A Woman Who Likes Men

Being the Wild Parts.

I am a woman who likes men.

Most of the time, I like most of them. But ah, and here come the qualifiers - most, but not all; only some, some of the time. Careful of all those fallacies of logic. Careful of logic all together.

You know what? Fuck it.

Lately I have been yearning for men. Yearning for touch, for sex, for the rare act of being seen and allowed to be as I am and for attempting—in my fallible, limited, and deeply human ways—to do those same things for anther person who yearns for those things from me. For that to happen in the joining of complementary interlocking parts. Soul parts, you could call them, but also the other kind of parts too, if you know what I mean…;)

Honestly, for me, even allowing myself this kind of wanting is a big deal.

But it feels good. Wanting things fills me with hope, not despair. Wanting things—being able to close my eyes and feel them and see them—is a seismic shift, whether I ever get what I want or not.

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Lately I have been walking down the street and meeting eyes with men, holding the charge for a few seconds and smiling to myself like a woman who knows the worlds best kept secret, like a woman who just won the lottery.

Coming from someone whose core beliefs include such timeless classics as:

• Vulnerability = Death

• Men don’t care about me as a person

• I am deeply unlovable/there is something deeply wrong with me; and,

• I am evil and disgusting,

this is a really big fucking deal!

I make eye contact and smile at random men who attract me, you guys! And I’m doing it and having fun!! I say things to them on occasion also!!! I cannot overstate how fucking proud of myself I am. No expectations, no pressure, no overthinking and no fear. I’m walking around and just appreciating how many men manage to pique my budding desire. I’m walking around like a woman who likes men.

I find myself drawn to all kinds of men - some tall, some short, some roguish, some clean cut, some traditionally handsome, some who look like they’ve lived, some in their mid 20’s (which I think makes me a bit of a cougar at 37?), many, many decades older than me. Not all men draw me in, but I’m surprised by how many catch my eye. Some of them look, others don’t, but that’s kind of not the point.

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I have so much more to write about how this came to be, but sufficed to say, a big part of settling into this knowing/way of being has a lot to do with remembering an old part of myself. Before social justice and radical feminism, before it was cool to hate men and think that pretty much everthing wrong with the world should be laid at their feet, before the men in my life betrayed and abused me, even before words, there was something wild, elemental, biological and true.

I have been letting an old part of me inhabit my body, and she’s been good medicine for my soul. She doesn’t talk, really, at least not much, but she deeply knows. She lets her instincts pull her, her gut guide her, and a deeper knowing lead the way.

And boy is she really into men, but not in the ways that I had imagined.

She wants to be free, wants to take pleasure in all the things she does, but she doesn’t want to be kept. She’s wild and needs to stay close to her own nature.

She deeply yearns to give, and freely too, but only to someone who stands straight-spined and present, who has a core inside him, who builds and makes, who is going somewhere, who can lead himself to where ever that place is. A man who isn’t neutered, isn’t domesticated, isn’t tamed.

A wild woman is waking up inside me, and I’m writing to tell you all that I’ve given her the reigns.

I keep signing off to life, but life is already here,

xo

Ada