Salome Valentine

42 posts
Salome Valentine is an American living near Puerto Vallarta, where she is the humble servant to two Mini Schnauzers. Her blogs are: Liberated Liberal Libertine, Conversations In My Mind, + Sensual Transcendence (NSFW). Email: [email protected]

Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

“I’m just a soul whose intentions are good

Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.”

-Nina Simone

There are small understandings — bringing home the wrong thing for dinner because you misheard your significant other’s request — and there are absolutely huge misunderstandings. This post is about a major misunderstanding which occurred when I was a child that took years to properly sort out in my psyche.

When I was about seven, I attended the wake for a very elderly distant relative who had passed away. It was a big, Italian-American affair in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, filled with emotion, elaborate floral displays, copious food and flowing conversation. It was unsurprising that at certain points, I was left unattended, free to mingle and (hopefully for me) find someone else close to my own age to connect with. Unfortunately for me, that never happened.

I had already followed the adults in their Catholic ritual of passing the coffin, kneeling and crossing myself. The whole experience was creepy, but at least the old man in the coffin did seem to be at peace. I returned to my seat, turned to one side and held my breath in complete shock — the dead guy was sitting right next to me!  He was still alive!

What no one in my large extended family had remembered to tell me was that the man who died had an identical twin brother, who was in fact very much alive. Had I known that, I wouldn’t have felt the need to run from the room in absolute panic. I remember hiding in the women’s bathroom on the floor below the viewing area, trying to figure out what had just happened. Eventually, someone took pity on me and compassionately explained things to me, but I was still quite shaken by the experience.

My point here is that obviously, there is a difference between misunderstandings which are accidental and innocuous and those which are mean-spirited and malicious. Yet sometimes (as in the very odd circumstance I described above) even an innocuous misunderstanding can have far-reaching and lasting consequences.

I’d like to invite in the comments for you to share misunderstandings — small or large — that have stayed with you over the years (or maybe just ones that are fresh in your memory). If there is an ultimate lesson you learned, please share that also.

Crass Fiction: Angel’s Advocate

When I received the late Sunday night phone call, my heart pounded as I raced to answer it. Customarily, this was my day of rest, after a typically relentless week of fielding numerous pseudo-emergencies, both personally and professionally. Instinctively, I knew that this urgency was very real.

Disbelief and panic echoed in the voice of my caller, the husband of a dear friend of mine, informing me that she had just been in a tragic accident. As the details filtered in, our male egos dissolved, through the catalyst of his grief and my shock: in a coma… critical care… near-drowning… possible brain damage. My inward response to hearing this was a bold proclamation of dissociative denial: ‘No fucking way!’

I learned that my friend Amara had been walking on the beach near her tropical home when she encountered a young boy flailing in the surf, trying to rescue his small dog. Being the patron saint of both animals and children, Amara didn’t hesitate before jumping in to try to save the pair. Perhaps because she knew this stretch of ocean so well, Amara was able to pull the boy and his dog from the water separately and escort them to safety. However, she had nearly drowned in the process of doing so. If not for the boy’s quick thinking (calling emergency from her cell phone, which he’d retrieved from the purse she had flung onto the sand before delving into the water), she never would have even made it off the beach alive.

After I hung up the phone, my eyes darted to an aesthetic greeting card next to the phone on my desk. I had been saving the card specifically for Amara. Impractically yet instinctively, I filled thee blank card with a written invocation: ‘You will wake up. You’ve come too far to let go of the promise of your purpose.’

I had no doubt that if Amara died now, she would do so fully at peace with the life she had thus far lived. I supposed that her richly cultivated spirit might even manifest in another blazing reincarnation. But I wanted her here and now: in this body; in this life. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to continue living without her; it was more that I simply couldn’t imagine the world without her in it.

Amara had saved my life emotionally – at one point, we were lovers for a brief time – and I knew that this was my chance to return the favor, albeit psychically. Deliberately and forcefully, I retracted my energy deep within me. Projecting my consciousness several thousand miles away, I envisioned myself entering the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital where Amara was being monitored. Just as my awareness entered Amara’s physical space, the alarm bells on the vital statistics monitor beside her bed went ballistic. In a flash amidst the cacophony, I witnessed her unmistakably diminishing signs of life and the chaos of the medical rescue team as they converged upon her hospital room.

Amara herself was completely detached from all the earthly commotion. Immediately, I sensed that she was preparing to leave this corporeal plane. Instantaneously, I reached out for her mind and spirit in a gentle yet profound psychic choke-hold. Reiterating the same command that I had written only minutes earlier, I said aloud “You will wake up. You’ve come too far to let go of the promise of your purpose.”

As I reached for and held Amara’s essence, I felt her rise to meet me, letting go of her blissful free-fall into the Void. I felt her serene smile subsume me in a nodding acknowledgment of my passionate command, and I knew in that moment that our sacred filial covenant for this lifetime had been restored. Every fiber of her being responded to my implied reminder, echoed in the clear recognition of her one-word answer:

“YES.”

Spirituality Corner: The Dharma of Difficulty

The word dharma has origins in both Hinduism and Buddhism. It is translated as “essential quality or character, as of the cosmos or one’s own nature.”

The well-known Buddhist saying, “This too shall pass” is usually utilized to encourage someone through a difficult time or loss. But the essential meaning is far broader than just advising that the unpleasantness of life shall pass: all things shall pass, the joys as well as the sorrows. Peace may come in embracing the wholeness of this truth.

While most of us would concur that we’d rather not have to deal with difficulty, it is undeniable that it is a part of life; the dharma of difficulty is that it is omnipresent. But accepting challenges and obstacles (instead of running from them or avoiding them) can make for a richer life experience than striving merely for a comfortable stasis.

Many spiritual teachings promote the idea that all our external circumstances are merely outward reflections of our inner state of being. Unfortunately, this concept is far too easy to abuse, as in asking volatile questions such as, “Do victims of natural disasters or other horrific misfortunes somehow bring the malice upon themselves? (The answer, in my opinion, is a resounding no.) If we significantly narrow our focus to the realm of that which is within our personal responsibility, I believe the insight of the aforementioned precept can prove itself to be true.

When I consider a person or circumstance to be difficult, I am often projecting some aspect of myself onto either or both of these. I prefer to think of myself as kind and unselfish, but if it’s significantly annoying me that someone is behaving in a petulant, self-serving manner, then maybe what’s really bothering me is that I’m seeing an aspect of my own nature unflinchingly reflected in his or her actions. If a challenge or obstacle in my path seems daunting, it is easy for me to forget that I am the one that invited the challenge to begin with, in response to a realization that the status quo was stagnant or otherwise unsatisfying.

As much as we would like to, we don’t get to pick and choose the precise way the situations of our lives unfold. As John Lennon presciently wrote, “Life is what happens to us when we’re busy making other plans.”  But if we start from a place of self-responsibility — again, for only those things that exist in that realm — ultimately, it can be far more productive than merely seeing ourselves as the victims of the choices we’ve made.

Crass Poetry: The Harmony Of Here

Close your eyes; be still.
Feel each present moment,
that often is lost in a blur
of doing and acquiring

Slow the pace; feel your breath
and the harmony of here:
the quiet, gentle wisdom
of being and becoming

Release the expectations
which have bombarded your senses,
and tune into the truth
of your own innate perfection

Untether your psyche
from the realm of lack and fear,
and luxuriate in the body
that is your most sacred temple

 

Whether or not we see it fully,
we have been puppets and pawns
in the passionless play
of a materially-obsessed world

We’re acting out characters
we neither like nor understand;
living an unwitting charade,
for no hope of real reward

What a profligate waste
of time, energy and resources
(because you’ll never be rich,
thin, attractive or young enough)!

In scarcity, welcome abundance
with gratitude and humility;
Impecuniousness is far richer
than a lack of spiritual substance

Overwhelmed by artifice, it’s easy
to lose sight of what’s real
But there’s nothing we could need
that we haven’t always possessed

Sadly, there are no mainstream sages
to help us nurture this awareness;
The visionaries with true power and insight
have all been relegated to obscurity

The gurus in the limelight
offer little but cold comfort
to warm the existential numbness
that’s slowly taken over our souls

But there is the great equalizer: choice.
Will we continue to fruitlessly pursue
a relentless litany of unsatisfied desires
or take the reins of responsible maturity?

In the end, who gets to decide
the value and direction of our lives:
compulsive, greed-driven conformity,
or our magnificent human potential?

It would truly blow your mind
if you ever fully realized
how resplendently glorious
you absolutely (already) are

Living with conscious intention
yields often invisible, infinite rewards
and if we’re up for the challenge,
the truth is all ours to discover.

Crass Fiction: Eternity By Chance

It is in solitude – always in solitude – that the guard of my masculine nature and identity ebb. Then, my genderless awareness of my humanity fully unfolds. It is then that I feel her presence most powerfully: when the prolific psychic residue of the ‘motion in stillness’ that she embodies lingers. The words ‘intuitive’ and ‘aware’ do not even begin to describe her effortless yet omnivorous understanding, her brilliant tabula rasa mind, and her remarkable capacity for profound tenderness.

In the wake of feeling her gentle yet phenomenal presence – and the subtle but unmistakable void of her absence – my apartment looks exactly the same to the naked eye. But whole new, transcendent worlds have been birthed from our symbiotic visceral reciprocity.

Our always-immanent metaphysical attraction seems to be taking the course of our lifetimes to evolve into something more carnally fulfilling. If our sexual expression ever equals the intensity of our exquisite rapport, we will both be willingly consumed by an ever-expanding concatenation of exuberant, balls-to-the-wall stamina marathons of athletic eroticism.

Tonight, she held me cradled in her lap, ensconced in her impossibly comfortable curves and silky soft skin. With sensitively skilled fingers, she unwound my stressed muscles in a masterfully knowing massage that was an extended foray of deep-release bliss for me. Beyond tension relief, it was an overall amelioration of my well-being.

Her instinctive talent for nurturing is as inexhaustible as my own need to be so thoroughly nurtured. It is a powerful reverence which bypasses romantic notion: the unconditional embrace of the Cosmic Mother. In truth, no one had ever held me as compassionately and adoringly except for my own mother, and that was a distant memory from many years ago.

Delicately, she broke the sweet spell of our shared silence by gently kissing my forehead and saying only, “Namaste.” (This translates roughly as the light, or the highest good in me salutes the light, or the highest good in you). It was a simple gesture and a single word that nonetheless felt like the fruition of the covenant of the holiest of Holy Grails.

Feeling starry-eyed and consummately relaxed, I slowly roused from the altered states that her extended healing had induced in me. Propping myself up on my elbows, I then turned to face her. Then I leaned in to meet her in an eyes-wide-open, serenely ravenous and lingering tongue-kiss. Many mind-blowing moments later, she broke the magnetic connection of our osculation by touching her fingers lightly to my face.

In a sultry tone which did not belie her seriousness, she said, “When we have more time, we will do far more justice to this. If I possessed the skill to alter the time/space continuum – and the unforgiving rhythms of our earthly lives – I would have you with me for hours, days, weeks, months, years… into timelessness. Until then…”

I held her to me and finished her sentence aloud, saying, “Farewell is never goodbye.”

Crasstalk Fiction: The Antidote To Pandora’s Box

Somewhere in the middle of the sultry summer night, nature called. My lover unzipped the front flap of our tent and we headed outside onto the sand of a secluded beach cove along the southern California coastline. As we were alone, we exited the tent nude. A pleasurable breeze greeted us, briefly alleviating the swelter. Even with a nearly-full moon, the lush ceiling of stars above us was breathtaking. Adding to our overall feeling of auspiciousness, a shooting star fell seemingly directly in front of our path. My jaw dropped in awe, and I wondered aloud a most sincere approbation, “Oh, how you bless us God, life, spirit, universe…”

With that grateful invocation, my lover and I proceeded to relieve ourselves in the majestic ocean. (We rationalized that our good actions far outweighed this relatively minor infraction.) The shock of contrast between our warm bodies and the still-cool water was exhilarating. We dove under holding hands, then after we arose, we exuberantly collided in a delicious, playful kiss. As we separated our bodies ever-so-slightly, we noticed a captivating phenomenon: the bright light radiated by the moon cast us in an immaculately explicit, lucid shadow against the backdrop of pristine sand.

As we stood in the ocean, we were bewitched by watching the exquisite subtleties of our well-matched physiques. Every slow, sensual move we made was mirrored and magnified in the remarkable chiaroscuro of moonlight and shadow. In my heightened state of arousal, I felt my skin turn incarnadine, like a lust-drenched niacin flush. Without needing to accede, my lover and I met each others’ unspoken desires, choreographed in equal parts by erotic providence and spiritual syncretism.

Deliberately, we decided to delay the consummation of our mutual yearning until we got back to the tent. Both of us later confessed our suspicions that we might have literally drowned due to our sensual distraction. We returned to the tent giddy, overly-amped and very ready to merge our inner empyreans. As we made love, time became evermore malleable and fluid, its interstices seemingly yielding to our mutual need for extended, undulant erotic equanimity.

It was the ultimate power trip: we were reveling in the complementary, egalitarian nature of true inner power. Luxuriantly supine, I decided that if I had to die, I’d like to do it with him inside me, in precisely this position. But for the moment, I was ravenously consumed and consummately nourished by the vitality of living abundantly.

When I awoke a few hours later in the full illumination of dawn’s gorgeous color palette of light, my lover was momentarily gone. Resting on my belly was a velvet drawstring bag, sewn in the design of a labyrinth. Inside the bag was a smooth, flat dark-grey large stone that was a lapidary masterpiece. In Celtic-inspired calligraphy, it read in Latin:

ab ovo, ut terminus

et ab novus orsa

saecula saeculorum.

On the other side of the stone was the English translation:

from the beginning, to the end

and from the new beginning

to all eternity.

My lover returned in time to witness the resultant awe I felt at reading such lofty words which I had inspired. My stupefaction derived from being so comprehensively recognized and acknowledged by someone so much like myself. We kissed deeply, and as we prepared to delve again into erotic joy, I had an amazing epiphany:

Whole, healed lovers everywhere are the living antidote to Pandora opening the Box. By unleashing harmony, joy, understanding and reverence, perhaps we may break the spell of all the ills that have been cast upon this world.

Spirituality Corner: All We Are Is Dust In The Wind

1977 was a difficult year to be a 9-year-old existentialist. This was the year that proffered the theatrical release of Star Wars – which introduced me to contemplations of a vastly cosmic nature: life, the universe and everything – and also the ubiquitous radio play of Kansas’ hauntingly gorgeous paean to mortality, Dust In The Wind. My already-insatiably questioning mind wanted answers, and I wanted them urgently.

Between my fervent pondering of the song and the film, I had my first “mid-life” crisis – yes, at age 9. I ate very little, slept constantly and was so depressed that my mother had to take me out of school for three months. Doctors had little to offer – this being long before the over-medication of children became commonplace – since there seemed to be absolutely nothing wrong with me. There were no problems at home that could be relatable to such a sudden and profound shift in my personality. I was blessed by a loving extended family, none of whom had any idea how to offer me any solace.

But clearly, there was something wrong with me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t grasp the huge universal intricacies that I so desperately wanted to be able to wrap my growing mind around. Early on in my malaise, when I finally worked up the courage – I can feel my little hands balling up into fists remembering this – to ask my mother what the meaning of life was, she held me tightly and lovingly confessed that she didn’t know. She added that as far as she could tell, it involved being the best and most loving person you could be, and cherishing your family. It was a very sweet, earnest answer, but it fell far short of the explanation I’d been hoping to hear. Because she was not only my whole world, but had also been a science major in college, she was the only person whom I really thought could give me an answer.

So ensued my philosophical funk. I recall staring into the mirror, trying to figure out what was behind and beyond my eyes, my brain, my body. My family was profoundly supportive, although I’m sure my then-5 and 1-year-old brothers were merely bummed that I wasn’t around to play with. I’m not sure exactly what specifically pulled me out of my extended angst, although it probably had something to do with my mother and my maternal grandmother, similarly sensitive and tremendously giving, caring souls.

When I returned to school after a three-month absence, it was like being on an alien planet. I still sought my spiritual solace and grand-scale understandings, but my peers were content to do 9-year-old things as though they were all that mattered. Having spent so much time inwardly analyzing, I had come to the conclusion that if I came from nothingness, that’s where I would return when I ceased to physically exist. If I came from “somethingness”, then that’s also where I would return. It seemed pretty fundamental, but it brought me great peace after such single-minded turmoil.

I wrote this unflinchingly intimate piece to further the discourse we’ve been sharing in the comments of these spiritually-related posts. I am sure that many of you have had similar experiences pondering the meanings of life, death and all things in between, albeit perhaps not from such an early age. As always, you are most welcome to share anything that resonates with you to do so.

Whether or not you’ve ever heard Dust In The Wind, do not miss listening to this absolutely masterful live version of this stunning and eternally relevant song.

I wish you peace, and the answers to all of your eternal questions.

Reality Used To Be A Friend Of Mine

When I was fifteen, my best friends were a couple: a 30-year-old electronic musician named Lorelei and her boyfriend Raj (not their real names). Raj was a 36-year-old carpenter who lived in his mother’s basement and crafted homemade cassette tapes of his moody, lyrically intense,  socially conscious rock music. Not surprisingly, I was a huge fan of both their creative endeavors. Despite the fact that they were both perennially stoned or high, they never once tried to contribute to my delinquency, and I was never interested in partaking of the drugs myself. Both Lorelei and Raj insisted that LSD contributed tremendously to their creative processes; I just thought they were fun to hang out with, regardless of whether or not they were under the influence.

Attending one of Lorelei’s concerts once at a small new-agey workshop space in the heart of Soho in the early 1980s, I had the lesson of a lifetime when someone passed out acid tabs to the band – and the entire audience. The only abstainers were myself and an elderly man in a wheelchair, who seemed to already be enjoying the ambiance anyways. It was obvious to me that these were all people experienced with LSD, as there were no wild manic nervous breakdowns on display, but as the spacey electronic music and coordinated subtly colored light show swelled, I felt that I was getting a psychological contact high.

Another friend of mine once regaled me of the time (in the late 1960s) when he hitchhiked across the country from East to West coasts, doing hits of acid the entire week-plus of his journey. Not only did he live to tell the tale, but to this day he is one of the most conscious and integrated people I’ve ever known. As some of you may know, one of my former blog screen names was “Lysergic Asset”, chosen in honor of this friend, who used LSD as an intellectual asset. It makes me wonder if the real reason that lysergic acid was banned by the U.S. government is because the powers that be had no desire to open minds before their time – or at all, really.

Living in San Francisco in the 1990s, I met many former hippies who shared with me their rich and varied drug experiences. (My favorite of the many I heard was doing peyote in the mineral spring rock pools on a cliff overlooking the ocean at Esalen Institute in Big Sur, during a full moon.) Several friends told me with candor that in their estimation, I really didn’t need psychedelic drugs. One explained it thusly: “You remind me of that AC/DC lyric: She told me to come, but I was already there. You are definitely already there.”  Basically, he was saying that I was a natural-born space cadet… which is admittedly quite true.

I have no regrets that my illegal drug use has been limited to a handful of marijuana contact highs (I inhaled, but I hated it); I feel that I have lived vicariously through the experiences of many people far more experimental than myself. Even straight up sober, reality is still a fascinating dance for me.

 

 

La Vida Sencilla (The Simple Life)

Now that I am only a month or two away from moving away from the tiny Mexican pueblo – about an hour away from Puerto Vallarta – that has been my home for the last seven years, the anticipation I felt at returning to live in the United States has been replaced by a general feeling of dread, a kind of malaise of the soul.  All I can think of is how much I will miss almost everything about this town: most especially, my warm, welcoming and easily communicative neighbors, none of whom speaks English.  They have all been tremendously patient with me as I chatter away in my amusingly broken Spanish (although it is far better than it was when I arrived with five years of long-ago language schooling and little practical experience speaking it).

I am flummoxed as to why in the U.S., Mexicans have received an undeserved reputation as being lazy; it is my experience that nothing could be further from the truth. In addition to witnessing how hard they work, I have also come to greatly respect their sense of reverence for family – extending quite literally from the cradle to the grave. I have been fortunate to have been invited to baptisms, quincinieras (a huge party for a girl’s 15th birthday), weddings and funerals over the years, and always, I have been treated with respect even though I am clearly not a native Mexican.

The picture accompanying this post is the view from the roof of my house; the vacant lot next door is home to a couple of cows and an obviously nocturnal donkey who serenades us often in the middle of the night. Chickens and dogs wander freely, and herds of goats and cows traverse the town’s small and perilously uneven cobblestone streets. Horses are mostly used for transporting tourists curious about our unusual bucolic existence. Young children safely walk unescorted through the streets; traffic is light, drivers are cautious in town, and everyone here knows each other, which enhances a feeling of safety as well as community.

Elsewhere in Mexico, there have been reports of rampant violence related to drug cartels and/or high unemployment. In Puerto Vallarta, the cruise lines imposed a moratorium on cruises into the are which lasted almost a year. But the violence which Bad Karma wrote about in his article on San Miguel de Allende (12 hours away from here) has, thankfully, not affected us. There have been an increase of break-ins in a wealthy nearby enclave, but no injuries or deaths as a result.

Fortunately, the word has gotten out that this area is a relatively safe one, and the cruise ships and tourists are back in force, sampling the various Mexican delicacies – from taco stands to high-end restaurants – sunning and surfing on the glorious beaches and shopping  at the tianguis (outdoor bazaar-style stalls), locally owned shops or expansive malls. This is the best time of year, weather wise – it is absolutely ideal – and many tourists come to seek brief refuge from their inhospitable home environs. A friend of mine just regrettably returned to Chicago after two weeks in paradise. Her response upon returning home was a terse “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

After living in such a friendly, open and free environment, my concern is that living back in the U.S. will feel stultifying to me in comparison with the liberation I’ve been so blessed to experience here. My hope is that the friendships that I form (and re-incite) when I return to America will encourage me to continue being as warm, kind and open as my Mexican neighbors have inspired me to be.

Crass Fiction: Old Lovers, New Tricks

Melody crawled out of bed just before the alarm clock could rudely awaken her. She was alone, but the other side of the bed was still warm from her lover, who had just arisen and left for work. She had spent the evening and night with one of her dearest friends, a hopelessly handsome writer and educator named Jason who was, as far as she had known for twenty years, gay.Needless to say, the experience had been a re-awakening for them both.

He had been her English professor, and the last time they’d had sex was when she was in college, immediately prior to his public coming out. She had always known him to be actively bisexual, so it wasn’t a surprise, but his admission that he was gay did nothing to dampen her attraction to him. Their friendship was so strong, she knew not to take it personally, and she encouraged him in his new identity, even though it no longer included the erotic romps she’d come to adore.

Surprisingly, the prior night didn’t involve alcohol or other influential substances, even though back in college they’d both enjoyed getting stoned before making love.  Last night, they had gone to dinner at a delectable Thai restaurant to celebrate Melody’s 41st birthday and Jason’s 54th, which fell three days after hers. Although Jason was newly single, Melody was immersed in a long-term harmonious marriage, so the conversation was largely celebratory. At some point, their talk turned to a reminiscence of their college fling, and they laughed at the magnitude of their folly, both because of the inappropriateness of their teacher-student romance and the inevitability of his obvious preferable attraction to men.

As the night progressed, though, Melody noticed Jason’s choice of words grew progressively more complimentary of her. They had been lovers for a year in college, so each had an intimate remembrance of the other, erotically speaking. While time had surely altered their bodies, they were both still quite attractive, and the chemistry of their powerful and profound friendship was strong.

“Have you ever considered being with someone else besides Dave?”, Jason had inquired provocatively.

“I haven’t been with anyone else but Dave since the last time I slept with you, Jason. So, no, I haven’t.” She assumed that was the end of it.

“First of all, I find that impossible to believe. Secondly, would you consider fucking me again? Tonight?”

Stunned, Melody replied, “Jason, since when do you have sex with women?”

“Not since the last time I had sex with you.”

“So what exactly is this? Are you telling me you’re bisexual again?”

Emphatically, he replied, “Not at all. I just really want to fuck you tonight.”

“Why tonight?” Melody asked, and the lingering question she didn’t ask was, ‘Why did you have to stop twenty years ago?’

“Why not?” he coyly replied.

Melody decided not to question his rationale, because she was already incredibly aroused and intrigued by his proposition.  After all, even though it had been decades since last they’d been lovers, she was consistently aroused by Jason’s intellect, spirit, humor and heart. Plus the obvious fact that she had never stopped appreciating how sexy she was, even though it was admiration from afar. Strong guilt feelings surfaced at the prospect of betraying her husband, but since Dave was away on a business trip, she knew that she could forestall dealing with her guilt and the logistics of her actions until afterwards.

They returned to Jason’s apartment, where Melody allowed her once-and-future lover to take the reins of their sexual reunion. She was unsurprised that he mostly wanted to fuck her from behind (old habits die hard, she’d guessed), but she was nearly stunned by how intensely he made her come. This was the kind of sex that you would gladly walk across broken glass to get to. She knew that by virtue of being a woman, she wasn’t giving him all he needed, but he didn’t seem to care; he was glad to please her to the ends of her tether.

Now, the morning after their unexpected and exceptional eroticism, her body ached but she was too ensconced in the afterglow to notice. Later, as she showered and dressed and made her way back into the world, she began to ponder how her friendship and her marriage would survive. She considered the hard truth: that this was almost certainly a one-time thing with Jason, but she now found herself even more drawn to him than before. Returning to her husband’s bed would require forgiveness on his part, and surrender on hers. Would either of them find the balance that was required? Melody knew that she was motivated to do so, as the alternative – unrequited lust for a gay man – had come full circle, and there was obviously nowhere else to go with that scenario.

As if in direct response to her line of thought, as she was heading towards the door to leave, her cell phone rang. It was Jason, wishing her good morning and then saying something that set her mind reeling again.

“Bisexuality in men is uncommon, but it’s also highly underrated.” He paused briefly before continuing, “I might be coerced into doing it again, but only with you.”

Melody was silent, mentally spinning through the possibilities. Her silence went on a bit too long, and Jason spoke again.

“Unless you don’t want to; you know we can still be friends.  Or else, I can meet you back at my place for lunch.”

Replying immediately this time, Melody asked incredulously, “Lunch?”

Just then, another call came in. It was her husband.

She knew that she wasn’t ready to answer that call… not just yet.