“Arizona for today. Eventually Los Angeles.”
“There’s a wonderful small highway that runs along the New Mexico–Arizona border. It’s a bit longer than the main interstate, but worth the miles.”
We write down the directions and thank him. First stop, though, is Albuquerque.
• • •
We find the sex shop midday, a florid storefront in a sketchy neighborhood. I had been hoping it might be more inviting. Once inside, though, the young woman working there is friendly and helpful. I explain my mission: to experience Ben Wa balls on a motorcycle. She goes through the various options and convinces me that the best approach is a single silicone ball the size of a jawbreaker. She says it’s a good introductory option. “If nothing else, you’ll improve your pelvic floor muscles by doing Kegel contractions.” Gynecologists and obstetricians recommend Ben-Wa balls in conjunction with Kegel exercises and vaginal weights to improve the elasticity of the vagina and to increase bladder control. So really, she rationalizes, this is an exercise in improved female health.
When she puts it that way, I feel less weird about the whole experience.
I step into the bathroom at the shop and put the ball inside. At my insistence, Rebecca also buys one but decides to wait to try hers out.
We head west on the interstate—homeward. In about an hour, we’ll stop for gas and start on the smaller roads Kent’s neighbor told us about. As I ride, I keep waiting to feel the first vibrations of that distinctive tingle. Nothing. This is a complete letdown. Eventually, I figure I may as well do some Kegel exercises. At least some good will come of all this.
When we stop for gas, Rebecca is curious. “Well?” she asks.
“Utterly underwhelming,” I report.
The next leg of the journey becomes exceptionally memorable for two reasons. The first is the remarkable scenery as we parallel the New Mexico–Arizona border. It’s desertlike, but rolling hills approach and recede, filling my eyes with subtle desert hues against a brilliant sky. The second is that all those Kegels perhaps jump-started the Ben-Wa ball because something amazing starts to happen. Over a distance of about one hundred miles, I experience a dozen gentle, rolling orgasms and am kept in a state of heightened arousal. They’re not the slam-bang magnitude of orgasm that leaves you limp and speechless, but subtle and delicious and send shivers up my back.
We eventually stop for gas and I grab Rebecca by the arm. “You. Must. Try. This.”
She laughs. “I knew something must have been going on!” she says. “You kept speeding up, then for no reason, slowing way down. It’s a good thing we’re out here in the boonies. I don’t think trying that in L.A. would be such a great idea.”
“But really, Rebecca, you’ve got to try this!”
“Not this time,” she says. “One of us needs to be the designated driver.”
Day Fifteen: Friday, September 6
Shelter in place, Tempe, AZ
We sleep in and, still in pajamas, lounge the morning away. My friend Tara pleads for more specifics about the Ben Wa ball. We’ll be back in L.A. tomorrow, so we proclaim today Recuperation Day. Massage. Manicure and pedicure. Rebecca talks me into a bikini wax, which I’ve never done. Out of our leathers, armored pants, and smelly T-shirts, we enjoy the sheer and gauzy freedom of girly-girl clothing. When I return to L.A. tomorrow, I have no idea what my life will hold. Will I ever meet someone who might be a companion like Kent and Emily found in each other? Will the Kegels ever translate into a shared sexual experience again? Where will my life head next? I do know one thing, though. Whatever’s next, I’m ready for it. Undertaking this motorcycle journey has given me more courage than I ever knew I possessed.
We have plans to go out to dinner tonight as a final hurrah. But a haboob dust storm is threatening and from what I hear, best practice is to shelter in place. We cancel the reservations and settle for home cooking and some Netflix. Later, Laura, a mutual friend from L.A., calls Tara.
“I’m here with Bernadette and Rebecca. They’re on their way back home after riding their motorcycles to Milwaukee,” I overhear Tara say. “I’ve got two big-ole Harleys in my driveway.”
There’s laughter and conversation, but I’m mostly watching the movie. I don’t know what’s said on the phone next, but Tara’s face drops and she hangs up abruptly.
I look at her, eyebrows raised. “What happened?”
“I don’t know how to say this,” Tara starts. “But, ah, Laura asked if you were gang-raped on your trip.”
“She was kidding, right?”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I hope you told her we were fine.”
“Yes. It’s just that she said it so casually. As if it was the kind of thing that was expected when you take off on a Harley.”
I think back to what I learned earlier about the dearth of female road trips. If we’ve created a culture in which it’s sensible to assume that two women crossing the country on motorcycles are setting themselves up to get gang-raped, wow. It’s more than just television and film portrayals that will have to change.
SECTION III
ROLL
•CHAPTER FIFTEEN•
CARDIOLOGY
I am always doing that which I cannot do, in order that I may learn how to do it.
—PABLO PICASSO
I’m back in L.A., settled into the “new normal.” When I stop moving long enough to center myself, I feel it: my heart throbbing through my skin and bones, pushing and pulsing in a movement so subtle I spend most of my hours unaware it’s there. The beat is syncopated and oh-so vulnerable.
Is this all that’s keeping me alive?
• • •
When I allow myself to feel my heartbeat, I am filled with longing. I want to feel another’s heartbeat. I wish to put my hand against another’s chest and feel its distinct, rhythm, to lay my head against a sternum and hear the subtle thumps.
I want to hear it: blood pulsing. I want to feel it: life.
Dating. Romance. Sex. Previously, these human elements were always inextricably tied to the future. A teenager dates to find out who she wants as a boyfriend. During college days, who to sleep with. And then maybe we start looking ahead for prospective life partners. Always, the focus is on something yet to come: With whom to set up house? To marry? To have kids?
But now, all those life stages are behind me. There’s no clearly defined future to look toward. So what now? What does it mean to be interested in someone? How do I navigate these unfamiliar waters?
I know the possible pitfalls. Sex brings a thrill, a kind of high. I could use that high to distract me from what’s really going on in my life. Plus, sex has a not-to-be-underestimated chemical component: oxytocin.
Recently, watching The Sessions, a movie about a paraplegic who hires a sex surrogate, I am deeply moved with its explication of the human need for intimate touch. The look on the man’s face, the way the two people communicate via their bodies. Watching that film, sex becomes more sacred to me than all the Catholic indoctrination I’ve received. The female sex surrogate is being pulled into something with this man. Sex is only part of it and yet is paving the way. The oxytocin response is doing exactly what it is meant to do by bonding these two human people together.
I consider the hormone oxytocin, known as the “bonding chemical.” It evokes feelings of contentment, reduces anxiety, and produces calmness and security when in the company of one’s mate. It is a small molecule, or peptide, that serves as both a neurotransmitter, sending signals within the brain, and a hormone, carrying messages in the bloodstream. When scientists have inhibited oxytocin in the lab mammals, mothers are known to shun their offspring. But when oxytocin is induced in these animals, the peptide causes the mothers to nurture not only their own offspring but also the offspring of other animals, even of other species. The levels of oxytocin in our system tell us when it’s safe to relax and cuddle and also stimulates feeling of trust. Oxytocin is produced when we kiss, have sex, expe
rience orgasm, hug, and nurse a baby.
Looking further into this question, I contact Paul J. Zak, author of The Moral Molecule: How Trust Works, a study of the role oxytocin and our personal biochemistry play in the development of sympathy, love, and trust. Zak is a professor at Claremont Graduate University and directs the Center for Neuroeconomic Studies there. I first became aware of Zak through his TED lecture. After reading his book I ask him for some insight into the changes I’m experiencing since my breakup and my father’s death. I tell him I’m puzzled about what is happening biochemically, and what role oxytocin might be playing in this transformation.
His immediate assessment is that I’m experiencing the effects of lower estrogen and more testosterone. “You’re probably experiencing increased libido as well,” he suggests, though I’ve told him absolutely nothing that would lead him to that spot-on conclusion. I’m glad we’re talking by phone so he cannot see my color rise, and I decide not to mention Ben Wa balls.
“You are doing things that are midlife crisis-ish. Your father’s death probably had something to do with that.” Since I was the primary caretaker in my family of origin, and then again in my marriage, I would have created over the decades a feedback loop that supplied me with ample amounts of oxytocin. “Those were all the factors that kept you in that oxytocin loop: the children, having a regular sex partner.”
Oxytocin not only bonds us to others, but also triggers dopamine and serotonin, the feel-good chemicals that help us enjoy life and feel alive. Zak speculates that as a recovered drug addict/alcoholic, I’m likely driven by a craving for dopamine that’s stronger than the average person’s, what is sometimes called a “dopamine-seeking brain.” Thus, I have an increased need for oxytocin and the dopamine it triggers.
But then, from a biological perspective, I moved into a new phase of life sparked by major life changes. The kids, whose hugging and cuddling when younger kept the oxytocin flowing, were now either gone or leaving, supplying less of the magical O drug. I also found myself without any meaningful connection with my spouse, at the same time realizing I probably had another thirty-five or forty years of life expectancy. With the drop in dopamine and serotonin brought on via oxytocin withdrawal, I still craved and needed those feel-good chemicals.
“Once those hooks were gone, your underling physiology changed,” Zak speculates. “Unconsciously, you had to reconsider what it is in life you value and how you might want to live out the rest of your days.”
He believes that from a chemical perspective, there was probably a change in my testosterone-to-estrogen ratio, adding to the equation. With a decline in testosterone, a person becomes less interested in exploring and more risk averse. This explains how I had been more content during the years I was raising children. The low testosterone helped fuel my contentment. And that became the feedback loop that perpetuated itself. The quieter my life became, the quieter I wanted it.
But now the opposite is true. Since I am no longer getting that chemical high from my kids and family life, I am creating it myself through the motorcycle. That stimulation, he speculates, creates a higher testosterone level, which helps to raise dopamine levels and causes me to pursue even more risks.
“Once you get a taste, then you want more.”
Zak tells me about his own experience with risk, wanting to skydive and having to deal with his fear and reticence. “At first I was terrified,” he says, as he considered the pros and cons. If he died skydiving, his kids would be okay, biologically at least. They were eleven and fourteen at the time. But he also knew that if at age fifty-two he didn’t do it now, he might not have either the time or physical capacity to explore it later. “I have a limited window of opportunity. I recently started skiing again for the first time in twenty years. I wouldn’t want to be doing that at age sixty-two, but I can do it now.”
With these neurochemicals that seem to drive behavior, he explains, an acclimation process occurs. We adapt to our environment and the cycle continues to feed the cycle. More risk taking perpetuates more risk taking. “But once you get out of the system, the feedback loop starts to weaken.”
Examinations of brain development in young boys and girls show that boys tend to have underactive dopamine systems, he tell me. “So we see lot of risk taking among young men. They’re doing that to spike dopamine.”
But while these boys continue their risk-taking behavior, other things happen that reinforce the cycle. They start gaining dominance over other boys who don’t want to take the same risks. They also become more attractive to girls. Until the brain starts inhibiting these behaviors, which for young men is around age thirty, this is the feedback loop, resulting in more and more risk taking.
The same thing, he speculates, is happening with me. “You’re a youngish middle-aged woman who’s now seen as a cool lady. You get caught up in this persona, you like the new perspective. And so you have that feedback loop. You’re living closer to edge and it’s invigorating.”
Just like his own experience skydiving. “Skydiving is the most life-affirming thing I’ve ever done,” he says. “I have a friend whose wife suddenly left him after seventeen years and four kids. I’m trying to get him to go skydiving so he can remember what feeling alive is like.”
Likewise, a newly wakened sexuality can have a similar effect, he tells me.
But I protest. Women at midlife are seen in our society as lacking sexually, as having lost interest. Why this disconnect?
“Maybe it’s the whole angel-whore dichotomy,” Zak explains. “We want women to be sexy and good girls at the same time. Then we have the whole ‘cougar’ thing going on these days, Demi Moore and all that.” But one thing is clear: From an endocrinology perspective, we see that while some perimenopausal women become uninterested in sex, others become more interested.
And does the motorcycle itself play a role in these changes?
He thinks it does. Plus, it’s likely my dopamine-hunting system would not have rested until I found something that fed it. But unlike those who turn to drugs, alcohol, unsafe sex, or gambling, he believes that I discovered a productive way to get the dopamine.
Perhaps, I suggest, the motorcycle helps supply me with dopamine by way of oxytocin?
He thinks about this for a bit. He’s not convinced. “Nonsocial stimuli do not cause oxytocin,” he explains. “It’s always produced for social reasons. However, vehicles are very interesting in this context . . .” After Zak ponders a bit more, he instructs me to look up the YouTube video on Fritz Heider and Marianne Simmel’s experimental study of apparent behavior conducted in 1944 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9TWwG4SFWQ).
The minute-long animated video features shapes interacting with each other soundlessly. Healthy people always say that the larger triangle in this film is beating up the smaller shapes, Zak explains. This is because the shapes are moving. Once they are moving, we assign intention to them. We assign emotion. We believe they’re moving for a reason. Thus, they’re easy to anthropomorphize.
Similarly, a motorcycle is moving and can create a very intimate experience. “There it sits, between your legs, almost a part of you.” And the motorcycle is more than just the bike itself. A rider is also connected to a larger community of other bikers, meaning it’s not inconceivable that a person might have a bonding (therefore oxytocin-spiking, dopamine-enriching) experience with a motorcycle.
“Wouldn’t it be fun to see if your oxytocin level increases as a result of riding the bike?“ he proposes. “If so, this would be the first evidence I know of that motorcycling causes oxytocin to rise.”
How can we prove this theory? Zak and I decide to arrange a time to take blood samples, both before and after riding the motorcycle, to see what’s happening biochemically when I ride. With a date for the blood tests set, I have to wonder if I’m bonded with a bike, literally having an affair with steel and leather.
• • •
In the meantime, though, there’s still the question of real-life human b
onding. I’m on a first date, having dinner with a man in my Los Feliz neighborhood. It’s the only date I’ve had in the year since my marriage ended that feels like it might lead to a second date. He suggests a walk after dinner but doesn’t try to hold my hand or make any moves.
“You know,” he says, “whoever you have sex with for the first time after a twenty-five-year marriage will have quite a challenge on his hands. Some men might be intimidated.”
I agree.
“It might be awkward and weird,” he continues. “That’s a long time to have been with only one man.”
The date ends with a peck on the cheek. Perhaps my situation is too daunting. I drive home depressed.
But half an hour later, my phone buzzes with a text. “I like you. You’re age appropriate, attractive, and single. How would you feel about being playmates?”
As he sees it, entering a marriage is like buying a house, while a friends-with-benefits situation is like staying in a hotel for a night or two. But being a playmate? “That’s more like leasing,” he explains.
“We can take things on a day-by-day, month-by-month basis and see how it goes. But at the very minimum, we might have fun with each other.”
I’m not sure I’m ready to be a playmate, but I am ready to find out.
A few nights later he comes to my place to pick me up. It’s late. We meet in the darkened Hollywood street dressed casually in T-shirts and jeans. This is purposefully not a date. We are road-testing companionship/playmate compatibility. There is no will he or won’t he? No does he like me? Am I cute enough? Just: How do we feel together?
He takes my hand and I lean my head against his chest. My skin flushes where he touches me. He inches my face toward his and kisses me. I see myself for exactly what I am: a stack of dry tinder just waiting for a spark. Suddenly, I don’t need violins to serenade me. His mouth is enough.
Harley and Me Page 20