I had every intention of coming home on Tuesday evening after the gangbang and writing about it. Only, it’s now Saturday afternoon and I’m still at a loss for just the right words to describe what I experienced. Very frustrating for someone who’s crafted several books and published hundreds of articles.

What I thought would happen—and what actually occurred—are grounded in two completely different mental models. What did I think would happen? The heightened porn version of what Tank and I participated in a few weeks ago at a party. What he knows I like to watch online and fantasize about when I’m not with him.

So you ask. What did happen? Try this on.

Gently lay yourself down on a comfy surface. And close your eyes. Scan the recesses of your memory bank for the most sensual experience you’ve ever had with one other person. Remember in vivid detail what it was like to feel that person’s hands and fingers slowly and gently exploring your body. The warmth of their breath on your skin. How their mouth and tongue felt when they touched your lips and those places that drive you wild.

Then add ten more people (of the same sex) to the picture that exists in your mind’s eye. Or, for me, 11 men who were not only acting in loving, sensual, sexually pleasurable and pleasing ways towards me but with each other.

While I know you who read my blog seek the explicit—I can’t go there right now. Or more specifically, I choose not to share at the level of sexual detail that you’ll find in my previous posts.

The experience touched me at the core of my being. Especially as a woman whose life has been devoid of deep intimacy for much of the last decade. It’s what I’ve craved for years. And dreamed about finding over the last nine months. It continues the path along which Tank has slowly guided me in our private relationship.

And it unsettles me.

My second husband, with whom I spent 14 years, thrived on this depth of intimacy—when he wasn’t severely depressed or enveloped in a manic moment. As our relationship dissolved, like sugar in a glass of ice tea in early 1999, I often sobbed as I drifted off to sleep alone, my body visibly shaking. Uncontrollably. A skiing accident and the surgery that followed to repair his knee and lower leg confined us to separate sleeping quarters for months. Only once did he witness what I was going through —the night our divorce become final—when he held me closely against his body for the last time. Hours before I got in my car to drive 2000 miles across the US to be closer to people who could support me in this transition.

So I got good. Good at pushing my craving underground. Good at putting up an invisible wall between me and my lovers. Good at finding men who weren’t into being pleasured in this manner.

And now.

Now I find myself being inexplicably pulled into situations where I’m enveloped by exactly the sorts of behaviors I’ve worked so hard not to need. They’re seductive and highly intoxicating.

Only, the more I get, the more I want. And I’m scared. Scared I’ll want it more than it makes itself available to me. And I won’t know what to do about it. Scared it’ll vanish. Just like it did before.

Except, I’ve woken up to the possibilities of what can be. There’s no going back to the bubble I created to protect myself. Would you?