my body was coming apart at the seams. I was frenzied, thrashing on the bed, hyperventilating, waves of pure intensity bursting through me, centered on the nexus of my pussy.
The waves became unbearable and my body turned hypersensitive, and I had to let myself go limp on the bed, panting raggedly. "Oh...my god...that was incredible." I was talking to the empty room, but I didn't care. If that was what I could do to myself, without really knowing what to do or how, then what could a man who knew how to give pleasure do to me?
The thought made me shiver, a shudder of anticipatory excitement, and not a little fear.
* * *
I fell asleep after that, exhausted from the day's events. I woke up in the late evening. I left the hotel, unsure where I was going or what I was going to do, but determined to do something . I wanted to start my life, and myself over. I was on a journey of self-discovery.
The thought struck me as cliché but true. My first inclination was to record the events as they happened. I'd kept a journal all the way through high school and college, and while I'd abandoned the habit in the wake of marriage and my career as a small-town journalist-turned-editor, I still found myself composing diary entries on my way to work, even though I never wrote them down.
I was a writer by trade. I'd majored in journalism because it had seemed a more viable way to make a living writing than with some nebulous dream of "being a writer." Now, with everything I knew gone and my future waiting to be written anew, I found myself not just wanting, but needing to start journaling again.
So I found the nearest place that sold electronics and bought a netbook. It's small, cheap, and portable, underpowered and low on memory but all I need for typing journal entries as I travel.
At some point between leaving home—or what had been home—and waking up that evening I'd decided I was going to travel, see the world. I had money, essentially stolen from my husband...soon-to-be ex -husband...and I was determined to make use of it.
I took my new netbook and sat down in a Starbucks to compose the preceding entry, sipping on a venti Chai tea latte. I might have cried as I began the words, just a few angry tears, but by the time I finished up to the asterisks a few paragraphs up, I was calm and ripping through the words at a furious pace.
I'm sitting there now, on my second Chai latte, not thinking about what's coming out of my fingers. People pass around me, chatter in twos and threes, read books and do homework and stare out the window listening to music. I'm surrounded by people but completely alone.
I don't mind the solitude. Back home...back there , there is no solitude. I was either at work or at home with Harry, or shopping, or visiting with Leah, or something. I was never alone, never able to sit and think and do whatever I wanted just because .
What do I want?
I want to live. I want to experience new things. I want to see Rome, and Athens, and Venice, and Paris, and London, and Tokyo, and Turks and Cacaos. I want to feel a man's kiss, feel his hands doing things to me. I want to feel sex, and love. I want to feel desired. I want to feel alone in a foreign country. I want to feel brave, and yes, even afraid.
Until I caught Harry cheating on me, everything was the same: peaceful, boring, and predictable. I'd eventually have a kid with Harry, and I'd probably give up my position as an editor and my career in general to raise the child, and Harry and I would have sex on Saturdays and Sundays and I might never have known any different.
And then I spilled my coffee on myself. My life was thrown out the window, and my entire personality put into question.
I've never felt so alive before. I can do anything.
Holy shit, I'm terrified.
June 8
I woke up this morning ready for change. I looked up salons in the area and made an appointment for a cut-and-color later in the day. I'd brought all my clothes with me, but going through them,
The waves became unbearable and my body turned hypersensitive, and I had to let myself go limp on the bed, panting raggedly. "Oh...my god...that was incredible." I was talking to the empty room, but I didn't care. If that was what I could do to myself, without really knowing what to do or how, then what could a man who knew how to give pleasure do to me?
The thought made me shiver, a shudder of anticipatory excitement, and not a little fear.
* * *
I fell asleep after that, exhausted from the day's events. I woke up in the late evening. I left the hotel, unsure where I was going or what I was going to do, but determined to do something . I wanted to start my life, and myself over. I was on a journey of self-discovery.
The thought struck me as cliché but true. My first inclination was to record the events as they happened. I'd kept a journal all the way through high school and college, and while I'd abandoned the habit in the wake of marriage and my career as a small-town journalist-turned-editor, I still found myself composing diary entries on my way to work, even though I never wrote them down.
I was a writer by trade. I'd majored in journalism because it had seemed a more viable way to make a living writing than with some nebulous dream of "being a writer." Now, with everything I knew gone and my future waiting to be written anew, I found myself not just wanting, but needing to start journaling again.
So I found the nearest place that sold electronics and bought a netbook. It's small, cheap, and portable, underpowered and low on memory but all I need for typing journal entries as I travel.
At some point between leaving home—or what had been home—and waking up that evening I'd decided I was going to travel, see the world. I had money, essentially stolen from my husband...soon-to-be ex -husband...and I was determined to make use of it.
I took my new netbook and sat down in a Starbucks to compose the preceding entry, sipping on a venti Chai tea latte. I might have cried as I began the words, just a few angry tears, but by the time I finished up to the asterisks a few paragraphs up, I was calm and ripping through the words at a furious pace.
I'm sitting there now, on my second Chai latte, not thinking about what's coming out of my fingers. People pass around me, chatter in twos and threes, read books and do homework and stare out the window listening to music. I'm surrounded by people but completely alone.
I don't mind the solitude. Back home...back there , there is no solitude. I was either at work or at home with Harry, or shopping, or visiting with Leah, or something. I was never alone, never able to sit and think and do whatever I wanted just because .
What do I want?
I want to live. I want to experience new things. I want to see Rome, and Athens, and Venice, and Paris, and London, and Tokyo, and Turks and Cacaos. I want to feel a man's kiss, feel his hands doing things to me. I want to feel sex, and love. I want to feel desired. I want to feel alone in a foreign country. I want to feel brave, and yes, even afraid.
Until I caught Harry cheating on me, everything was the same: peaceful, boring, and predictable. I'd eventually have a kid with Harry, and I'd probably give up my position as an editor and my career in general to raise the child, and Harry and I would have sex on Saturdays and Sundays and I might never have known any different.
And then I spilled my coffee on myself. My life was thrown out the window, and my entire personality put into question.
I've never felt so alive before. I can do anything.
Holy shit, I'm terrified.
June 8
I woke up this morning ready for change. I looked up salons in the area and made an appointment for a cut-and-color later in the day. I'd brought all my clothes with me, but going through them,
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