Sex
The gift of touch on an Indian bus
A lonely traveler is saved by the kindness of strangers.
I have been traveling on a bus in India for 15 hours, and I am lonely. Not lonely as a single traveler roaming alone, but lonely as an empty passenger not willing to initiate the cure for my disease. I have over-written in my journal and my hand is experiencing early symptoms of arthritis. I’ve organized my itinerary with five backup plans. I’ve confirmed that I’m still under budget, and now I’m sitting bored to death, unhappy with myself and with no other rock for my mind to hide under.
“Oh, good, a stop,” I think as the bus decelerates in the middle of nowhere.
After visiting the bathroom, I wait for everyone to climb back aboard. When no one moves, I take the liberty. The door handle is stuck and I pull and pull until an elderly gentleman approaches and points out that we have a 20-minute break before the driver will return. Then he asks where I am from. For a moment, I think: Has he seen through me? Does he know that I am desperate for attention?
I answer cautiously — and immediately feel my penned-up insecurities melt away. This one simple question leads to a conversation that lasts through the day and into the night. Eventually, my neck grows stiff from speaking behind me through the 1-inch space between my seat and the one next to it. As our vocal cords exhaust, I smile wordless thanks for this gift of congregation.
A short while later, a commotion starts a few rows ahead. Suddenly a human figure lurches toward me, staring straight into my eyes. It looks like a ghost startling me in my dreams, but in fact is a woman who insists in the form of a question “May I sit with you? My child can’t sleep in our seat.”
Before I can answer, she fills the empty seat beside me and rests her head back on the recliner. A minute later her head jerks in my direction and she asks, “Are you married?” I smile, knowing that this will lead again to the kind of heartfelt sharing I cherish on the road: opinions, questions, reactions, desires, dreams.
Eventually my companion falls into a heavy slumber, amplified through her nostrils, but I am freezing and cannot sleep. Though my sweater is clinched tightly over my damp arms and my blanket is draped over me like a poncho, icy air flows onto me through a miniature window crack. Thankfully, the bus makes a road stop and I carefully step over my seat-mate’s lap. My goal is to find the bus guide and request another blanket, but I realize that I haven’t memorized his face. I return to the row before mine and look dismally at my vacant arctic seat.
The retired teacher behind me, my earlier conversation partner, inquires about the concerned look on my face. He suggests that I sit alongside the sleeping man across from him, who has chosen the seat next to the window, leaving the aisle seat free. As I relocate my purse, blanket and body, the man comes out of his sleep. I smile as if being caught committing a misdemeanor and explain my situation. He confesses that he has wanted to talk with me the whole journey and just never found an opportunity to do so. Suddenly we are deep in conversation about music, work and people.
After a while, sleep dominates the direction of our words, but again, I have trouble finding a comfortable position. My head bobs forward and backward as though I am dunking for apples with my teeth. My anonymous friend guides my restless head to his shoulder. I follow his leadership and breathe in deeply. I want nothing more than to feel my temple somehow attached to his shoulder.
Still, I cannot sleep, not because I am uncomfortable, but because my heart is racing a marathon I don’t know how to run. He steals a look at my wide-open eyes and I childishly turn away from his discovery. My shy reaction is hindered with a gentle hand that embraces my cheek and brings it back to its natural resting spot near the nape of his neck. Then he kisses my forehead like a mother kissing her son.
I cherish the warm feeling of his hand as it glides down the back of my neck and down the angora coat that clings to my thawed forearms. As his touch draws near to my hand, my body stiffens, feeling an unfamiliar need to catch his grip and never let go. His hand approaches my wrist. I hold my breath. The fingertips of this stranger slowly pass over the top of my hand, pass my knuckles, and pass over my fingers until he uses my fingernail as a launching pad — and suddenly disappears. His hand returns to its safe place on his left leg. He sits motionless.
In my overwhelming feeling of deprivation I stare at his statue-like hand upon that distant leg and beg with wanting eyes. My right hand is forced to cope with its recent rejection. I wait and wait for him to reconsider. After five minutes I feel completely abandoned. His shoulder no longer feels like my bloodline and I now have a need to alienate this close moment. I am sure that I have just read the last line of this saga.
As I take a deep breath to energize my fatigued neck muscles and remove my exhausted head, his hand moves closer, like a spider towards a fly caught in its web. With increasing anticipation, I watch this creeping hand move magnetically toward my fingertips. It nears the end of its journey right before my fingers, and stops with fear and hesitation.
I am part of a chemistry experiment in progress, ready to explode, and I realize that I don’t need to just wait and receive his affection in this episode. Without stopping myself, I make the final move and caress my fingernail over his palm. Now every window has been opened to accept this moment of closeness. His fingers ski over my veins and tightly grab the body of my hand. My grip rewards his behavior and for the final three hours of the journey, we hold each other’s hands in quiet solitude.
When the sun rises, our fingers loosen and our drowsy minds begin to emerge from half-sleep. Our eyes lock in the gentle beams of dawn and the bus comes to a sudden halt. His stop, the one before mine, arrives without warning. Frantically we both separate from our close position and he begs me to call the number on his business card, the only indication I have of who this stranger is.
Then he is gone, without my promise, and I sit beside an empty seat, no longer alone again.
Angela Collins is a writer and photographer who lives in Los Angeles. More Angela Collins.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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