what feels right. This is at the heart of the practice of Tantra, I learned later. But then, with her, it was just a new way of having sex, and I liked it. A lot.

I also lost my ability to last forever. Sorry about that.

After that relationship fell apart, the next person I dated was the woman who is now my wife. She has only ever known the connected version of me. What I discovered with her, though, was that connection is not just a sex thing. It can transcend every interaction if you let it. And over time I’ve learned to sense it. I can sense when I am connected, and I can sense when she is connected. That’s another interesting aspect of the thing I’m talking about. It doesn’t have to be bi-directional. I can be connected to her while she is detached. She can be connected to me while I am detached. But if we are both connected at the same time, the force of the connection increases ten-fold.

Being connected mostly just requires having no other obligations. When I am focused on work, or the kids, or anything requiring attention, I detach. It’s natural. Getting out of that detached space and back into a connected space takes time. Decompression time. And I’m not alone in this. I see it in my wife as well.

For example, last night she got home from a business trip and was still her work self. I was patient. Gave her space. Eventually we settled into our evening routine, and I was massaging her feet. As I pressed my thumb deep into the sole of her left foot, I saw it. I saw the connection wash over her. I saw her enter a state of bliss. I knew she was connected. The same way I am connected. And her connection, with my connection, were together an overwhelming calming force for both of us.

“I’m in my happy place,” she said.

Just thinking about that, I’m filled with a ridiculous amount of joy.

I suspect some people never get to feel this thing I call connection. And that makes me a little sad. Because it is everything. I’m pretty sure it’s what life is all about.

The Tide

My love for her is resilient
When she brings me great joy
I love her
When she brings me great pain
I love her
When she surprises and delights me
I love her
When she disappoints and crushes me
I love her

Her love for me?
It ebbs and flows

Her love is the tide and I am a stone on the beach
When the tide is low, I languish in the sun
Longing for her return
Confident in her return
When the tide is high, I am enveloped
Surrounded with warmth, and salt, and wet
Unable to breathe, but not needing to breathe

Her love is the waves crashing on the beach
Receding
Striking
Each pass wearing away my rough edges
Making me smooth, allowing me to roll deeper into her
Year after year, deeper and deeper

When the tide is high, I make her promise to never recede
And she promises
But the tide is the tide
The tide has no use for promises
But she promises
And I believe her

And perhaps, as I roll deeper
Eventually I will no longer be part of the beach
I will be part of the ocean floor
Enveloped in warmth, and salt, and wet
Forever