This poem by Emily Dickinson has been with me for many years, ever since I was given my first lesbian novel, “Curious Wine” by Katherine V. Forrest, to read when I was 19. Back then, it spoke to my longing of wanting a woman I couldn’t have, and also of being afraid to talk about who I was (then, a petrified babydyke). Now, 20 years and many sexual identity evolutions later, it speaks more to me about D/s and that hunger.
I HAD been hungry all the years;
My noon had come, to dine;
I, trembling, drew the table near,
And touched the curious wine.
’T was this on tables I had seen,
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,
’T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature’s dining-room.
The plenty hurt me, ’t was so new,—
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
There have been moments and times that have taken that hunger away, but the trick is to figure out how to feed that hunger on a regular basis so that I’m not always approaching anything I’m able to find with being overwhelmed by the plenty. To remind myself that there are other ways to stave off the raw, aching, clawing need to submit, to be useful, to be used, to surrender control.
Going out tonight to the local club for a Sample Your Fantasy weekend. We’ll see what there is to sample, what comes of it.
Breathing is good.