One Night Stand
When I went camping (without my children) at the hot springs resort the last thing I expected was to hook up with a stranger. I expected to relax naked in the hot water. I expected to move freely about the decks without the burden of both clothing and shame. I expected to take advantage of the unencumbered nighttime sky to connect with the full moon. The man I met at the 5 Rhythm Tribal Dance held in the resort’s Temple was completely unexpected.
The full moon is as close to a deity as I have. Being seen by the large open eye looking into this world from space is how I feel precious to the universe. See me, she says to me. I see you, I reply, can you see me too? Yes, is always her response. Before the dance I sat on a deck at dusk to watch the sky turn shades upon shades as the moon finally caught the light of the sun setting somewhere behind the hill I was perched upon. Without my sons with me, I am free to be introspective.
Mothers are supposed to feel guilty when taking time for themselves. I refuse to. I need time to individuate. To breathe undisturbed and simply stare at the moon; which on this evening seemed pregnant with wisdom. What do you need me to know? I thought. And that was my meditation. Over and over I asked with no expectation: What does the moon wish to tell me?
The sun is gone, but the sky stays bright, lit by this beautiful moon as I enter the temple ready to dance and sweat and breathe to the beats. If the moon is my deity, then beats are my saints, my angels, my disciples of pattern and discord. I hunger for the deep throbbing in my chest to change my pulse, bow my head and guide my feet. Wearing only a sarong, I stomped and twirled, raised my arms, twisted my hands and came face to face with a shirtless man who’s breathing matched my own. He steps closer, my hips swivel to sync with his churning pelvis, I step closer, our feet lift high, bending knees, lowering then raising our bodies, arms entwining, backs arching, we spin in worship to the beat. Drenched in sweat, skin sticking when we touch, proceeding through the 5 Rhythms. “Who are you? he whispers in my ear. I catch his eye with a sideways glance of my own and walk out of the temple into the perfectly still illuminated full moon night.
I find a patch of soft grass free of trees or buildings where the moon shines directly. He joins me. We start to talk. He tells me he has just left his Ashram in a different state where he had been a Hindu Monk for the last three years, practicing celibacy, veganism and devotion to Shiva. I tell him I am a mom, a writer and about to start grad school studying Human Sexuality. We each have lots of questions for each other. We talk for 2 hours, leaving the grass to swim in the spring water, watching the waves our bodies make catch the moonlight, we follow a moonlit trail to a flat spot on the side of a cliff, feeling closer to the moon and each other.
“Why do you watch the moon so intently? he asks me. I tell him of my perceived connection. I ask him the same. He says to me, with moonlight in his dark brown eyes, that the moon is so closely associated with women that when he sees a moon like this, he feels connected to that softness. To him, it reflects the divine feminine. He looks at me and says, “You are a divine feminine being, and kisses me.
I am aware that I am the first woman he has been intimate with since making his devotional oaths to his Guru. I feel a lack of planning in his touches, there is no routine that he is following, no game plan, no sure thing trick he uses to get a woman going. His mouth and hands are moving on instinct and desire. This feels good, now this feels better, as he explores my body; the body of a woman who has gone through pregnancy and childbirth. I am being worshiped, I realize. I am the moon to him, my breath and moans are the beat that his body is moving to. He brings me to orgasm with his hands, fingers and eyes. He asks if I will orgasm again, I say yes, he keeps going.
I feel the desire to pleasure him break through the wave of satiation that enveloped me as I lay with this fascinating stranger, my sarong as our blanket, feet dangling over the cliff. The moon always responds to me, I think to myself. I begin to massage him, spreading my energy over and through his body. I breathe with him as I bring him to orgasm without him ejaculating. His eyes close tight then open wide, he has never had a tantric experience before. By the third orgasm, he is begging me for release. The palm of my hand pulsates against his perineum, the pressure and heat taking him there, to that place of deep down pleasure. I keep the rhythm despite his shaking and the loud moan, almost a scream, coming from the center of his being out through his mouth is the sonic boom of his sexual being reentering the atmosphere as he finally releases, body convulsing, spasms echoing through us both.
I lie apart from him, close but not touching. I can feel the heat between us and that is all I need. The space allows me to feel this moment on my own, as a whole, separate being, breathing in the moon now almost out of sight. I am a conduit of divine femininity. Why is that so hard to believe and so easy to dismiss? That is what the moon wanted me to know. That is what she had to say to me, and this man was her messenger. We part ways when neither moon nor sun is in the sky, just a multi-hued blanket pressing against us. We exchange names and emails, but I have no intention of contacting him. Our exchange is a part of my retreat weekend, an unexpected addition to my moon ritual. The best one night stand ever.