The Tiger of My Passion
I live with a Tiger: paws and claws; playful and fierce; aloof and focused; hunger-driven and gloriously beautiful; lanquid, but with the ability to spring to life at the right provocation. Such is my sexual passion. I call it, “My Tiger.”
My Tiger is something I, just now entering the second half of my adult life, have grown to love and respect. I love the raw power; I respect its ability to harm. I love the grace and beauty; I respect the ferocity underneath. Tigers engage; and tigers like to be left alone. I used to be nervous about the Tiger, afraid even; I now am grateful for it.
Hunger drives the Tiger and I’m finally beginning to understand this hunger and how to use it. It is a driving force, a primal force, and ultimately a creative one. The Tiger wants to run and chase, leap and cavort, sink its teeth into sweet flesh, devour that which it needs. But a satiated Tiger is not always a happy Tiger.
Hungry Tigers prowl. Hungry Tigers explore. Hungry Tigers are alert to their surroundings, missing no opportunity. If I refrain from feeding My Tiger, I find my creative faculties go up a few more notches.
When My Tiger growls with hunger, my loins ache with want. The growl sits behind lips yearning to be pressed upon. My skin tingles with a desire to be stroked until I purr. But I find I can sit astride the Tiger-hunger, feel its roiling energy in my hips and legs, boiling upward, driving me forward. When the Tiger is hungry, I eagerly go forth and engage the world. The satiated Tiger, on the other hand, is content to stretch and lounge and view the world through sleepy eyes. A well-fed Tiger is not compelled to prowl and explore.
My Tiger has grown discerning about its meals. The empty calories of meaningless dalliances don’t even rouse my Tiger anymore. Her ears may flick up, her pupils may dilate. When the Tiger sees the yumminess of connecting with another person, she may rise and pad closer to investigate. But My Tiger won’t waste her precious time on that which is not deeply nourishing. Because only an honest to goodness man can live with My Tiger.
Too many men have been afraid of the Tiger. They have projected their insecurites on the Tiger, bringing out emotional chains, physical intimidations, and words that cut like an unskilled tamer’s whip. This Tiger can be tamed, but it takes a man who knows what tools to bring to do the job.
The skilled tamer brings openness and awareness. Approaching anything of a wild nature demands your full attention, observation, and respect. The man who will get the pleasure of playing with My Tiger possesses a relaxed strength. This tamer doesn’t flinch if the Tiger charges head on, the weight of the moment propelling her forward, claws holding, pinning, tasting, engulfing. The great Tiger-taming performance comes from a man who so respects his own Divine Masculine, he is able to open his arms wide and gleefully catch the leaping Tiger.
The man who can live with my Tiger also knows when to let her lie still in the sun, dreaming of the wider world. He will simply watch when the Tiger takes a prowl, not fearing if she will return. He will be alert to signs of injury and illness and suspend other concerns to tend such a precious, wild thing. He will stroke the Tiger into a space of purring softness, understanding that the true power needed to live with a Tiger lies in the unwavering trust between them.
The Tiger of my passion is beautiful creature, I marvel at the fact that I have been entrusted with such a glorious thing. I accept the responsibility to create a life that allows the Tiger to be well-fed, free and happy. And the Tiger and I are ever alert to finding a keeper, a tamer, a true and trusted friend. We have our fingers and claws crossed!