Female archetypes: the Lover. A woman worth crying over

The Posse grows

Coming to America for a sex change has proven to be one of the most magical periods of my life.  It is a coming of age.  A birthing.  A rebirthing.  A re-emergence.  I am so grateful that I have had this time, the time to focus not just on my body, but on the spiritual and emotional underpinnings of the life that got me here, and the whole new life that lies ahead.

I am afraid, but I am also more optimistic about what life holds than ever before.  My divorce has decimated my financials, so that I can no longer afford to retire in anything close to the comfort of what I might have been able to do.  And the train wreck isn’t over.  My wife told one of my children that she would rather burn it all down just to see me destroyed.  And yet, all I can think of now is how grateful I am to have her out of my life, and what an unbelievably liberating and life-affirming way to live it is to let go of shame and to just relax into being who we are.

There was a beautiful meme that flashed across one of my social accounts that said, “the person your ex has become is the person they always were.”  I used to have nightmares about my wife when we first dated, that she would suffocate me to death.  My subconscious knew what she was about.  Finally the rest of me caught up.

And maybe my wife knew me better than I knew myself, when she remarked not long before asking for a divorce, “I think you secretly hate me.”  I might have.  I did and have felt betrayed.  And that can leave a bitter taste.  But the bitter taste is washed away when the person reveals themselves to be not worth troubling over.

I am sorry for my children to have had to see her behaviour.  They are aware that she has perjured herself in court, that she has lied for financial gain, stolen from me…and I am sorry for them to witness that.  For me, I am blessed by a deeper and deeper closeness with them.  I write about the women who have come and cared for me.  But it is my children whose support was most profound, as they were with me through the entire “acute” phase of my convalescence.

In California, I rented a gorgeous apartment in a lovely and lively neighbourhood, where it is possible to walk a short distance to everything we could need.  It gave them a chance to explore this wonderful city and have fun of their own.  And while these iconic and powerful women took care of me, my children took care of them, all of us, and helped keep the household running smoothly.

The ”Lover” is the only relatively new person in my life who was one of the caregivers who came to me.  She leapt at the chance to be by my side.  And I was so touched by this, having only known her in lust.  Having lived with only very infrequent contact with her.  With the knowledge that she leads an unconventional amorous, one where I might be “kept” in a certain way…that she has others, and is herself an “other” for others.

She has the tiniest little wrists, so delicate and fragile, and her skin is delicate and almost translucent.  She is so chic, so effortless, slim beyond compare, a wisp, a beauty, an icon of a woman.

She said of me, “you are the tonic that I have needed,” the first time we touched one another sensually, spiritually.  She didn’t miss a beat when I shifted from man to woman between first date and second date.  It was a strange courtship that had me as arm candy for one of the most striking women I have ever been out with.

She is a woman of profile.  Professionally successful on a scale that is hard to wrap my head around as a date…she lives in a rarefied bubble of social engagements and galas.  She doesn’t know how kinky I am, at least not explicitly, but when she asked me to join her for a social engagement in her home, with friends, I asked instead if I could cook and serve rather than participate, and she begins to understand.  She sense my service, my care, my fussing…the handmaiden in me.

I am normally a chatterbox. Being with her silences a part of me, not stifles, but quietens. Her effortless beauty holds me because she holds me, and to be held by such is a gift in itself that stills the soul.

We share a great many spiritual interests, and I am as touched by these as by any other part of her mystery.  The first time I met her was at a social event when my “date” was the Den Mother…and this woman, so elegant, so beautiful, but also so fragile engaged with me and created a reason for her to reach out to me and gave me the means to reach out to her.  It took me a year, but when I did write to her, she was right on it.

Not long after, she brought me to see a sold-out show, front-row centre, and the lead actor was so distracted by us I thought he would forget his lines.  I suspect he knew exactly who she was.  And I am not visually easy to miss.  Plus I was wearing white from head to tie, a dramatic cape that fell all the way to my ankles.

She read to me from the book she brought.  A lesson in life of how hard it is to be a woman, but one with an upbeat, optimistic message.  She would join me in my little room, lay on the bed next to me, and read until I fell asleep.  Over and over.  Sometimes I would last a sentence or two.  Other times, for hours.  Mainly I was curled up inside the words she strung up around the room with her spoken voice, latching on to the next one in the steady stream, as the previous one faded into the mist of meaning that came before.

When it came time for her to go, I cried like a baby.  Like a baby.  I didn’t know where it was coming from, or that I would even begin to feel it.  I tried to hide it, because I didn’t want to create anxiety for her, or a desire to stay when she had already given so much of herself, and taken so much time out of her busy life to care for me.  But I couldn’t help it.  I always know I am in trouble when my children echo my feeling, and tell me how much they liked her, like any of the women who have joined us at home.  But this one is different.  This time was different.

One time she took me to a fabulous Michelin-starred restaurant for lunch. We, and everyone present, was dressed to the nines. I went to the bathroom. An elderly gentleman came in after me. There was only one large bathroom with central hand basins but many individual rooms. I chose one, and thought I had locked, and sat to pee. The next thing I knew he had opened the door and came in and I said, “excuse me, I’m peeing.” And he didn’t give a damn. He just said, “I’ll only be a second,” and proceeded to wash his hands at the small sink in what was meant to be my private toilet room. I was stunned. Shocked.

Very weird. What is it with men? When I returned to the dining room I noticed he was sitting with two young women who were less than half his age. I don’t believe they were his grand-daughters…but what would he want with barging in on me?

Naturally, the Lover was shocked by the tale.

Making out with this beautiful woman has made me feel that it is possible to love someone and expect nothing from them.  Perhaps this is something I have learned and continue to learn with companions.  Only this time, there are no guard rails.  I am pushing on an open door, only I am not pushing.  It just seems to flow.  To happen.  As much or as little as I seek.

I was perplexed by the depth of feeling that welled up in me when she was going.  How is it that we don’t know how much we feel?  My heart can tell me what my conscious mind cannot.  This woman triggers me in a way that makes me want to take care of her.

It is troubling on the one hand that she is not kinky.  But on the other, she accepts my slave energy.  And little by little she begins to understand.  And I wonder about this.  Being a slave means to take care of someone, to serve them, to seek their pleasure, and from this derive one’s own.  She receives this energy from me.

And perhaps that is why it was so poignant for her to take care of me.  More poignant than for others whose love I have known for far longer.  For a woman who genuinely cares for her slave is a keeper.  For she is not afraid to receive.  She is not afraid to accept being cared for, being fussed over.  But best of all, she shows that she does not take the slave for granted.

It is not often that we meet people who are tall like us, elegant dressers like us, but who are with a profile that anyone could be with them, or rather, they could be with anyone.  I am scared of the limelight which surrounds her.  But I am also not afraid to be in the shadows, especially since I know that she likes to show me off…and that is a wonderful feeling.  To be a “wife”-like figure to someone who oozes femininity from every pore and is one of the most feminine people I have ever encountered.  She is an embodiment of female power, and to be held by such is a gift in its own right.

I have long said and felt that there is nothing sexier than a woman who has choice, who is fully in her power.  Earning the affection of such a person is a challenge of sheer pleasure, keeping her affection even more so.

And I think that this is why I cried when she left to return home.  Because she’s worth crying over.  And that, my friends, is a lover.