Howl

What Are We So Hungry For?

And why do we keep reaching for the things that don’t sustain us?

I met him at work. I really didn’t like him, but I could tell he liked me. When he asked me out, I said yes, even though I didn’t want to. I was only 19 and by then, I’d learned that I was on this planet to please men. I thought I had to do what they wanted. That’s all I knew of the world — not my will, but theirs.

So I said yes.

I’m not sure how I ended up thinking I was in love with him. I’m not sure how I ended up lying in his bed, tipping my face up, waiting for him to kiss me. I’m not sure how we ended up having sex, and I definitely don’t remember how it came to pass that we moved in together shortly after.

All I know is that I was starving. I had spent the last seven years feeling like a gazelle on the savanna, looking over her shoulder for any evidence of the lions that lurked there. I had spent the last seven years avoiding them, or bandaging my wounds when one caught me by the ankles.

Suddenly, I had a lion. I wouldn’t have to worry, anymore. Finally, finally, I could stop being afraid all the time.

I had someone to protect me.

But he tried to pressure me to drink. He tried to pressure me to smoke. He told me I was ugly and fat and disgusting and that he was the only person who would ever be able to love such a pathetic creature. He ridiculed me in front of his friends and they all laughed, looking me up and down. He slept with my best friend when I was out running errands. He squeezed me and twisted my limbs and pushed me against the walls until I cried and begged him to stop.

For a while, it seemed like a small price to pay, letting one lion slowly tear me to pieces, rather than trying to outrun them all.

We hadn’t known each other for very long before I found myself rolling across his bed in a tangle of limbs and grungy sheets. I hadn’t been touched by a lover in years. I was still spellbound by my former lion’s words, so certain that no one would ever be able to love someone so ugly and fat.

I couldn’t believe that this man, widely known by everyone in my circle as the hottest guy on campus, had chosen me. Me. He literally had groupies — 19- and 20-year-old blondes who weighed at least 40 pounds less than I did and who were worlds prettier. Yet there I was, in his bed.

I was starving for it. For his kisses. For the voluptuous way he fit his lips and tongue around my nipple. For his fingers guiding my hand into the waistband of his pants.

For everything.

I wanted it so badly. To be touched. To be loved.

Twice, we met like that, me devouring him, literally, taking him into my mouth. Twice, he fell against the pillows, sweaty and satiated.

Finally, I asked for what I wanted, without words. I kissed him and guided his hand where I wanted it to go. But he pulled away.

“No,” he said. “Orgasms make women produce oxytocin. You’re going to develop a chemical bond to me if I make you come. And I don’t want that. You know I don’t want a relationship.”

I laid against the pillow next to him, still starving, and stared at the pattern of striped shadows that the blinds made on the wall.

We’d just returned home from Paris. I couldn’t believe we had gone together, even though we were technically broken up. Clearly, that was a technicality, considering what a good time we’d had, how close we had become.

I was voraciously in love.

“You know I still want to be with you, right?”

He didn’t really answer. Didn’t really acknowledge this. He knew after two years, there were only two options: move forward, or walk away.

And, as he had told me a million times, he did not want to move forward.

One night, he said what he had said so many times: “I’m just not ready…”

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” I said. “I’m not asking to have kids with you next week. What if we just…moved in together?”

I wanted it so badly, I was literally salivating. Domestic bliss seemed right there within my grasp. I couldn’t think of anything I would love more than making menu plans and watching TV together in the evenings and kissing each other goodbye in the mornings and…

He finally agreed. He seemed resolved. Committed. “We can do this,” he said, with a reassuring smile, though we both knew he meant I and not we. “Baby steps.”

Then he came over one day with that look on his face and I knew something was very wrong.

“I really wanted to buy a motorcycle,” he said. “I can’t afford the deposit for the new place and a motorcycle.”

“You don’t have to give up the motorcycle,” I said. “Just keep saving up for it and you’ll be able to get it by next year.”

He looked up at me with a grimace. “It’s too late. I already bought the motorcycle.”

What are we so hungry for?

We feed each other. That’s what humans do. A hug from our mother. A call from a friend. A wildflower from our child.

It’s not our job to feed others — and certainly not at the expense of our own well-being — but feeding one another is a natural byproduct of love.

So why is hunger so often dangerous in romantic and sexual relationships?

It’s dangerous because our culture teaches us to have a different set of expectations for our sexual and romantic relationships. We’re supposed to get all the nourishment we need from our partner. It doesn’t matter what gender we are, what sexual orientation we identify with — we’re taught to rely on our partners to satiate our hunger.

They’re supposed to validate our sexuality, satisfy all our sexual needs, fortify our self-esteem, protect us from our demons, and fulfill our greatest dreams.

We’re not taught that we can — and should — do all of that for ourselves, taking the love and support and pleasure offered by others (not just romantic/sexual partners) simply as extra fortification. We’re not taught that if we are already dying of hunger, our systems cannot process the nutrients of love and pleasure — which means that anyone who offers them to us is bound to fail in giving us what we need.

But when we start out with a good foundation — a solid love of self, a satisfying practice of sexual self-care, a feeling of sovereignty over our body, and a deep understanding and acceptance of our desires — we are nourished enough to be able to discern the difference between a meal that will sustain us for the long run and a plate of empty calories — or worse, a “treat” laced with toxins. We aren’t so hungry that we find ourselves bingeing on candy kisses, fast food fucking, and relationships that feel like addictions.

One day, we all hit enough walls that we finally ask ourselves: What are we so hungry for?

It took me 43 years to answer that question, but I finally figured it out. I’m hungry for myself.

This article was written for Howl by Yael Wolfe, a weekly column. © Yael Wolfe 2020

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