There are things that exist. Grand things, that can only be classified by the ones who’ve studied it. The men who take the time to understand what they see. The women, whose lives are centered around the study. But whatever the subject is, the merit that it grants to the one who classifies it, must be dependent on the span of their devotion— the presence of a longing that outlives the resolution. And one that only comes, within the freedom of wisdom.
You can house thoughts without hosting them— feel, and still know, that they only breed in semblances. Stories told by stories. Histories invoked in the guise of youth and glory. But there are times when the pull of the past seems to stake it’s claim against the throw of the lash. And what we find is that, instead of creating any kind of meaning, we are simply guiding a tour for our own demons— telling the stories of the darkest parts of our city. But, in order to declare ourselves free from them, we must understand that they never existed. That, in reality, all of our fears have been the result of our own disbelief. One that glorifies the rise of things, rather than the steady spread of roots, beneath the pour of heavy rain.
We won’t grow up until we grow out of things… until our form completes… until the truths that we believe, are no longer defined by our feelings. And we won’t know what it means to be released, until we are the ones declaring ourselves free.
I was afraid to be brave because I knew what it came with. The imminence of honesty and what it would reveal about me. I had spent much time wandering through and around the thoughts of others … their struggles and what they believed about the important things. But, ultimately, what that meant for me, was that I greatly feared my own reasoning. And, to have given my response, would have been my moment of sobriety.
If there weren’t a gasp behind the motion, or the spill of bite within its venom, then I don’t know if we would ever choose to run from it— or if the nightmares we’ve had would suddenly fail to frighten, and, instead of waking up with sweat down our backs, we just laughed.
I don’t want that.
There is some kind of reason behind the pangs of our freedom, but, maybe, only because we’re too young to understand the definition— or what we mean, in light of it.
This is definitely a question that I can only answer from my own, personal standpoint— one that is made up of emotional, physical and spiritual factors, that are specific to me.
My most simple response would be that, if both people were able to participate without getting hurt, then there wouldn’t be much of a reason not to. BUT. I don’t think this outcome exists … ever.
Sex undoubtedly unifies people in a way that friendship does not. It elevates vulnerability and, therefore, intimacy. It creates a desire (however ignored or stifled that desire may be) to become closer to that person, feel safe with them, etc. I think that, when sex is happening for the sole purpose of physical pleasure, it inherently hurts the actual purpose it is meant to serve … and hurts the people involved.
We have formed different habits around sex, that, ultimately, are only in place to fill a deeper void that isn’t so easily fillable. We want to be seen by others, known fully by them and, in turn, loved fully by them. This is ALL we want and everything that we do in life, is filtered through this desire. But, because it is also the scariest thing for us to pursue (because of past hurts, fear of rejection, etc) we create shortcuts that, for a short time, mimic the fulfillment of that desire. The attainment of money, power, control … the pursuit of talent, status, success … and the use, or misuse, of people, relationships and sex.
It comes down to what meaning you and your partner are assigning to sex. If it is something that you see, primarily, as a physical act and one that can happen without the involvement of other meaning or feelings, then sure, go for it. (I don’t believe that anyone, truly, sees it this way, but that is a whole other topic.) But. If it is something that you grant greater meaning to— something that exists as a physical expression of an emotional intimacy that is already present in the relationship… then no, it shouldn’t happen with a friend, or in a casual setting.
It’s a hard situation. Lines get blurred, moments feel right, or easy or free of consequence. And, honestly, it makes sense that great sexual chemistry exists between friends … we like our friends, enjoy our friends and feel safe with them. But, at the end of it all, whenever that time may come, someone gets hurt. Someone feels left behind. Someone feels used. Someone is left asking the question, “Why didn’t they want more with me?” And whether or not these ill-feelings are heartbreaking or a little whisper that gets pushed into the back of their mind, in my experience, they are always there.
And, even if it is a situation where both of you are on the same page, I sort of just feel like … why mess with a good thing? If what you are is friends, it’s important to treat that relationship as a friendship. Great sexual chemistry will surface again and it will be with a person that you want to stay the night, and still be there in the morning … and the whole rest of the next day …. and the next night.
Simply put, though we have all strayed from this dynamic before, I think, in an ideal world, sex should be between two people, in a healthy, committed relationship— one where there are no concerns of having to protect your feelings or your heart.
This heart is frantic and starving— indiscriminately grasping at whatever offers up distraction. And the pace of my climb is waning. I’ve expelled all the energy that began with me, and have since succumb to the grace of my hands and knees. And all this time, I thought there was someone with me. A friend or a kind of family, that had been here from the beginning. But what I may be realizing, is that whatever company I’ve perceived, in all actuality, is just the presence of time passing around me. And that, ultimately, despite my affinity for intimacy, what I really need is the ability to exist freely— to be my own source of company within the vectors of my loved one’s trajectories— to run and fall and breathe violently, with the unchallenged belief that I am ready … that I have the bravery it requires to climb the thing that frightens me, to bruise the ground with my own bare feet, to claim a victory that has been waiting long for me.
And only until I’ve reached the peaks of my own being, will I truly be able to see my feat, or the fullness of its beauty.
He awoke to the gasp of his own breath— fingers clasping the bedsheets he had pulled up to his chin. The fan was spinning. The room had grown cold in the night but he was too shaken to notice the shiver in his thighs. He had a terrible nightmare. But, what he awoke fearful of, was not the scene of his dream… but, the fact that the morning made it a reality. He owed someone something and, until he gave it to her in actuality, it would never be considered an honorable offering.
He said the sea would soon be emptied. I didn’t know the meaning but I felt the reach of his hand across my heartbeat, and quickly misplaced the prophecy. He said that everything would soon be changing. I didn’t understand why but I watched the slow flame move in his eyes, and forgot to question the mention. He spoke of a daze that couldn’t be named. A rapture of a different kind. The void of never knowing, but how it accompanied the freedom of his time. And I lay beside him, denying what I knew he meant… writing a different end … trading truth for the sweet sound of our breath. And, though he deceived me throughout our time, it was no more a betrayal, than that, of my own denial.