“Do those ruffles have ridges?” squealed the blonde, 20-something hippie chick, indicating my lover’s shirt.

“Why don’t you take a look,” he said, presenting his chest for her to slip her fingers over the scarlet fabric.

“Ugh,” I thought.

It was a crisp, crackling night at the Symbiosis Festival at Pyramid Lake, Nevada. The shimmery water reflected the moonlight and neon LEDs. The air pulsed with a blend of beats. The earth hummed with dancing festival-goers and Paiute ghosts. We were approximately 18 hours before a total solar eclipse. I could not have asked for a more breathtaking landscape to share an evening with the man I loved.

Except I had to deal with this crap.

I mean really? My heart was wide open and he had the balls (or the stupidity) to flirt with this vapid little tart in front of me?

Okay, okay. I did yoga. I believed in open relationships. I read Byron Katie. I should have just felt loving compassion for them and recognized my own insecurity and judgment rising to the surface, right?

So why was I so mind-splinteringly jealous?

An electric fireball rose to my throat.

When he came back to me, I couldn’t hold back. I felt hurt that he could have taken his attention off of me—even if only for a moment. I felt selfish for wanting him all to myself. I felt stupid for allowing such a petty little thing to crush my heart. Shouldn’t I have been above all this by now?

No. I was not.

I pulled out one of my lethal feminine ninja tricks.

“You can go back over there if you want.”

What a fucking lie. There was no way I wanted this man more than two feet away from me. In fact, my whole body ached to crawl on top of him, wrap my legs around his thick, furry torso and crush him. Consume him. I wanted every broken piece of man inside of me.

“No, I want to stay with you,” he replied.

Good answer.

We headed out into the night. He stopped, lingering to take in some art. In vain, he rallied to try to get me to enjoy it, but my hunger cracked the “good girl face” I had plastered on.

“No,” I thought. I didn’t want to look at any stupid art or analyze my stupid fears or process our stupid feelings.

Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy…dear God! What was this all about? Why couldn’t I just let go?

The moment I got curious with her, she spoke.

“Desire.”

Specifically, unspoken desire. Kept inside, it would kill me. Anger and resentment would boil to a toxic brew, destroying everything that mattered to me. But revealed, it would fuel my transformation.

“I want to go back to our tent. Now.”

Orgasm trumped all.

Inside the tent, I straddled him. My burning pussy lips wrapped around his cock. My forehead pressed to his. Deep, full wanting rose over me. I desired to both suck him inside of me and to be totally consumed by him.

“Get on top.”

He obeyed. His hair and heaviness annihilated me. I opened my mouth to taste the salty wetness of his skin. My nails dug deeper. A low-pitched scream tore from my throat. I brought his face to mine, biting his lower lip. I enslaved this man with my trembling limbs and held on as the force of blinding orgasm seared our flesh together.

A whispered “damn” was all that remained.

Thank you jealousy for reminding me of my hunger.

Thank you jealousy for connecting me to my power.

Thank you jealousy for being my hot new friend who demands no less than the fullest expression of my deepest desire.

Ed: Lynn Hasselberger

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