I stretched dreamily on the black couch in the Tyson’s living room, beneath the golden sunbeams pouring through the large skylight. The sun had transformed the plain, sparingly furnished room into a golden oasis, even the handmade chair made of Oak appeared traced with gold. Despite having left the world to live out the rest of his days in a quaint cabin by the lake, here and there, collections from his travels around the world: masks, paintings and expensive sculptures positioned strategically throughout the rooms - points to the refined taste of a man who once lived in the highest tier of modern opulence.
I peeled off my bra through the arms of my shirt and tossed it on the floor, followed by several minutes of robust boobs scratching. The kind of behavior in which one partakes in privacy - like a woman stumble home after a long day, surrenders to the comfort of her bed, and before sleep, reaches for her masturbating device - there is only the darkness to judge. Here, Tyson was standing across the room, making us tea and watching me with furrowed brows, wondering what the fuck I was doing in his living room. Sometimes I forget that beneath all the wrinkles that age has bestowed upon him – beats the heart of a man.
Tyson walked over and handed me a red mug, steam rose in a swirling mist, carried the aroma of mint and honey. He patted me on the head. “You should visit more often. You obviously need a break,” he said, eyeing my bra on the floor.
It’s been months since I’ve seen him. When he opened his door to let me in, I threw myself into his arms, happy to see him, and relieved to have escaped, if only for a brief time, the oftentimes mundane repetitiveness of my daily life.
We talked about life since my last visit. He’s been painting and working on a compilation of poetry. A private old man, he doesn’t share his writings with others, but often tells me all the things he dares not say out loud when he writes and paints. This I understand well. It is in one’s art that an artist stands naked with his heart and soul spilled like blood for all to see.
As for me, I feel as if I’ve been on a long vacation from myself. Right now, I am a caterpillar in her cocoon. I’ve wandered deeper into my psyche - living a regimented, compartmentalized life - balancing motherhood, work and working on my PhD.
Since my last post, I moved to a different part of town. From my 13th – floor apartment, I have an excellent view of the city. I have a cat now; she likes to watch the trains from her perch by the window. Play and leisure is greatly minimized and the men who at one point in time shared my bed are left at whatever fork in the road life dropped us off to figure out where, if anywhere, we go from here. Those who come here, will by now know the ending of those stories.
I don’t have any ill feelings about anyone from my past and I don’t regret anything. There is no missing or yearning left in me – no wishing and no wonder. I took my shots with the men with whom I became involved, gave everything I had – just to make sure that I didn't short change anyone or myself of a life we 'could’ve' lived. And when the relationships didn’t work, I mourned my losses and moved on. Now, I’m just gone.
It’s not in me to keep standing in the same place for very long. If the train that I am on stops moving, I will get off, and board one that’s heading somewhere, even if I don’t know where it’s going. I've never been afraid to discover what awaits me in the unknown. That's how I ended up here – in a cocoon once again. It dawned on me recently that humans have super-hero abilities to transform one’s life as many times as one deems necessary. If I once transformed myself from a caterpillar into a butterfly, who is to say that I cannot transcend beyond being a butterfly?
And so, these days, I live voyeuristically from my cocoon, observing the people around me, not for visual sexual gratification, the sordid, nor the scandalous, but with genuine curiosity. I catch enough spark now and again in someone that intrigues me, but I understand my limitations, and move along.
Tyson said that I am living between the cracks of here and there and it’s not a good or bad place to be. “But why have you stopped writing, Kitten" He asked. I stared at him sitting across from me, legs crossed, sipping tea from a matching red mug as mine. I haven’t stopped. I’ve been writing a thesis/dissertation. Only it’s a different type of writing, and I do miss painting the contents of my mind all over these pages.
It's difficult to find time," I said.
He waved away my explanation. "Make it a priority, you won't lose yourself if you write. This is where your magic happens," He said.
He didn't answer. Instead, he hit me with another question. "Do you think that your writings here will prove problematic to your profession at some point, considering your pursuit of a PhD in Community Psychology with a focus on women’s issues, addressing sexism, classism, and racism in society?"
The question has crossed my mind, though I don't see why it would. But I am prepared to argue that there is nothing wrong with a woman who embraces and explores her sexuality. One thing is certain, I have no intention of closing down Sexkitten.
By large, life is moving along nicely.
“Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.”