The sex with him was very physical, yet movingly spiritual. You might think I’m nuts, but seriously: I saw our souls touching each other. From then on, I knew that sex was more than in and out. I realized that sex could be a gateway to love. Honest love, divine love – or whatever magical word pleases you. And if you know what I mean, then you know that I had seen love and been love. That moment, I realized that love did not need to be growing for years; it could be there in a second. I suddenly knew that love existed and exists at any possible time and place.

The man I’d experienced this with and I, we didn’t end up as a couple; we didn’t even end up dating. We had been friends, and now we were a different version of that: lovers, friends, brothers, and sisters. We were intimate, on different missions, respectful of one another, amazed by one another, in love with one another, not a couple, and not looking forward to becoming one. We both continued on our own paths. That discovery however, it clearly was an awakening. Now, with my eyes and heart open, I was curious to find out behind which corner I might find love again.

***

You know, I grew up in a home where there was no such thing as sexuality. My mother got divorced from my father when I was four. They had been married for 11 years, and it had been a horrible marriage, or so my mom said and remembered. It was that horrible that also the divorce was horrible. Parent against parent and us kids, my brother and I, in the middle of it. Honestly, I don’t remember much of my parents being married or of the divorce. The only thing I do remember are fights with my brother Manuel, who is five years older than me. I remember when we had to go to court – or whatever official institution it was – and tell the person there how often we would like to visit our dad. Manuel knew that they were inquiring about that issue and asked me what I was going to answer. I told him that I didn’t want to see dad at all. It wasn’t that I was angry with dad; it was just that I didn’t feel any desire to see him. It was an honest decision of a four-year-old. Manuel, however, became worried and said that dad would probably be really sad and that I should not say such a thing. Of course, I did not want to make dad sad. I hadn’t been aware that my decision not to see him would make him so, but now I knew, and so I told the attorneys that I wanted to see dad every other weekend. Ah, and how much did I end up hating to get ready for those weekends. Dad continued to live in the large house my parents had built in the suburbs. It was a pretty house on a pretty dead-end street with other pretty houses on its sides. It had a big garden, a large swing that dad had built, and was close to cow’s grassland and a little forest. Clearly, it was a children’s paradise.

However, going to children’s paradise meant going on a 6-mile bike ride, no matter the weather. Imagine a four- or five-year-old kid riding a bicycle for that distance twice every other weekend. It was straining. Manuel was smart and had managed to say something, which allowed him to decide when to visit dad much more flexibly. Back then, I couldn’t tell what it was, but now I know that I felt betrayed. It became even more awkward when dad once told me, while Manuel was listening, that I was the good girl, that I at least had said that I wanted to come and see him regularly. It all felt so wrong because I actually had not cared to see him.