I stretched dreamily on the black couch in 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 private - like a woman stumble home after a long day, surrenders to the comfort of her bed, and before sleep steals her away, reaches for her masturbation 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 into my face 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 that afternoon, I threw myself into his arms, happy to see him, and relieved to have escaped, if only for a brief time, the mundane repetitiveness of my daily routine. We talked about life since my last visit. He’s been painting and working on a compilation of poetry. A private old man, he seldom shares his writings with others, but often tells me all the things he dares not say out loud when he shares his paintings and read his poems to me. 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 studying for 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.
And so, when some of the men from my past reach out to me, I don't respond. There is nothing left to say or do. There is no outstanding debt owed. I don't harbor ill feelings towards my exes in any manner, nor do I regret my time spent with any of them. But there is no missing or yearning left in me – no wishing and no wonder. I’d given all I had to the relationships, just to make sure that I didn't short change anyone or myself of a life we 'could’ve' lived. And when the relationships stopped working, I mourned, but moved on. I don't consider them failed or a loss - just an end to a chapter. Now, I’m just gone. I know for certain that life is meant to be lived boldly and completely in every moment with the people we meet along the way - for we are just passing through on this journey. Some people stay in our lives longer than others, but we are all on our way to somewhere else. It’s not in me to stay when it’s time to go – if the train that I am on stops moving, I will get off, and board one that’s heading somewhere, even without a destination in mind. I've always been fearless in my approach to life - never 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 powers 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 introverted shell, 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. But 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 many times, though I don't understand 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 ever closing down Sexkitten. By large, life is moving along nicely.
“Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.” ~Walt Whitman~