Three and a half years ago, I wrote this, after attending a bar mitzvah. It was, by far, the most controversial post I’ve ever written.
Recently, I attended another bar mitzvah, and at this one, found myself confronting differently transgressive, but no less complicated, fantasies.
Among the guests at this event was a young woman – an adult, legally. But also, the daughter of a man I’ve known since I was seven. A woman I held in my arms less than 24 hours after her birth.
It makes me feel icky to try to describe her, because the only way I know how would read like a paean, and I can’t possibly allow myself to write a paean to this woman. Suffice it to say, her physical appearance – and in particular, the black choker around her neck – presented a monumental challenge to my concentration.
If I could control my thoughts, I would not have fantasies about this woman. But they’re not. And I did.
It’s all further complicated by the fact that her father and I are no longer the friends we once were, that I feel a complicated admixture of anger, hurt, and sadness at the state of our relationship, and that even as I contend with my sexual fantasies about his daughter, I must simultaneously contend with the context in which they arise. And, most painfully, with the fact that once upon our time, even such a transgressive thought would have been precisely the sort of thing he and I could discuss easily.
It makes me sad.