I’m sitting in Warsaw airport.  My flight’s been delayed with no real explanation.  I came to the Polish city a week ago at the invitation of someone I met a few months ago.  We had a couple of pretty intense sexual encounters when we first met and then we began doing ordinary things, like having dinner and seeing films.  The more I saw of him the less I saw of him naked, much to my confusion and sexual frustration.  My feelings toward him oscillate between intense attraction, affection, empathy, indifference and confusion. I’m unaccustomed to being in the position of really wanting to fuck someone and not being able to.  Partly because of the male/female supply/demand relationship and partly because I rarely allow myself to crave someone who doesn’t return my affections.  But it’s not that he doesn’t return them, it’s just that he can’t return them in the way I’d most like, for now.  It gradually came to light that circumstances in his life are complicated emotionally.  It’s not unusual to find someone who’s emotionally unavailable but sexually engaging, which is the sort of thing I expected from him to begin with.  Being around someone for whom, at least for now, the sexual act is off limits–not through any moral reasoning but as a result of its physical and emotional impact–has reminded me of the empty corner of promiscuity.  I’m not rejecting sexual freedom and experimentation, just remembering what it’s like to really connect sexually. I guess when something is unavailable, you remember what you’re missing.

I’ve found myself mentally submitting to the situation, a practice that’s been reveling in itself.  It’s gotten me thinking about what submission really means.  I’ve felt that I have to put my wishes and desires on hold, accepting what comes, or doesn’t come.  The impatient personality that I am, I began joking to myself and to him about my passionate and unfulfilled desire to kiss, hug, touch and submit.  I could only laugh at the fact that having spent the last four years being truly aroused by the number of men I could count on one hand, I want to fuck this one’s brains out but can’t.  By the time I was on my way to Warsaw, I was not only resigned to the fact that we would be unlikely to sleep together, but that we might remain at an emotional distance that will ultimately be too hurtful for me to endure.  The first few days confirmed this, but along with the struggle between desire and caution, came some resolutions about those feelings.  All of the wanting and seeking began to give way to something a little deeper and I realized that even if the opportunity for sex arose, I wouldn’t feel good about taking it.  I need a hug first, an affectionate kiss.  I couldn’t temporarily ignore the emotional barrier and fuck this man.  I suppose I really care about him.   As someone who’s perfected the art of intense yet detached sex, this means something.  I’ve been happy taking small bits of connection at a time from people here and there, enjoying the moment at a distance, avoiding deep affection.  It’s not that I haven’t known it exists–I’ve known great affection and love in romantic relationships, friendships and from family. But I must admit I’ve gotten used to living without it.  I started avoiding it, and became a master at doing so.  

Despite his fortuitous defenses and irritation at my lack of patience, P eventually gave me a sweet kiss.  Not a long one and nothing like the first one I got from him, which touched the souls of my feet and every other inch of me.  How fairy-tale-ish of me to say that this gesture was more meaningful than almost any I can remember in recent history.  But it was.

It’s funny how people are labeled in society.  People who work for charity are good, drug dealers are bad.  People who cheat on their spouses are bad, single mothers raise eyebrows.  I was brought up to believe such righteous judgments and am still working to rid some of them from the far reaches of my subconscious.  

A few weeks ago I entered the subway, passing a homeless man who was trying to move his worldly possessions from the bottom of the stairs to the top.  He was struggling and it crossed my mind that he needed help.  I watched the struggle as I waited for my train, and I watched as another commuter came by and moved the bags for him.  

There aren’t a lot of people who would have moved those bags.  I’m trying to be one more often.  I became friends with a bag-mover recently, someone quite selfless and truly empathetic, whose gift for appreciating the hidden good in others is unique.  In theory, she should be bad, like me.  We inhabit a questionable place on the fringes of society.  I should add here that I am also good, when I work at a reputable and elitist corporation and have sex within the confines of a relationship.  Sometimes I’m between good and bad–let’s say questionable–such as when my dog, who isn’t neutered, raises the ire of a fellow canine on the street.  I was definitely bad last week when asked by a couple of missionaries whether I believe in Jesus.  

Anyway, my friend is supposedly bad, yet I’ve met few people I’d trust as much to look out for my interests, or those of anyone in her midst, for that matter.  Sometimes to her own detriment.  She doesn’t judge and has a softness that is very feminine and light.  She won’t take something simply because you offer it, she’ll first consider whether it’s fair to accept.  Very few people will do this and I respect it immensely.  

I hadn’t seen her hair down until she visited.  Usually it’s tied into a knot at the base of her head.  When I saw it I thought what a sweet surprise her gentleman friends were in for.  Very long hair is exotic in a way that’s free from current trends or stereotypes of beauty.  Lily’s hair reaches her lower back in a long black mane such as you’d expect to find in a fairy-tale. We sat for hours on my rug talking about our lives and thoughts and I began to feel as though we’d known each other for a long time.  I’m really glad I met her.  

by Tom Sachs