Maybe I don’t actually love him. But I love what he has awakened inside me. He treated me with zero respect, left me stripped of my dignity. Undeterred, he did exactly what he wanted, while I strived, once again, to try to please someone.
My mind travels to a secret and unfamiliar place. This time I’m the dominatrix. He’s naked, but now I’m the one giving orders. I tie up his hands and feet, and I sit on his face and force him to kiss my vagina until I can’t take any more orgasms. Then I turn him over and penetrate him with my fingers: first one, then two, three. He moans with pain and pleasure while I masturbate him with my free hand, feeling the hot liquid run down my fingers. I bring them up to my mouth and lick, one at a time, before wiping them on his face. He begs for more. I say that’s enough. I’m the one in charge!
Before I go to sleep, I masturbate and have two orgasms, one after the other.
IT’S THE same scene today as it is every morning: my husband reads the daily news on his iPad; the children sit ready for school; the sun streams through the window; and I pretend to be worried when I’m actually scared to death one of them suspects something.
“You seem happier today.”
I seem happier, and I am, but I shouldn’t be. My experience yesterday was a risk for everyone, especially for me. Is there some underlying suspicion in his comment? I doubt it. He believes everything I tell him. Not because he’s a fool—far from it—but because he trusts me.
And that just makes me more upset. I’m not trustworthy.
Actually, yes, I am. I was led to that hotel on false pretenses. Is that a good excuse? No. It’s awful, because no one forced me to go there. I can always claim that I was feeling lonely and wasn’t getting the attention I needed, just understanding and tolerance. I can tell myself that I need to be defied, confronted, and questioned about what I do. I can claim that this happens to everyone, even if only in their dreams.
But deep down, what happened is very simple: I went to bed with a man because I was dying to do it. Nothing more. No intellectual or psychological justification. I wanted to screw. End of story.
I know people who married for security, status, and money. Love was the last thing on the list. But I married for love.
So why did I do what I did?
Because I feel lonely. Why?
“It’s so nice to see you happy,” he says.
I say that yes, I really am happy. The autumn morning is beautiful, the house is tidy, and I’m with the man I love.
He gets up and gives me a kiss. The children, even without quite understanding our conversation, smile.
“And I’m with the woman I love. But why are you telling me this now?”
Why not now?
“It’s the morning. I want you to tell me that again tonight, when we’re in bed together.”
My God, who am I?! Why am I saying these things? So he won’t suspect anything? Why don’t I just behave like I do every morning and play the efficient wife tending to her family’s well-being? What are these displays of affection? If I start to be too affectionate, it may raise suspicions.
“I can’t live without you,” he says, returning to his place at the table.
I’m lost. But, strangely, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about what happened yesterday.
WHEN I get to work, the editor-in-chief commends me. The article I suggested was published this morning.
“We’ve received a lot of e-mails for the newsroom, praising the story with the mysterious Cuban man. People want to know who he is. If he allows us to print his address, he’ll have work for quite a while.”
The Cuban shaman! If he reads the newspaper he’ll see he never told me any of what is in the article. I took everything from blogs on shamanism. Apparently, my crises aren’t limited to marital problems; now I’m starting to slip professionally.
I explain to the editor-in-chief about the moment the shaman looked in my eyes and threatened me if I revealed who he was. He says I shouldn’t believe in that sort of thing and asks if I can give his address to just one person: his wife.
“She’s been pretty stressed.”
Everyone’s pretty stressed, including the shaman. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to him.
He asks me to call right now. I do it, and I’m surprised by the Cuban man’s reaction. He thanks me for being honest and for keeping his identity a secret and praises my knowledge on the subject. I thank him, tell him about the reaction to the article, and ask if we can arrange another meeting.
“But we talked for two hours! The material you have must be more than enough!”
That’s not the way journalism works, I explain. What was published used very little from those two hours. Most of it I had to research. Now I need to approach the subject in a different way.
My boss is still standing next to me, listening to my side of the conversation and gesturing. Finally, when the shaman is almost ready to hang up, I insist that the article was lacking. I need to explore the female role in this “spiritual” quest, and my boss’s wife would like to meet him. He laughs. I will never break the deal I made with him, but I insist that everyone knows where he lives and the days he works.
Please, take it or leave it. If you don’t want to take the conversation further, I will find someone who will. There is no shortage of people claiming to be experts in treating patients on the verge of nervous breakdown. Your method is different, but you aren’t the only spiritual healer in the city. Many others, mostly Africans, have contacted us this morning looking to bring visibility to their work, earn money, and meet important people who could protect them in the event of a possible deportation case.
The Cuban is reluctant at first, but his vanity and fear of competition finally speak louder. We arrange to meet at his house in the village of Veyrier. I’m eager to see how he lives—it will liven up the article.
We are in the small living room converted into an office in his home. On the wall are diagrams that look imported from India: the locations of energy centers, the soles of the feet with their meridians. Several crystals rest on top of a piece of furniture.
We’ve already had a very interesting conversation about the role of women in shamanist rituals. He explains to me that at birth we all have moments of revelation, and this is even more common with women. As any scholar can see, the goddesses of agriculture are always female, and medicinal herbs were introduced to cave-dwelling tribes by the hands of women. They are much more sensitive to the spiritual and emotional world, and this makes them prone to crises that doctors used to call “hysteria” and today are called “bipolar”—the tendency to go from absolute euphoria to profound sadness several times a day. For the Cuban man, the spirits are much more inclined to speak with women than with men, because they better understand a language that is not expressed in words.
I try to speak his language: Because of this oversensitivity, might there be the possibility of, say, an evil spirit driving women to do things we don’t want?
He doesn’t understand my question. I rephrase it. If women are unstable enough to go from happiness to sadness …
“Did I use the word ‘unstable’? I didn’t. Quite the contrary. Despite their heightened sensitivity, women are more steadfast than men.”
Like in love, for example. He agrees. I tell him everything that happened to me, and I begin to sob. He is unmoved. But his heart is not made of stone.
“When it comes to adultery, meditation helps little or not at all. In this case, the person is happy with what is occurring. They are maintaining the security of their relationship at the same time they experience adventure. It’s the ideal situation.”
What leads people to commit adultery?
“That’s not my area. I have a very personal view of the subject, but that shouldn’t be published.”
Please help me.