I'm Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself: One Woman's Pursuit of Pleasure in Paris

by Glynnis MacNicol

“We’re an attack on the value system of certain people.” As if my, or our, enjoyment undermines the hard work they have devoted to staying the path. And worse, calls into question the rewards that path offers. If I don’t feel bad about my life, how can they feel good?

all the photos I had that showed me at parties with friends. I looked amazing in all of them. I couldn’t believe it. I dazzled. And yet, I’m aware that in each instance I’d been horrified by the photos the first time I’d seen them. The disconnect is staggering to me now.

I’ve been with women, and from time to time I’ve opened this up to women, but it’s not what I’m looking for right now.

What am I here for? “I’m mostly here to enjoy myself,” I type back.

Misery loves company, but so does joy.

Not having to ask for anyone’s permission, leaving on a whim, walking a high tightrope, is exhausting and scary, but once you’re hooked on having control over your life, it’s a hard drug to kick.

Before I can say exactly what I want and where I want to go, I need to get comfortable with the fact I can want. I need to believe it, believe there is joy to be had and it is mine for the taking.

The older I get, the better I know myself, the less distance I must travel to figure out whether to include someone in my life. The closer I am to me, the closer I am to other people (and conversely, the less time I need to figure out whether to keep them at arm’s length).

she is an entire language that demands right of way.

But it is hard to think of another way to express the joy of finding a person who is made to feel the most alive by the very thing that makes you feel most alive. It is one of the great gifts. One that transcends even language. Or is its own language. The gift of not having to translate yourself.

It’s easier to experience abundance when you aren’t being bombarded with images of everyone else’s.

My skin might be starving, but no more than my brain or, I suppose, my soul is for communion. I find myself out in the evenings, in the midst of conversation, hands sliding across the table for this meat or that cheese, or the hard end of the baguette, or to dole out the last of the carafe of rosé—une autre s’il vous plaît—and lean back into the conversation as though into a wave that carries me along, gently and securely. But also with direction and determination. To be understood. To be celebrated for things you do not have to explain. To be together. What kind of sex can compete with this? Not the unknown kind.

“As his hand stole higher, she felt the secret bud of her body swelling, yearning, quivering hotly to burst into bloom. Ah, here was his subtle forefinger pressing it, forcing its tight petals softly apart.”

How easy it is to get lazy when there is someone else better at the work.

And yet, somehow, I feel compelled to note it because this story of women doing what they want is so new no one is quite sure how to tell yet.

We’re frequently reminded there is no greater sin a woman can commit than to take great pleasure in herself.

The pleasure of others’ concern is added onto the pile of all the other pleasures I have experienced this month.

At some point this wave of good fortune will end. At some point I will be once again in the valley of uncertainty with walls rising up on either side. And it will seem deep and at times insurmountable. But that too will end.