OCTOBER ISSUE: On Desire

mage from author’s collection: Book of Life - The Marshall Cavendish Encyclopaedia

This month’s extract from The Cure For Sleep for subscribers on Substack spoke of desire: the kind we suffer in secret, finding no outlet for it in our waking lives. It comes from a time when I’d begun writing a mile in public beside the outdoor pool in my small town: a strange self-made way of expanding my life that brought much joy – while also unleashing less comfortable emotions. I asked readers to tell me a short true tale on this theme in return. Here is where any responses will be showcased.

October extract

OFF THE PILL and with my wedding ring thrown away in temper, I sat sleepless in the attic. New and unhappy night-time routine since midsummer when I felt the season begin sliding towards the pool’s September closing day.

Nye and the children were in separate rooms on the floors below, but I was still crowded, caged. Like a vixen in heat, I wanted to be outside the house, skirting fields and fences, laying scent trails, lying in wait. Not sitting spinster-neat on a single bed, hemmed in by the books of bolder women: Anaïs Nin noting in her diary that all days should be so good – the sperm of seven men by bedtime; Frida Kahlo lying laughing on the grass with a female lover; Lee Miller posing naked for the camera of Man Ray, equals in bed and art; Georgia O’Keeffe likewise with Stieglitz; Simone de Beauvoir delighting in a first orgasm at almost forty, just as she’d been resigning herself to losing youth and beauty.

[Full extract on Substack]

The Cure for Sleep

Reader responses

I have blocked myself from feeling too much desire…

*

I have schooled myself to not want too much.

And then I remembered the day that I cried at the beach.

We were with friends this summer. It was a glorious day – we don’t get many of them – we relish them when we do. Everybody was in the water, but me. I had a Hickmann line sticking out of my chest. I had to stay dry.

Now, I’m not a strong swimmer. I’m lucky that my nearest beach is a long, shallow beach. I can stay in my depth and feel safe. I have no eyebrows any more, so I struggle with keeping water out of my eyes. I do what my dad would call ‘canal stroke’ – breaststroke with my head out of the water. But I do it all year round. In November, when the sea is as grey as the sky. In February, when feet and fingers go numb.

It’s my reset button. In there, there’s nothing in my head but sea. My body is all sensation – the sound of the water, the buffeting of the waves, the taste of salt-water. I am entirely in the present.

I try to carry that present moment with me, like a child might carry a pebble home from the beach.

And I cried for that, on that sunny beach in Wales.

Just to reassure you – I’m back in the water. I have a new, sub-cutaneous line – my skin is intact again. I have a window when my immune system is at its strongest. I take my moment. I allow the overwhelm. I relish it. I have that pebble in my pocket again.

Sarah Connor

The Amber Man

*

A very long time ago, when youth and desire to eat the Apple shadowed my everyday and fed off my internal female being (a hunger never satiated), I found myself waiting for a train in Jackson Heights.

I had recently moved to NY and was going to the city to look for work. Everything was new to me. The noise, smells, the patchwork of people and cultures, all a maiden voyage filling my senses with possibilities.

As I stood on the platform I noticed a man who noticed me. He was aglow with vibrance, his amber eyes seduced me at a glance. No words were exchanged . A train pulled up, alas not mine. As the doors slid open he moved forward and – as he boarded – he turned and sought me out. I stood and gazed in mounting disappointment as this perfect man was about to glide out of my life. He quickly shot his head out and said ‘You are beautiful’.

With that the train sped off. No compliment has been so fine so honest so accepted to this day.

Thoughts of this man occupied me. In my mind he had been heading to Rockaway where he lived in an apartment high up that faced the Ocean. We lay on white sheets on a sunlit bed. Bird song, mingled with human passion. Wordless space with no intruding thoughts, just a perfect blend.

In time my Amber Prince faded and the place where life approaches perfection melted into a distant dream to forever be a part of my internal landscape and memory of a desire based on escape to Shangri-La.

I avoided that platform for some time. Reality could never be the dream.

Louise Newman

The L Word

*

I hadn’t known it was possible to cry with laughter while having sex, but it was.

We would spend hours together in bed captivated, talking, laughing, exploring. He had a thing for older women and I had…

What did I have? A new found lust for life since near death from sepsis, choosing – after recovery and ending my long affectionless marriage – to live beyond the rules, to follow the joy. Grasping every precious second. If doing something was more fun than not doing it, I was in. Exhilarated and fascinated to be so close to someone so young was like reliving my lost youth. He was 25, I was 44 and nobody knew.

This shouldn’t be happening and couldn’t last, but just one more week. And another. On paper the age difference was a disaster but together we were magic. It was, fleetingly, so perfect.

Gazing at me intently with his beautiful dark eyes, I would watch his face, holding his look with an unexpected confidence, feeling more connected, seen and adored than I had in years. How I loved to be near him.

Love. That was a word we mustn’t say. ‘Don’t say the L word, can’t go there.’ He was right, of course. Yet I found myself, after only three weeks, wrapped heady in a blanket, watching him step out into the darkness with the words forming in my mouth.

I love you.

I bit my tongue to hold them in, shaken. I was not allowed to fall in love with this one.

I did.

Years later I still think of him. Every. Single. Day. My star-crossed lover. 

Maria James

Standing among thousands…

…near the reflecting pool on the Washington Mall, all words were suddenly knocked out of me. I saw her for the first time in almost a year, and I knew: I loved her. I loved this woman with a depth I had not yet known for anyone, and what I knew about myself fell into pieces and began to reassemble in a different shape.

I didn’t speak again for a week. Protesting with throngs, long night on a bus, and then home, where I retreated to the tiny two-storey tower that was part of our rented attic apartment. Windows all around. Day after day, mounds of wet clay took shape in my hands with an energy I did not know was mine. She was not mine; she was linked to someone else, and anyway, this turmoil was about me, not her, not really.

My art professor looked at the pieces, and at me, back and forth, silently. Exposed, vulnerable. I knew. I couldn’t have made anything else.

At the gaping firebox of the full kiln, my friends and I stoke wood into flames for 24 hours, heat melting the hairs around our foreheads. Stars above, searing orange within. Shakuhachi flute playing somewhere in the dark. Smoke-enveloped, soot-marked, stories shared. Silence.

A long day’s wait for cooling, and then we gently pull the warm bricks out of the wall. Inside, the pieces I made in the tower have blown into unrecognizable bits; air and passion having expanded in bubbles within and exploded, flinging shards against the bricks. It was exactly the right ending. Heated to over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit, so much raw emotion could do nothing else. I tossed the fragments into the shard pile, and moved on.

Amy Boyd

I thought I’d write about sex…

…I once had a lot but not now, and although they say that if I stop looking, people will flock to my door, I can’t and they aren’t. Anyway, now I’m all consumed with getting my book published.

I still am, after all this time.

It would be easier if I let it go, let it lie under a hedge like all the balls that have ever rolled down the hill, unclaimed, in Sara Baume’s A Line Made by Walking. Or let it float out to sea and just watch it getting heavier, changing colour and sinking slowly, unnecessary. But I simply cannot. I am giving up a nice life for this, I am risking penury for the thrill of penning.

Many women through the ages have shown their desire to write. Radclyffe Hall worked on her first book, aptly named The Unlit Lamp, for 3 years; Patricia Highsmith used a nom de plume, Claire Morgan, for The Price of Salt. (That was the book that excited the film, Carol.) Like Hall, M A Caws wrote that Vita Sackville-West’s ‘essential quality was her great and lasting courage.’ I know what lies behind that: desire.

We’re old lovers now, my reworked manuscript and I. Dedicated but no less desirous. I still wake in the night in the ecstasy of an idea, I continue to fondle her paragraphs until they’re all spent and we sleep again, only to wake early and stroke her page, coax meaning from her, tempt the topic all over again. I am lascivious for phrase and metaphor, I quiver for words which describe and portray, I am simply voracious. Can I sustain such desire? Two years in and we’re getting a little tired of our own company, we’re considering a threesome – she, me and, ooh, an agent?

Tamsin Grainger
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