Tag: sex

I’m relishing the marvelous variety of emotions that my heart is feeling. What a gift it is to be human! My mind is trying hard to sort out the story, but I’ve relieved it of the burden of attachment.

It’s the Sabbath, and a lunar eclipse is nigh. This morning, I opened and consulted my plastic baggie full of the weed that the Mormon and I had bought in Motueka. We’d split an ounce, and half of my half consisted of one massive, sticky bud that celebrated my future joy with an explosion of plush brown hairs. The rest of my half was respectable, of course: average-sized buds and a little shake, but that one superstar bouquet was thicker than the Mormon’s cock, if not quite as long.

This morning, that large, fine specimen of marijuana was gone.

That thieving Mormon!

It must have been him. He’s the only one who could’ve gotten to the baggie. My bedroom door locks automatically when I leave, and Turban, the manager with the only master key, is way too hard-working to be an avaricious stoner. It was equally ludicrous to think that I accidently dropped the monster bud somewhere – you don’t lose something that large that easily, especially when it’s such a lovely, treasured specimen.¹

I insisted upon sleeping alone last night because I’m finally getting some good rest at this lodge. Does the Mormon feel as though he deserves to stay in my warm, comfortable space because he’s fucking me? Did he steal the bud as compensation? He must know that I don’t enjoy his company, and that I’m trying to break up with him. Is this his preemptive revenge; his odd sense of justice righting the wrong of my frustration with him?

But it’s such an obvious theft. Surely the Mormon could have been more sly.

Did he lose respect for me after our vacation to Castle Hill? Or does the Mormon have some sort of compulsion? I’ve seen how naturally he takes whatever he can from the hotel rooms that I book for us: soaps and shampoos, sugar and tea packets, and even a stray towel or two. That joke about how easy it would be to ‘lift’ the TV from our room in Fox Glacier must have required a little pre-meditative investigation. There were many such jokes, and I couldn’t forget his slippery ease at breaking into our locked AirBNB in Canterbury.

The heart swells sweetly with attachment so that the keen sense of betrayal can nestle deeper, like slicing fresh bread.

My mind is spinning with this creative new twist on the story that New Zealand is telling of my life.

I think I finally have a valid excuse to visit Farmer Colin at his new campsite! He has a digital scale. I’ll tell him that I want to weigh my baggie to prove to myself that the monster bud hadn’t just magically broken up into smaller bits overnight. Farmer Colin might even share a hug of commiseration with me or some valuable advice about the Mormon’s character. Maybe these past two weeks without his girlfriend, Colette, had been a bit lonely for him.

I’d planted the seed of desire in him last week. It’s been long enough. Time to see if the seed has germinated.

2:18pm

Farmer Colin’s campsite is number 108.

I waited until noon to visit him, but I still woke him with my tap-tapping on his mustard-yellow caravan’s door. His caravan looked well in the park-like campground on the southwestern edge of Lake Hawea; its mellow yellow blended lovingly with the dry winter grass and brittle green pines. Apologizing for my intrusion, I told him I’d return when he was more awake, but Farmer Colin insisted that I stay. The shadow of Lockdown’s isolation still hung over us all.

The story of The Heinous Weed Theft spilled out after he’d dressed for the cold outside of his fluffy covers and made himself a cup of coffee.

“How well do you know the Mormon?” I asked Farmer Colin, cradling the cup of tea he’d brewed for me in my still-gloved hands. “Am I over-reacting? Is he trustworthy?”

Colin shrugged, three heavy sweaters obscuring the motion of his lithe shoulders. The heat from the fire that he’d started in his little iron stove remained stubbornly sequestered at the far end of his narrow home. His large eyes were bright with interest as he rummaged through the dusty boxes and piles squatting in the corners of his graffitied caravan.

“The Mormon’s always been straight with me,” he said, slightly furrowing his kingly brow. “I know he was in some trouble back in England, but I don’t know what that was about.”

Colin straightened to standing, his beautiful eyes touching mine.

“Sorry, I can’t even find my scales in this mess.”

“No worries.” I paused to take a swallow of the hot tea, warming my nose in its steam. “It doesn’t really matter: it is what it is. The weed is gone. Even if the Mormon did take it, he’d never admit it or give it back. I guess it’s karma² somehow. I wish I knew what I did to deserve this.”

“Did anything happen between you two?”

“No more than usual. I’ve been less loving to him lately, for sure, because I’m fed up with his laziness. I don’t think he’s noticed. The Mormon keeps promising that he’ll get a job, but he seems quite happy to mooch off me whenever he can. He’s addicted to this sweet lifestyle that I’m giving him. As long as we’re having sex, it’s all good between us. So, we have a lot of sex.”

Groaning and laughing, Farmer Colin rolled his eyes and stretched his plaid-clad arms heavenward.

“Ah. I miss sex.”

Of course he did. A regal, virile young man like him… but it was too soon. The seedling had taken root, but the leaves had yet to unfurl.

“Yes,” I laughed with him. “Sex is kinda great. It gives me energy and makes me vibrant. That kind of connection is so vital to me. I feel like I need it to thrive. Maybe I have a problem with addiction myself.”

“Yeah, nah… You’re fine. It’s natural. I grew up on a farm, and I saw it all the time. It’s not like you’re hooked on ice.” Farmer Colin looked ruefully down at his hot, thick coffee. “We all have needs.”

“How’s it feel to be so far away from Colette after the intensity of Lockdown together?” I asked.

“It’s rough, mate.” Colin averted his gaze. “I miss her, but she has a good job up in Blenheim, and some French friends to talk to. I might go up and meet her in a month or two. It’s a long time to go without her.”

We spoke for two hours about love and life, as he downed three cups of coffee and an equal number of hand-rolled cigarettes. That sweet boy did have needs. Could I fulfill them? Not today. I’d let him simmer overnight; let the seedling reach out for sustenance of its own volition.

I’d been so hungry for this type of conversation; this kind of quick, fun repartee that lit up my neurons and opened my heart. I felt brighter, and when I left Farmer Colin’s caravan, the low sun sparkled his welcome. There would be a lunar eclipse³ tomorrow afternoon, and the naughty Earth would come between the King and Queen of our solar system. As above, so below.

¹ https://wanderlust.com/journal/aparigraha-learning-to-let-go/

² https://path.homestead.com/karma1.html

³ https://www.space.com/buck-moon-penumbral-lunar-eclipse-july-4-2020.html

Tags addiction, aparigraha, Farmer Colin, karma, lunar eclipse, mooch, new zealand, Otago, sex, the long game, the Mormon, theft, travel, weed, winter

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July 3, Journal

“I’m supposed to be doing something important,” I said, in frustration, to the Mormon. “Helping. Healing people or something.”

He took a drag on the joint that we were sharing to ‘sort me out’ for the ride that I’d given him to Wanaka. His sense of justice was strong. I stared out at the opulent mountains across the lake, itching to break up with him and not knowing how.

“You’ve helped me empty my sack,” the Mormon replied, his smoke rolling long into the persistent Otago wind.

Otago’s steep, barren mountainsides and wide, dry plains sharpened to crystal perfection in the winter. Clouds often loomed low, and their desolate grey chill insisted upon multiple layers of socks and sweaters. Cobalt shadows washed over snow and stone langorously throughout the short days, reluctlantly ceding the majestic landscape to the sun’s blond rays for only a few hours a week.

I found a refuge quite close to the Mormon’s trailer. It was a simple lodge with a reasonably priced double room, situated within 2km of the tiny farm that he called home. I thought that I might find a nice balance between a healthy lifestyle and regular sex if I could keep the Mormon exactly at arm’s length.

The Mormon had worked at the restaurant attached to this lodge about a year ago, and he introduced me to a few of his old co-workers: an unimpressed matron at the front desk, a short Indian fellow with a Turban, and a tall, pretty blonde woman behind the bar who didn’t have time for his grandiosity. I was still too close to the Mormon’s world, but I carefully carved time out for his sex on my own terms so that I could have the majority of the day to sink into my own world and write.

The lodge had a shared kitchen where I could cook vegetables without the Mormon’s disdainful side-eye. On the very first day, I burned my pumpkin curry, sending Turban sprinting into the kitchen to shut off the wailing smoke detector. He kindly waved aside my apologies.

There was a block of bathrooms that was only 30 or 40 steps away from the main building, so if I was quick and clever and didn’t mind two minutes of the frosty pre-dawn air on my naked skin, I could resume my daily ritual of full-body oil massage. I allowed the Mormon into my space only after I claimed it with a good rest, a comforting morning ritual of oil and meditation, and a mildly-burnt meal. After the Mormon and I fucked in the clean white sheets, I took a warm shower, revelling in the spaciousness of the cracked concrete cubicle. The water pressure was hard and enjoyably soothing to my neglected clitoris.

I returned to my bedroom, where the Mormon was idly tapping at the screen of his phone. Dropping my towel and revealing my nudity caught his attention, and he stopped me before I pulled my underwear up over my knees. I’d shaved my pubic hair a few days ago. The Mormon caressed this new genital topography, and his fingers stumbled over an ingrown hair at the top center of my pubic mound.

He picked and picked painfully at the ingrown hair with his long, wolf-like nails until it bled. I watched dispassionately. Holding a thick forefinger over the tiny wound, he looked up at me.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” the Mormon said, his English mouth holding the roundness of his vowels fully, like they were eggs in a basket. “I guess I’ve scarred you forever.”

“You certainly have, sweetie.”

That little scratch was nothing compared to the long scratch that ran down my right butt cheek, about two inches away from and perfectly parallel to my crack. An outdoor tryst with him in the warm days of early autumn had been responsible for that scar (probably some stick or rock cut a groove into me while I’d see-sawed back and forth in Missionary). Subsequent outdoor fucking had peppered my ass and legs with dozens of sandfly bites that left constellations of discolored dots to remind me of our fulfilled desire. The wounds in my heart and mind are already scabbed over, so I’ll let that intangible substance heal in its own way, without disruption.

I destroyed the Mormon’s assumption that he’d be spending the night here in the lodge with me. If he wanted a warm, comfortable bed and a hot, healthy meal, he’d have to pay for it himself. This wide bed was all mine. The Mormon earned his bed by planting garlic, and I’d earned this one with an 11-year marriage.