Love and Sexuality: December in Bali

Man is 70% water. The rest is passion.

It was a hot December night in Bali. Loud music heated up the atmosphere even more. We were in Sky Garden— the most popular club in Kuta, where the delegates of the UN youth conference I participated in decided to spend the night. The day was long and tiring, but I kept dancing.

There were quite a few guys I liked. The other night as we swam in the ocean, I was teasing on purpose the hot Turkish guy, knowing the only thing sexier than having sex is not having sex. He invited me to sleep in his hotel room, but I refused wanting more…

And then he came. The French guy. Felipe. He came to me and held my hand for a while, smiling. I don’t know what we talked about, but I know I felt weird. This, indeed, is the curse of people who adore illuminating conversations, yet succumb to casual chatting. As we danced together, my body was searching for the touch of his skin. He was so beautiful, so educated, so European, radiating confidence in the perfect proportions.

My favorite dress had never looked better on me than on that day. As I posed for photos, I felt someone looking at me. It was Felipe following my moves while talking others. I smiled. We walked towards one of the discussion rooms, sat together and whispered. We talked about books and ideas, and polyamory, and each new topic led to new exciting discoveries. My favorite thing in the world was happening — from strangers we were becoming something else. We were competing with the time, fighting to make the best out of every minute.

I went back to my hotel to take a nap, and he asked if he could come see me after his meeting. An hour after I had changed into a T-shirt and shorts, the knocking on the door woke me up. When I opened the door his presence filled the room. He said we could sleep a bit, lied next to me and hugged me. I closed my eyes, curious- could I sleep next to a stranger, and did he really want to sleep?

I felt his breath fondling the skin of my back and I shivered. Holding my breath, I lied still. Soon his fingers started rambling all over my neck and he kissed my shoulder… slowly, faintly. With tenderness only a few men possess, kiss with, touch with, love with... But the phone rang. The receptionist was calling… to wake me up. We had to go back. Taking off my clothes I sat on the bed to put my leggings on, stretching my legs opposite the wall, absorbing every passing minute, the movement, his being there and watching.

After the closing ceremony we walked down to the shore, sat on a bench and talked for hours. I asked him why he had approached me and he told me that while posing for photos on the first day I had touched his arm in a very special way. These words had a powerful effect on me. He could read the language of my body better than anyone I had met.

“When we were in your room and I was kissing you, I didn’t know if I should stop,” he said. “But your skin was speaking to me, and I carried on. Your skin wanted me and shivered when I kissed it. We have been making love since we met and shook our hands and yet if I want to be with you, it is because I can see you are a woman who knows how to receive pleasure, to fully enjoy. Every time I kiss your neck, you move your hair aside so that I can kiss you more and more.”

I love with my whole being. With my eyes which need to see radiance; body wanting to be caressed, loved, respected; mind longing for mutuality (mutuality not only in the feelings, but also in perceptions, in the way we view reality, in the attempt to achieve both the possible and impossible).

It didn’t matter that it was just one night we were given to have each other. The sexual expression of our equilibrium of energies was to be the natural progression of the act of sharing. It was yet another way to converse and learn about each other and from each other. And there was nothing I wanted more in that moment.

“Let’s go!” I said.