Desire

Scene: A large interurban public park. Park bench.

Walking my customary morning route within the park, ahead, sitting on a bench, I see a young woman, out of place a bit for that early in the morning. As I approach her, I see that she is crying. Her eyes are glistening with tears, and tears are running down her cheeks. She does not acknowledge me, as if the struggle inside of her deprives her of any other sense.

Though we had never met, that woman was you.

I paused on the trail in front of you.

‘Pardon the intrusion. You are obviously in distress. May I help you in any way. I live nearby, and walk the park every morning. I have never seen you.’

As if I had appeared out of nowhere, startled, you looked up at me. After focusing a moment on my presence there, you said, ‘I am getting married today, this afternoon.’

‘And you have misgivings, it seems?’

‘Not about the marriage itself, but about the other stuff.’

‘Other stuff?’

‘I don’t even know you. But I have to tell someone. Maybe it’s because you are a foreigner, and older.’

‘May I sit down?’

‘Yes, go ahead.’

‘Thank you. Now, what other stuff?’

‘The sex.’

‘May I presume that this is your first marriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then, you have yet to learn that marriage has nothing to do with sex; sex, nothing to do with marriage. They are contrary to one another, wholly antithetical.’

‘What are you saying? Both marriage and sex are about love.’

‘Marriage, perhaps, sometimes. Sex, too, perhaps, sometimes. But seldom the two together.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Love is needs-met. You love someone, because he or she meets a specific need or needs. Do you love the one you are about to marry?’

‘Of course, I do.’

‘Why? How?’ In what specific ways do you love him or her?’

‘Him.’

‘If I may, I am going to venture that the sex between you is not one of those specific ways in which you love him, because he has yet to meet that need in you. Am I correct.’

‘We are not married yet.’

‘Precisely. So you are here on this bench in the early morning of your wedding day, crying to yourself, and talking to an old white man whom you have never met. You have not had sex, or come even close. Am I correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Again, with all due respect, I get the feeling that you are not a virgin. You have had some experience. You know what it feels like. You like it. Tell me if I’m wrong.’

‘No, you are right. How did you know?’

‘I am an old man. I am also a poet. I know a thing or two about love and desire.’

‘He was a total stranger, also older. Not as old as you. Maybe my father’s age. He was an artist. He said he found me beautiful, and he asked me to sit for him. I was flattered. I agreed. Alone with him in his small studio, while he painted, we talked. I don’t know what came over me. I began to feel attracted to him. I mean, I began to imagine having sex with him. It was crazy. Obviously, he felt what I was feeling. He was gentle. It was my first time. It hurt a little, but I was glad I did it. I have never regretted it. In shame, though, I guess, I never went back. I thought about it, but I never did. Since then, I have had this burning desire to have that sex again. It had nothing to with love, but with something else. Is that just desire?’

‘It is not just desire. Desire is as strong a need as love. It cannot be denied. It must be met. If it is not, the flower with wither, then die. Marriage is social, procreational, economical. At best, it fulfils those needs. It rarely fulfils desire. Sex for its sake alone is instinctive, primal, carnal. It hasn’t even a whisper of practicality to it. It is inspired in itself. It lives for itself. It is fulfilled in itself. It is not love; but being in love. That is why a wife will never say of he husband, I am in love with him. Instead, she will say, at best, I love him. The same is true for the husbands of their wives.’

‘That is crazy. Does it have to be that way?’

‘I believe it does.’

‘So what should I do? I know that I will never be satisfied, sexually, with my husband. I know it. He is not that type at all. One time, I caught a glimpse of his tiny little weenie. I had to laugh to myself. He knows nothing about how to treat a woman in bed. That is why I am here, doubting everything.’

‘You appear to be a courageous woman. To be brilliant, you must be fearless. Your soon-to-be-wed will care for you in the ways that he is able. In the ways that he is not, you must seek satisfaction elsewhere. You must. If you give up on your desire, you will extinguish the flame within you, and you will surely die inside.’

‘Can I do both? Can I, really?’

‘Yes, you can. You alone are the master of your destiny.’

‘What if my husband discovers that I have lovers, what then?’

‘If he loves you, he will understand. He was not able to fulfil those needs. You had no choice. You had to fulfil them elsewhere. If you are just his trophy wife, he never loved you in the first place, and he can find another trophy. The consummation of your desire, however insatiable, must not, must never, be compromised.’

‘I think I understand now. I have to be brave. I have to look out after myself. I have to find a way to get what I need. I need sex. I really need it.’

‘Do you feel better now?’

‘I do.’

‘Are you able now to get married without regret, confident enough, really, to honour your desire as much as you do your love?’

‘I am, thanks to you.’

‘It was my pleasure, I am glad I could help.’

‘There is one more small thing you could do for me. Well, it really isn’t that small.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Will you fuck me now?’

‘Here?’

‘You said you lived close by. We could go to your place, if that is okay. That would make me feel totally better. That would give the strength and the courage to do what I am about to do, to marry a man whom I love, but with whom I am not in love.’

‘How could I possibly refuse? Of course, I will fuck you. It will be the first real fuck of your new regime of self-determination. Live not for love. Loves will find its own way. Live for the liberation of the senses, the fulfilment of desire. Shall we? I can hardly wait.’

‘Me, too. I want you to fuck me ’til I scream for more.’

‘Let’s go.’