When you really think about it, trying to define physical attraction with mere language and words is pretty pointless stuff.
See, the thing is, being turned on by someone is actually a language of its own. And in many ways, it is a more advanced form of communication than French or Italian or English or whatever. Where words fail us, where language stops at the curb of a towering cliff, teetering on the edge and sighing with last-minute relief, sexual desire simply hurls itself out into that sweet and crazy abyss.
So, you can have your 50 Shades of Grey and your pulpy bodice-rippers.
And you can even keep your Shakespeare and your Barry White, too.
Because when it all comes down to being wholly and completely mesmerized by another human being, when it all adds up to your blood baking in your veins like summertime mud, until you can barely stand the very sight of a person because you want them and their caveman attention so bad, there is no point in even trying to put it in words.
You just have to decide, really. Are you going to follow the feeling down? Or are you going to channel it somewhere else? Which all brings me to this little revelation I’ve been having on and off for the past five years or so.
I am way way turned on by my pregnant wife.
I have no idea why. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have some idea, I think. I understand all of the stuff people initially spout off about when it comes to how “beautiful” pregnancy is on a woman. I get it that we are all supposed to get all sanctimonious when we preach from the mountaintop just how invigorating and sublime a big fat baby belly on the woman in our lives makes us feel.
And I know that it is both morally and ethically right to admit to the world that we find pregnant ladies just as lovely as a spot of afternoon tea in the bright sunny garden.
What I am talking about here is something much different, something darker and crazier and confusing and powerful. And awesome. People, listen up. I’m talking about the fact that my pregnant wife is driving me physically insane and I am having a hard time keeping my own innermost James Deen locked up in the basement of the glorified seedy motel I call “control.”
And it isn’t something new, either. This goes back five or six years, when my wife, Monica, became pregnant with our first child, Violet. Something snapped in me. New juice started ramming my volts. And before long, as she became more and more pregnant, I became more and more, well… horn dog.
Now, I’m there again. She’s in the final two months of carrying our third child, a little guy–thank you very much–and I find myself craving her/wanting her/needing her/ummm… stalking her (?) to the point where I am a possible liability to other dudes. When I see a guy looking at her in the mall, either checking her out or simply glancing right through her, I get all Gladiator inside and I want to take him out with a double-copter swirl kick, ninja twist at the end.
When dudes like pictures of her sizzling pregnant body on Facebook, I want to message them that I am watching–and that I am on my way. Or even when dudes click “Like” on something clever or innocuous she has written on her Facebook wall, I am avalanched by these total and absolute urges to grab her hair and kiss her hard and fast, with major teenage tongue, before I set out to kick the asses of, like, 67 innocent fellas who probably click 30 or 40 “Likes” in a row every half hour. (I know who you guys are, btw, and I KNEW you’d find your way here within a few hours.)
Anyway, phew. Let me catch my breath here.
I guess what I am trying to say is this.
My wild-eyed sexuality, my carnal urgency has always been vast and almost overwhelming, ever since I was like 8 and saw my first policewoman (sorry, that’s a whole other post). But it has never pushed the tides like it is pushing them now, today.
No marriage is perfect. No love affair is without its share of challenges and doubts. And no two people who have ever wanted each other like burning rabbits manage to maintain that desire at a steady fever pitch, day in and day out, for decades. It comes and goes, the jungle attraction does.
But what I am finding out is this: when your sexual desire for a single solitary person comes and goes with a certain woman who is pregnant and who is your wife of almost 10 years, and who is damn hot when she isn’t pregnant but who is making you smash your teeth against your jaw as you try and hold on to the very last shreds of your restraint as she sighs and walks across the living room floor, decked out in her loosest knocked-up stuff, her back arched to keep her from tipping over, and when you realize that you are feeling more and more devilishly affected by her very subtle movements, wrist turns and toe flicks, and by the strength and patience she is exhibiting on a daily basis as she cooks up life down inside her, and quite frankly, and not not-embarrassingly at all, when you find your actual soul and your spirit and your you-know-what spellbound and imprisoned by the endless sightings of this 1955 Pin Up Girl-style voluptuousness you are forced to tiptoe around more or less all the time, as sex with you is the furthest thing from her mind and she’d rather see you turn into a Chipotle burrito than bed you, then you can rest assured that words will fail you, as they have failed me, but that the explosive turn-on going off within you is probably the purest, coolest one you will ever know.
And that it is a sign of what you’re really all about: the physical, the emotional, the spiritual, the soulful, the intellectual, and the red hot and sexual.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself, as I sit here biting my lip until it almost bleeds, contemplating her and us and pregnancy and a few things that are far too raunchy for us just talking on the free internet.