After my now former lover had called me a fucking whore (catch up here) I got in my car and drove into the night. Not ready to face an empty house I followed the double yellow lines past my turn, no destination in mind. When the open air had calmed me I looked for a place to stop, one where I could just be still for a moment.
Around the next bend, tucked amongst large live oak trees I saw a small white Catholic church. I pulled in the vacant parking lot, cut the engine and leaned back to look at the sky. The crescent moon paused close to Venus just above an oak’s canopy. In the recently mown field adjacent to the church a newspaper tumbled to and fro. Am I like that? Do I allow myself to get blown one direction and then another? Am I just drug along by this always-seeking wind that is at my core? And for what does it search? I breathed deeply and became more introspective than I’ve allowed myself to be in ages. Minutes ticked. Crickets chirped. I peeled back my layers and faced a side of myself I try to bury, a side that shames me, a side that refuses to go quietly into the night.
I ache to be wanted beyond rationale and shown the depth of that want in every way possible. I’ve tried filling it with other things—work, hobbies, friendships, food, wine, sex, even God. But this hole isn’t any of those shapes. And so massive is this gaping need that I feel weak because of it. And weakness maddens me.
Several times I’ve come close to filling it, only to realize I had given my heart to a mirage. And now, the words that fell from former lover’s lips bring it all back. I am opening myself up to a man (for those of you keeping up, yes, I’m talking about Mr. Intrigue) so much that the thought of being with anyone else is repulsive. My heart crunches with a quick pain, remembering the mirages and recognizing the risk it now faces. Another deep breath. And I embrace the risk.
Lover was wrong. I’m not a fucking whore, though I’m all for a good passionate tumble… frequently. But maybe I do have a whore heart. It waits, open and sprawling, willing to be used—abused even—in the never ending hope that one day something will click. And the hole will be filled.