When we got to the top of the building and went outside to the rooftop the first thing I noticed was the smell of cigarettes. Weed and nicotine. My nostrils flared almost instinctively, taking it all in. I knew immediately that I wanted one. I searched the room looking for an empty place we could claim. Above us, hundreds of hanging light bulbs glowed like giant fireflies. A pink-reddish light engulfed the entire room, and the temperature was warmer than inside. Not only was it hot, but the energy felt different. People were standing closer together. Not a speck of personal space in sight. For once, I liked being physically close to others. I liked that we had no choice but to stand next to one another.

Cigarettes for me have been an acquired taste. Once a smell I despised, now a substance my body craves exclusively on nights like this. Still, I refuse to buy my own cigarettes. I find it too depressing to smoke by myself at home. If I want one it’s always in social situations. Lately, I’ve been asking strangers for a spare. Not only it’s a great conversation starter. It’s a great way to get closer to someone. Physically. The act of someone lighting a cigarette for you while holding eye contact is one of the most erotic actions known to humankind. In my books at least.

“There’s your victim,” said Mafe and pointed to a man about four meters afar from where we were dancing. He was attractive. Dark hair, aquiline nose, light skin. Most importantly, he had a cigarette in his hand. But I was too far to tell if he spoke English or Spanish.

Once I gathered courage I tapped his shoulder and asked for a spare. Without hesitation, he took two from the pocket of his shorts. He handed one to me, and I asked for fire. I was expecting him to pass me a lighter but instead, he took the cigarette out of my hands and lighted it with his own. Mhm. When I thanked him he gave me a smile and a small nod. I knew then that the interaction was over. I took my free cigarette, my hurt pride, and went back to dancing.

A month ago, out of boredom or hormonal drive, I got the urge to download Bumble. Just to see what’s out there. My friend,

For someone who claims not to care about romantic relationships that much, I think about them a lot. But not in the way you might think. The thoughts are not based on my desire for a relationship. I’m not sure what is it that I am looking for. I’m just a biter with nowhere to clench my teeth into.

I keep thinking about that Mitski interview for Genius, where she says, “I have gained weight and I have lost weight, and I have been big and I’ve been small. I’ve tried these clothes; I had this haircut; I have done everything I could to my body, and still nobody wants me. Why?”

There is an unfathomable despair that comes with relating to her words. But the truth is, I can’t blame others. I don’t let people near me. I scare them off. Too afraid to show interest. Too proud to be open. I don’t chase. I don’t attract. I avoid. So, how can I ask anyone to come close when all I do is beg to be left alone?1

I do not say this lightly, and I don’t expect rebuttals; I am not easy to love. People who have stuck around for years know I am stubborn, pretentious, selfish, a know-it-all. To love me is to endure. And yet, people do. I feel their love every day. I know I am not unlovable. But I can’t shake the sense that something about me is wrong. There must be a reason why I am like this.

An urge, an unknown ache deep in my core, demands to be acknowledged. As hard as I try to bury it, it persists. I’ve been ignoring it for years, starving myself and now the hunger has grown into an unstoppable force with a life of its own.

What desire doesn’t know about me it’s that I am not an amateur. I know how to deprive myself of what will please me if indulging in it means I have to give something up. I hold too much pride.

In her essay, Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power, Audre Lorde states,

We have been raised to fear the yes within ourselves, our deepest cravings. But, once recognized, those which do not enhance our future lose their power and can be altered. The fear of our desires keeps them suspect and indiscriminately powerful, for to suppress any truth is to give it strength beyond endurance. The fear that we cannot grow beyond whatever distortions we may find within ourselves keeps us docile and loyal and obedient, externally defined, and leads us to accept many facets of our oppression as women.

In this text, she argues that denying ourselves the power of the erotic has serious consequences in our lives. For her, the erotic is an assertion of the lifeforce of women. An outlet that provides joy and connection. A force we shouldn’t be afraid of. As Lorde understands it, we all should make space for the erotic, especially as women. She says that when she is in touch with this force, she becomes less willing to accept powerlessness, or other states of mind such as resignation, despair, self-effacement, depression, and self-denial.

If this is true, and there is power in using the erotic as the force that moves us closer to joy, connection, and a more fulfilling life, then, why am I so afraid to pursue it?

For me giving in has always felt like defeat. After all, I am a masochist. A scared little girl running away from high emotions. So afraid of losing control that I have forgotten to feel unabashed joy. But this has come with a prize. In ignoring the erotic, which Lorde describes as “a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings” I have buried parts of myself under a pile of self-righteousness disguised as “high standards.”

To refuse to be conscious of what we are feeling at any time, however comfortable that might seem, is to deny a large part of the experience and to allow ourselves to be reduced to the pornographic, the abused, and the absurd.

If I were to be honest, truly honest. I would say that what I want is someone willing to open my skull and look at the insides of my brain. See the derangedness. The irrational. The wretched. Look at the most unhinged parts of me and be in awe. Not because I am a science project. Or a psych patient. But because despite my neurosis, I am worth the attempt.

Back on the rooftop Mafe and I kept dancing until we were too sweaty to stand it. As soon as two seats at the bar became available we rushed to claim them. Across the room, I saw cigarette man. His eyes were on me. I turned away, and asked the bartender for a drink. He laughed at my order and said, “That one has no alcohol” “I know!” I responded. He sent it my way.

As the night progressed my attention shifted. Still aware that he was across from me, but not interested enough to pursue it, I started to look at the women in the room. I studied them. Their hair. Their clothes. Their waists. Those goddam small waists that I always wished I had but could never have because genetics gave me a wide ribcage. I wanted to smell the perfume on their neck and hold their hands. I also wanted to choke them to death.

Are the desires I'm ashamed of born from the same cord as my less shameful ones? Why am I more comfortable admitting that I want to look like one of the women I'm gazing at than accepting the desire that I feel to interact with them?

The thing about desire is that sometimes what we want feels wrong. But this doesn’t mean we should ignore them. Even the desires we feel ashamed about tell us something important about how we feel. When we ignore these, we neglect our emotional well-being.

Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. This whole time I’ve been depriving myself, ignoring urges, silencing cravings, and for what? I never got a medal for abstinence. Nor for denying to indulge in my desires.

I guess I need to let go of those restraining beliefs I have held close to my chest for too long. I mean, what if I roll the stone away? They’re going to crucify me anyway.2 I might as well enjoy it while I can.

While writing this some questions popped into my head:

What does it mean to be desired in an age where most of us hold our phones more than other hands? When hookup culture is the only outlet, young people have to be intimate with each other. When dating apps have become the only place where to find people to date. Is ‘the erotic’ desire?

I’d love to read what you think about these questions in the comments. Let’s discuss!!