Somehow, I made it to adulthood starved for touch. In my twenties, I discovered first lap dances and then “happy ending” massages. In my thirties, my consumption of commercially procured female touch accelerated, and soon I was paying for more and more of it, more and more frequently.
In my forties, things shifted.
I turned my attention first to less sexual forms of touch – legitimate massage, bodywork, and assisted stretching in the gym. And, of course, sexual adventures of the non-commercial variety, of the sort you read about here.
Through it all, though, there’s a constant. Somehow, for some reason, I continue, always, to rely heavily on female touch – sexual or otherwise – for help with emotional regulation. I don’t know why. I’m emotionally attuned. I meditate daily. Work out frequently. I continue to develop a more intimate and familiar relationship with my own body, but have quite a long way to go.
On the massage table the other day, in a bodywork session by a Rolf-er with whom I’ve long worked, I noticed that when she asked if the temperature was ok, I replied, reflexively, “It’s fine.”
I don’t know if it was fine, or hot, or cold. As I answered, I realized that I never, ever have – nor would I – ask(ed) for the temperature to be changed. I just wouldn’t. It’s almost as if, in that setting, I don’t have warmth or coldness. (In French, that’s how you say it – j’ai froid, j’ai chaud. In Spanish, too, I think, though I’m less sure.)
I’m not sure how these things relate. On the one hand, my reliance on women’s touch to keep me balanced; on the other, my seeming obliviousness to my bodily experience in the moment. Or at least, in a moment when I’m being touched by a woman.
Got any thoughts?