As I sample the basics of tantra–the rose petals, the candle-illuminated bath, the landing of a beachhead in the sacred regions (the troops will come later)–I must admit that I do it with a bit of internal eye-rolling. As I drive home from my session, I feel the polarities of my day when my son calls to ask me to pick up hot dogs, a reminder of the life that exists outside of rose petals and sacred spots.
But over the next few weeks, I acknowledge the potential. I vow to practice with my partner, provided he’s willing to consider sex as something to be honored and given big chunks of time to explore, something to experience, maybe, on floral-scented sheets.
And then I want him to be able to laugh with me, acknowledge the distance traveled between the sock drawer and now–and put this sexual awakening stuff aside and have dinner. Hot dogs, anyone?