Howl
An Ode to Desire
Why it’s a magical experience — even if it’s never satisfied
Wanting someone. What a glorious feeling. It’s tortuous. It’s liberating. It’s passionate. It’s painful.
I love desire. In some ways, I think I love desire more than I love its fulfillment. In its fulfillment, it is contentment and satisfaction.
But desire, itself, is electric. It’s overpowering. It has a life of its own. And it is that life force that interests me.
“The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.”
―Willa Cather
Our culture loves attainment. The achievement of goals. We’re not so keen on the journey to get there.
To me, desire is the journey. Desire is life. Desire is the best part.
I want to swim deeply in my desire. I want to feel it thrumming through my veins, warming my skin. I want to hear my heart pounding in my ears. I want to feel that flush of heat in my face, the beading of sweat on the back of my neck.
I want to feel the silken thread of my overwhelming longing glow brightly from where it lies, coiled between my hips, sometimes spilling out from its bowl, reaching for the object of its hunger.
I love this feeling and though I enjoy the experience of my desires being satisfied, I also find it deeply gratifying to just want.
“I desire to be with you. I miss you. I feel lonely when I can’t see you. I am obsessed with you, fascinated by you, infatuated with you. I hunger for your taste, your smell, the feel of your soul touching mine.”
― Jack Llawayllynn
For a long time, I thought I had to have a passive relationship with desire. I already knew how to feel it, I already wanted to feel it, but the ultimate act of desire, for a woman, was to be the object of men’s desire. That’s what I learned.
Somehow, I had to find a way to make myself desirable to all men, all the time. It felt impossible — they all liked different things. And the quest to shape myself into something they universally desired overshadowed everything else in my life for far too many years.
One day, I saw the futility in what I was doing. And I realized the lie behind it. My worth as a woman, as a sexual being, as a person, wasn’t dependent upon whether or not a man wanted me.
My own desire, in fact — my very non-passive desire — was a testament to my worth. I can want with depth, with passion, with fire, with thunder. My desire can move tectonic plates. My desire can awaken dormant volcanoes.
Today I’ve learned that I’d rather be skilled at stoking, cultivating, and directing my desire than at evoking someone else’s.
“Desire makes life happen. Makes it matter. Makes everything worth it. Desire is life. Hunger to see the next sunrise or sunset, to touch the one you love, to try again.”
― Karen Marie Moning
Someone here once commented that “desire is a gift.” (Probably the poetic Edward Robson, PhD, if I’m remembering correctly.) I believe that and I love that perspective.
Notably, the comment was not “having your desire fulfilled is a gift.” No, just “desire is a gift.” Feeling desire is a gift. Desiring someone is a gift.
The fulfillment of that desire is irrelevant. That is one of the great nuances of human emotion that our culture fails to understand. Desire is beautiful and satisfying as it is.
The subtle magnetic energy between two people who might or might not be in the same room is a miracle of the body and soul. The unseen pull that draws people together in the strangest of ways is pure magic. Just the knowledge that someone desires you, regardless of whether or not that desire is ever fulfilled, is an overwhelming gift.
I don’t need my desire to be satisfied every single time. I just love the ride.
This article was written for Howl by Yael Wolfe, a weekly column. © Yael Wolfe 2020
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