Just 'cause you feel it, doesn't mean its there.

Hoy me comprometí en Facebook, y la gente se alegra demasiado por mí. Hay un pequeño detalle que no todo el mundo sabe: yo no estoy lista para casarme y estoy soltera hace más de dos años. ¿Porqué puse que me comprometí?

Hace poco, yo conocí a un chico, G. Él trabaja en un restaurante y siempre que yo iba me trataba super bien: me hablaba, me daba comida gratis y se portaba bien en general. Hasta intercambiamos números de teléfono y quedamos en hacer un intercambio--yo le enseñaba inglés, él me enseñaba a cocinar lo que supiera. Hasta ahí, normal. El problema vino cuando decidí entrar a su Face. Toma, relación comprometedora que no es contigo. En tu carota.

Me dolió, aunque no había razón para que me afectara así una cosa de esas: él jamás me había hecho insinuación alguna de algo, ni me había extendido ninguna invitación para que yo me hiciera videos y me pintara pajaritos en el aire. Todo eso existió en mi cabeza, y solo ahí. ¿Por qué? Porque no tengo amor propio y estoy buscando por fuera lo que no he podido encontrar dentro de mí. Porque estoy muriendo de ganas que alguien me quiera, y termino regalándome a cualquier pendejo por ahí, sin importar si me valora o no. Porque ya se me olvidó que es despertar algo diferente a la lujuria y el deseo.

Por todas estas razones, y por las piedras de B., decidí darle un giro radical a la vida. Ahora llevo un anillo de zircones en mi mano derecha y no me lo quitaré hasta que encuentre dentro de mi lo que no se me ha perdido afuera. No quiero que NADIE me vuelva a hacer el daño que se me ha hecho y que yo misma he permitido que suceda. Ahora es cuando entiendo el adagio popular de "mejor estar solo que mal acompañado".

Hasta que no salga de este atolladero, no seré de nadie. Nadie será mio.

Daydreaming.

Dreamers
They never learn
They never learn
Beyond the point
Of no return
Of no return

And it's too late
The damage is done
The damage is done

This goes
Beyond me
Beyond you
The white room
By window
Where the sun goes
Through

We are
Just happy to serve
Just happy to serve
You

I have found my love.

Black Milk. Or how food becomes sexuality.

You're not my eater
I'm not your food
Love you for God
Love you for the Mother

Eat me
In the space
Within my heart
Love you for God
Love you for the Mother

Mother fountain
Or live or not at all

The most level
Sunken chapel
Love you for God
Love you for the Mother

All's there to love
Only love
(Massive Attack, album Mezzanine)


***

I'm back. Did any of you lovelies miss me?

For all you followers of this blog (if there are any left), you may remember it's been over 2 years since I last had sex. I don't intend to give names or places, but there is one thing true: Boy, oh boy, was it worth it.

After the accident, I've been adamant in not going back to former lovers unless they deserve that second chance, because my healing process is mine and mine alone: before I can give myself again to someone else, I have to give myself the chance to be myself again, if that makes any sense. I can't lose myself in others' arms before I find myself.

So, where has my sexuality gone during all this time? My masseuse therapist (B., the lady who does Shiatsu therapy for me), says that my sexual energy is very strong, but it hasn't been unleashed properly nor has it been tapped into in the correct manner. I think she's trying to say that my choice of lovers has been poor, if not deficient, and they've all been pretty lousy at it. But let's not get sidetracked.

One of the places I do think it has gone is into a talent I had no clue I had: cooking. When I was young, I refused to cook for personal reasons (mainly, ask my dad). When I lived in NYC, I bought a rice cooker. Granted, it wasn't much, but at least I had an option to look forward to whenever I craved more traditional food. Arroz con frijoles, Colombiana y atún. Eso es poder, señores.

After that, Buenos Aires and Madrid became stepping stones for cooking. I moved on from basic sandwiches and progressed onto chicken and rice, versions of meat stew on a skillet, oatmeal, arepas...It wasn't much, but it did get me going. Cooking became a haven for me during that time, even though it was part of my daily routine, because it gave me reasons to swap that routine, to take care of myself just by preparing those basic meals and to move away from my shyness and ask people about ingredients, restaurants, places to eat and find good food.

Those three cities had in common that the amount of action in bed I got was indirectly proportional to my cooking: thus, the more I cooked, the less I saw another person's body next to mine. And little by little, through practice and better research of what I do, I've gotten much better at it. I'm not watching TV shows just to see other people cook, but rather get inspired by the few cookbooks I own and what I eat/have eaten so I can replicate it or just play with what is given to me. In the pantry.

Nowadays, every time I cook, people can't seem to get enough of what I do-be it a cake, a vegetarian dish, pasta. And I don't understand why, until yesterday. Yesterday, my friend D. was showcasing his new book and he LOVES my banana bread (one time he came here for lunch and ended eating lunch and more than half of the loaf I had made for about 4 people), so I decided to bake him one as a treat and gift for the book. He introduced me to someone who I'll call K. because I have no effing clue of what his name really is: D. was praising my bread and K. gave it a bite.

After he did so, he said "I don't know you, but this is just...sexual". And he went on describing how good my bread was, comparing it to the one made by his mother-in-law, and saying how much better mine was, and more moisturized (yes, he did use that word), while looking at my chest. Enough to dampen any appetite.

Later on, that got me thinking. Why was my food sexual, even if it was just banana bread? My friend P. says that he just used it as an excuse to get me closer to him, but I think that there is something else: perhaps I'm channelling all those emotions and repressed sexual energies through what I cook, like the main character in "Como Agua para Chocolate" who made such amazing food and even made her sister horny with one of her dishes.
Maybe I'm making people feel my pent-up lust through my food, giving them through my hands and my dishes what I haven't been able to receive for so long and in return, making them find what I haven't yet found. The question is what will happen when I start having sex again (if ever). Can I keep cooking like I do, even when my needs have been met and my hunger sated?

For now, I won't think of it. I'll keep cooking-it's cleaner, safer, and my heart is not attached to my cunt while I do so. Thank heavens.