In August, I had the most sex I think I’ve ever had in one month’s time, perhaps in one year’s time. Sex in a cozy Airbnb nestled in the semi-isolated hills of Topanga Canyon, slowly, frantically exploring unfamiliar bodies. Sex at three in the morning after a hard but necessary conversation, tears turning into moans. Sex under the light of a pregnant moon and nothing else. Sex in my big old bed with soft, new lovers, the afternoon sun shining on us through a canopy of leaves, giving us new skin. Sex where I’m in such pleasure, such enjoyment, that I smile and smile and smile.
My sexuality feels the most alive and vibrant it’s ever felt.1 Desire is living on the surface of my body, no longer locked away in dark, fearful corners. I feel it viscerally (I feel it now as I type this) and instead of ignoring it, I’m allowing myself to be moved by it. I’ve acted on most of my desires this month, making first moves, showing lovers how I feel about them with my body.
There have been many times this month when I didn’t recognize my own mannerisms, where I felt sensual yet strange in my own skin. Sometimes that strangeness made me afraid because of how much I’ve changed, how much I’m changing from moment to moment. That fear is rooted in what it might mean if everything I thought about myself previously—all of my assumptions and labels I’ve carefully curated—isn’t actually as true as I once thought. Who am I without the identities that have been my homes? What does it mean if I no longer feel like I can welcome myself back inside the dwellings I’ve made for myself? Where do I live now?2
August wasn’t just about sex (which you’ll see in a moment) but sex and my sexual life was a big theme that took up a lot of space. I wasn’t expecting that. When it comes to my sex life, historically it is quite quiet, predictable, a little tenuous. Having so much movement and aliveness in this domain is as thrilling as it is terrifying. I’m trying to emphasize the thrill more than the terror.