Sirocco Wind
I hate it when I meet a woman who is almost as afraid of herself as she is of her partner. She hunkers down into her skin as much when she's alone as she does when he's near. She clings to kind others when he's not around, basking in the warmth of sympathy, comfortable in the knowledge that she doesn't deserve it. These women tend to be highly sexual creatures, underneath a very thick skin. They have roiling oceans creating maelstroms in their own and others desires, and they have crafted the best shields imaginable to hide that fact from a world that is terrified of them.
I was one of those women for a while. Maybe for forever, but I didn't know what I was looking for until I found it. Found him. A blanket to be smothered under, a cage to be contained in. See, it's hard to fight yourself for so long. You've been taught to contain, to push your storms back down inside you, for your entire life. Then you meet someone who offers to help. Shit, who insists on helping. And suddenly your fear grows to contain another, and it's stronger than your storms. It's enough. You don't have to constantly fight your own nature anymore, you're too caught up in a the constant need to maintain perfect balance for this other human being. A male human being, with fists that can hurt and words that can cut. With silences that fester like a wound under a bruise. Silences that are the answer to your maelstroms, silences that burst out into violence which blankets your world, and then quickly abates, leaving behind a confused sort of peace.
That peace is where the danger really lies. It's the peace of finally laying down your weapons and doing what you're told. It's the peace of a grudging head nod from an angry adult, the withdrawal of judgement from a group of peers who think maybe this time you can be like them. It's the peace of believing that you're too much, really believing it this time, though you know that belief will sink back down soon and you'll be stuck fighting again.
Sometimes that peace comes through sexual release. Angry partners who provide consistent sexual release to their bottled storms tend to be more successful at keeping them, so natural selection (natural. Ha.) favors those who understand how to be a lightening rod. The best orgasms I've ever had in my life have come from people who were determined to smother me down into something small, something containable. Rage, the need to fight, the need to consume or be consumed... those are the best and worst parts of human sexuality, and they are the nexus points around which these relationships revolve. Our storms are always fighting to be free, and those partners who understand how to give the illusion of freedom within a whirlwind of angry sexual release are coveted. They are treasured and feared, gods and kings who understand you. Obviously they understand you, how else would they be able to make you scream your weeping release to the sky?
Those are the things this fearful, fearsome, powerful creature of storm and electricity tells herself as she watches her cage drink itself into undignified oblivion. He knows me, she says, as he bludgeons her with angry silence because she showed a little too much power the other day. He sees everything that has ever made the world fear me and he wants me anyways, is her mantra before she falls asleep alone again.
I feel like I can see under these women's skin these days, that my radar is somehow set to smell their storms. I look at them and I see a granite face, hard set with humility, humiliation, and disappointment. But I smell the ocean under their skin, salt and tang and the inexorable pull of the moon. I smell power, taste pennies on my tongue when they sit near me. Some part of me recognizes the pleasure they offer, my skin tends to tingle and sensual thoughts fill my head.
I've walked away from many cages in my life, and the ones I chose for myself have always been the hardest to leave behind. It took me a very long time to acknowledge why I wanted to be smothered, how afraid of myself I was. It took me longer to even BEGIN to face that fear and it's origins. So when I see a woman sitting as small as possible in her own skin, I want to both hug her and shake her. I want to rip a little tear in her facade, to let loose her howling winds, just a bit. Just enough to let her decide if she wants to repair the tear or let it rip her heavy shields away. I stop myself, because tearing is rarely the answer. Their shields don't always need to be ripped away. Sometimes it just requires time enough to wear them thin. Have you ever wondered why so many women become powerful in their old age? Why white hair and a time sculpted body confer grace, dignity, and strength? It's because time has worn away the shields they used to disguise that power, and allowed it to emerge, glowing and fully mature. Maybe a little dimmed, a little less hard edged than the power of youth. I want to wield this strength in every form I've ever had it in, want to revel in my power while it's still a Sirocco wind, changing the shape of the world as it sweeps out from under my ever decreasing shields.
I was one of those women for a while. Maybe for forever, but I didn't know what I was looking for until I found it. Found him. A blanket to be smothered under, a cage to be contained in. See, it's hard to fight yourself for so long. You've been taught to contain, to push your storms back down inside you, for your entire life. Then you meet someone who offers to help. Shit, who insists on helping. And suddenly your fear grows to contain another, and it's stronger than your storms. It's enough. You don't have to constantly fight your own nature anymore, you're too caught up in a the constant need to maintain perfect balance for this other human being. A male human being, with fists that can hurt and words that can cut. With silences that fester like a wound under a bruise. Silences that are the answer to your maelstroms, silences that burst out into violence which blankets your world, and then quickly abates, leaving behind a confused sort of peace.
That peace is where the danger really lies. It's the peace of finally laying down your weapons and doing what you're told. It's the peace of a grudging head nod from an angry adult, the withdrawal of judgement from a group of peers who think maybe this time you can be like them. It's the peace of believing that you're too much, really believing it this time, though you know that belief will sink back down soon and you'll be stuck fighting again.
Sometimes that peace comes through sexual release. Angry partners who provide consistent sexual release to their bottled storms tend to be more successful at keeping them, so natural selection (natural. Ha.) favors those who understand how to be a lightening rod. The best orgasms I've ever had in my life have come from people who were determined to smother me down into something small, something containable. Rage, the need to fight, the need to consume or be consumed... those are the best and worst parts of human sexuality, and they are the nexus points around which these relationships revolve. Our storms are always fighting to be free, and those partners who understand how to give the illusion of freedom within a whirlwind of angry sexual release are coveted. They are treasured and feared, gods and kings who understand you. Obviously they understand you, how else would they be able to make you scream your weeping release to the sky?
Those are the things this fearful, fearsome, powerful creature of storm and electricity tells herself as she watches her cage drink itself into undignified oblivion. He knows me, she says, as he bludgeons her with angry silence because she showed a little too much power the other day. He sees everything that has ever made the world fear me and he wants me anyways, is her mantra before she falls asleep alone again.
I feel like I can see under these women's skin these days, that my radar is somehow set to smell their storms. I look at them and I see a granite face, hard set with humility, humiliation, and disappointment. But I smell the ocean under their skin, salt and tang and the inexorable pull of the moon. I smell power, taste pennies on my tongue when they sit near me. Some part of me recognizes the pleasure they offer, my skin tends to tingle and sensual thoughts fill my head.
I've walked away from many cages in my life, and the ones I chose for myself have always been the hardest to leave behind. It took me a very long time to acknowledge why I wanted to be smothered, how afraid of myself I was. It took me longer to even BEGIN to face that fear and it's origins. So when I see a woman sitting as small as possible in her own skin, I want to both hug her and shake her. I want to rip a little tear in her facade, to let loose her howling winds, just a bit. Just enough to let her decide if she wants to repair the tear or let it rip her heavy shields away. I stop myself, because tearing is rarely the answer. Their shields don't always need to be ripped away. Sometimes it just requires time enough to wear them thin. Have you ever wondered why so many women become powerful in their old age? Why white hair and a time sculpted body confer grace, dignity, and strength? It's because time has worn away the shields they used to disguise that power, and allowed it to emerge, glowing and fully mature. Maybe a little dimmed, a little less hard edged than the power of youth. I want to wield this strength in every form I've ever had it in, want to revel in my power while it's still a Sirocco wind, changing the shape of the world as it sweeps out from under my ever decreasing shields.
Comments
Post a Comment