August 21, 2007
The Despot & The Boddhisatva
I slept naked last night. I don’t usually. Usually, when I sleep naked, I feel my breasts try to run away from me at night; they scamper in my sleep like puppies. Hence the tank top to corral them into slumberous submission. The pajama bottoms are just for balance. Or occasionally for warmth.
But last night, almost before I knew it, I was clambering into bed totally starkers, and I thought, ok, I’m naked tonight. And I slept.
I think I wanted the feel of the sheets against my skin.
My libido, you see, is a despot.
All day, every day of late, my lips tingle. My nipples tingle. My pussy goes throb throb throb like a dripping faucet.
It’s annoying. I’m hating it. I want a rheostat for my libido. A dimmer switch I can twist to dial down my randiness. Something, anything, to make me stop feeling so effin’ frisky.
I have written of it before, my libido, its strangeness and its hostility. Writing of it hasn’t helped. My libido, these days, rages.
It masses troops. It gathers at the border. It stands on parapets, dressed in neat military garb, shaking its small fists in telegenic emphatic gestures.
It wears a distinctive hat.
My libido plays marches through loudspeakers. I find myself overwhelmed with the claxon of my sexual desire. It rings in my ear, reverberating through my body, broadcasting some indecipherable and inescapable warning, making it impossible for me to concentrate on the task at hand.
My despot is hungry: my very skin is ravenous for extreme sensation. For the first time in my life, I find myself enjoying pain, longing for the passionate sting of an open palm, the cruel pinch at my twiddly girlbits, To be wrapped in rope, uncomfortably. To be bitten. To be smacked, slapped, spanked and snacked upon.
To have marks on this impertinent, needy flesh. To have the visual memory of having been fucked with abandon.
I think, my libido informes me, I need a little harem. Not a harem of little boys and girls, but a little harem of girls and boys. Ones I could single out and wantonly use as I want. As is my wont. My libido stands in its pressed flak jacket, shakes its fist, and orders me to find one.
Post a profile, it says.
Go to a bar, it commands.
Talk to her, it tells me, she’s looking. She wants you.
Do it. Doitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoit, it hisses and stamps its tiny feet.
Yet I do not.
I do not because sitting mindfully and contemplatively under a bodhi tree is my heart. My heart, the bodhisattva, crosses its legs, tents its fingers, and tiny smile on its face, looks with polite interest at the antics of my despotic libido.
It doesn’t say much, my heart. It doesn’t scream, or soliloquize. It doesn’t engage in any ludic behavior. It does not appear to be intent on drawing attention to itself. It semi-reclines in some shade, saying sagely little.
Its calm and its quiet is what keeps me from parting my thighs for millions, from kowtowing to bare my ass to the onslaughts of a thousand hard and raging cocks, from thrusting my hands and a roll of duct tape to tall, dark, passing strangers and gutterally uttering, Use me.
I am not, of course, a saint. I do not deny myself all pleasures of my willful flesh. I do, of course, masturbate with a kind of rabid frenzy reserved for adolescent boys, callipygian and Calligulan fantasies flashing in my mind.
My heart, sitting under the bodhi tree, with a koan tells me without telling me to wait without waiting. It does not let me get more involved than bemusement and indulgent love. It gives me what I need.
Even if I won’t give my libido what it wants.
Want/need/want/need.
And my head, it sits in its armchair with its cognac, it finds all of this very interesting.
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4 Responses to “The Despot & The Boddhisatva”
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I was doing well, following the anthropomorphisation of your libido, until I got to “It wears a distinctive hat.”
And then I chortled fit to bust!
Great post, though :)
xx Dee
beautiful post - it touched me where i feel my needs.
i have always heard that women in their late 30s/early 40s become horn-dogs, and though i don’t know if that is where this your springs from, it is from where my surging desire comes.
and in thinking that i would totally relate, as i was reading, i imagined the boddhisatva could come to symbolize a ring of committment to someone who was denying your libido through lack of similar desire. i was glad to see it wasn’t that, though, i wondered then if i, without the boddhisatva of my circumstance would find my own legs crossed in maturity like yours, or if I would fuck with abandon as many beautiful lesbians as I could.
You described my libido almost too accurately! But my heart, well, my heart is too big for its britches, and my head has returned to my 17th year.
Oh yeah, and I happen to be 42 - perhaps a connection?
Want/need/want has been winning lately. I’m envious of your calm & quiet heart.
Oh, I’m so happy that I could put some words to all of your experiences. It’s really rewarding as a writer to find that I’m spot on in describing a physical sensation; it’s yet more gratifying as a person to find I’m not alone.
kissykiss,
chelsea g