Sex, Lies and Lotusland is a fictional blog by Anonymous
The sultry sun, a tempestuous voyeur, laps at the curves of our dewy bodies, spying with its warm touch through the gauzy veil of bone white curtains. Our Istanbul hotel room tastes of honey and sex. Joaquin’s tongue crests my lips, blood surges into the wet crescent of my . . .
Non-existent sex life. Vip. Nada. Zero. Sex has not happened anywhere in the vicinity of my body for nearly four years. I live on a very remote island north of Vancouver. Emphasis on remote. You could go to Paris in about the same amount of time as it takes to get to my island. Women outnumber men about two to one. The lesbian population is thriving. My hetero friends are vibrant, sexy, smart single women in search of a meaningful relationship. Okay, maybe an inconsequential night. The point is it’s a dry season and has nothing to do with global warming. Or does it . . . ?
Since moving here a year and a half ago, I’ve been on one date. It started as dates I vaguely remembered from long ago: a man called me and asked me out for dinner, he picked me up in a car, he took me to a restaurant. We even had a reserved table. I fell into a lulled state of familiarity, which began to slip away when the talk of humanure came up. I didn’t know what it was either. But when the man across the table from you is chewing on his scallops while regaling you in the building plans for an outhouse system to turn human excrement into compost for his vegetable garden, one tends to lose one’s appetite. The rest of the evening involved his trailer sans outhouse, a wide screen TV mounted on the wall in front of his double bed and a Tim Robbins’ movie called “Noise.” In case you don’t know the film, it’s about a man with a compulsion to quiet every car alarm in New York City. As I sat bone straight on that bed watching Robbins’ character shatter windshields with baseball bats and vandalize cars with reckless abandon while my date lay contentedly prone by my side, I realized in that moment the destruction of property was more stimulating than that last few hours of my life. As soon as the DVD ended I asked Mr. Portapotty to take me home.
You may wonder who Joaquin is, the man I mentioned at the beginning of this post. Well, he’s part of my unlived life. Sort of like a grown up imaginary friend. Let me explain. I finished a workshop last month dealing with transition. One of the exercises was to explore an unlived part of ourselves, a part that when it’s expressed in someone else makes us sigh, makes us want, makes us wish that it could be ours. For some it’s an archetype buried deep inside, for others maybe it’s new work, a new relationship, a piece long neglected and set on the shelf of our heart. For all of us it represents a new way of being. What came up for me was a deep seated, baseball bat heart shattering longing to travel. The part of me that has always wanted to explore and feel, to dive into the places I’ve read about, the places others have lived and loved.
So you’ll have to excuse me, but I need to get back to that hotel in Istanbul. I hear there’s something happening this evening involving Turkish coffee, apricots and a dervish. Yum.