I am a wild lover.

Love consumes me.

I let go,

my soul boils

inside me.

My kisses

will stain your skin.

my eyes

will burn your heart.

I will break you

and I will fix you.

I am addictive.

I am yours.

–Anita Krizzan

I remember the shock I felt when my mom told me she was no longer interested in sex. What? She and this guy hungered for each other through two marriages each, over thirty years, with nothing but occasional trysts to live on. And now that they were free and together sex garnered a “Meh, I’m over it?”

Meanwhile my drought has about as much chance of being reversed as California’s. The lack of it and its painful side effects have taken up hundreds of blog posts the past year and a half. Seriously, at times I’ve been racked, driven dizzy with desire, lust, a deep red ache, to fuck and be fucked until I’m nothing but a husk.

And though our circumstances behind this (new to me) attitude differ, as Spring sprouted I lost my grip on the desire, the lust, the ache. Or let go. Maybe there lays a brittle husk in some corner that bore an heirloom seed, me, growing content without it. Her.



  1. I guess there are all sorts of responses to your – what, plea? – that would not translate well, so across the genders (a gap even wider than the ocean between us) I have to tread carefully. You are entirely right, though, in delineating the difference between loving and fucking: the one supplementing mutual need with security and friendship, the other a natural function.

    Don’t surrender. Don’t deal with the pain by shutting it down. How can you write without it? Suffering the pain, the yearning for passion is part of the great plan and shouldn’t be denied. Above all, don’t give up hope. Didn’t I read recently that it was raining in California?

    1. I can’t write without it, Frederick. You’re absolutely right. I feel exhausted of hope; perhaps my brain shut down the part that desires love (it’s not just sex I want) to give my body a break as it heals from a different chest pain.
      I know my worth, though. I feel like Zora Neale Hurston when she wrote, “How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company?” Like you, I’m pretty terrific.
      Your writing is a delight to read no matter the subject, by the way.

      1. Thank you, that’s kind. And Zora was right, you should never underestimate your worth. Somehow, I think you speak in terms of hope and not despair. You’re fighting this desire to acquiesce and you will win, no matter how depressing the subject of battles may seem right now. Now I’m wandering – sorry. All my best wishes to you – Fred.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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