BLURB:
Given
the choice between chocolate or sex, Rebecca always chose chocolate.
That is, until a series of transformational experiences caused her to
let go of three decades of sexual repression and shame. A serendipitous
encounter with a Brazilian man sets the stage for a six-year journey
toward the discovery of a new sexual and spiritual truth and a love that
comes full circle.
Set against the backdrop of Buenos Aires and
London, with the soulful music of the blues intricately woven
throughout the journey, this book is more than just a captivating love
story. Healing sources of spiritual guidance accompany the joyful and
romantic ride.
Deeply intimate, insightful, and enriched with
playful humor, this story invites readers to not only engage in the
beauty of one woman’s journey of self-discovery, but to embark on their
own journey toward living life to the fullest and highest degree
possible.
EXCERPT:
A Brazilian in Buenos Aires
I arrived at the 06 Central
Hostel in downtown Buenos Aires
and checked into a dorm room with six beds. I said a silent prayer for quiet
roommates—the fewer, the better. I lucked out and got only two: a tall, awkward
Italian man named Marco, who spoke not a word of English (or anything but
Italian), and a Brazilian man named Boris. Ponytailed with a double-pierced
ear, he was, to me, exotic and attractive but unattainable. Chances were a
language barrier would keep us from communicating in any meaningful way.
That first night I sat at a long table
in the common area with my laptop, likely journaling about the artisan
chocolate I’d indulged in while in Bariloche. I was content to be alone at the
corner of the table, as it meant no one had to know I did not speak Spanish
(despite my best efforts in a beginner class I took before leaving Nashville). I feared
being considered what I believed I was—an ignorant American. And then Boris,
sitting at the opposite end of the table, said something to me. Instead of being
put off by my bewildered look, he simply switched to English.
Damn.
Busted.
I replied—and he spoke again. Despite my intentions, I was having a
conversation. And despite myself, I was pleased to have someone with whom I
could talk for a bit. He worked for an American company and was fluent in
English. Our conversation evolved from the standard, “Where are you from? How
long are you here?” to our shared passion for blues music. I told him that I
was a lindy hop and blues dancer.
“I’m familiar with lindy hop dancing
but blues dancing? What is that?” he
asked.
“Blues dancing is also a contemporary
partner dance with African roots, but it’s led by the music, rather than
specific dance steps. To me, it’s more liberating than lindy hop, because of
its freedom from rules and restrictions. It’s a dance strongly connected to
emotion, ranging from extreme joy to extreme sadness. I love it so much because
it gets me out of my head—you have to
be out of your head and into your body to dance, which is normally somewhere I
don’t want to be,” I released a shy giggle. I could see he was intrigued, so I
continued.
“It’s actually helped me get over the
fear of being touched—when you blues dance, you actually get to be held. Dancing to the blues feels like a big,
beautiful hug. It’s a relationship free of expectation, since it only has to
last until the song ends.”
I surprised myself by sharing the
personal details of my experience with Boris.
“Wow, it sounds beautiful. I’d love to
see what it looks like.”
Encouraged by his positive reaction, I
moved to sit next to him so that I could show him some videos of the dance on
my computer. When I was done, he extended the time we sat next to each other by
showing me shaky footage of the punk rock band he played drums in. As the evening
progressed, he shared that he was ending an intense ten-year relationship. His
time in Buenos Aires
was meant to clear his head. I divulged that I also was escaping an unhealthy
relationship.
When, tired, we moved our things into
the dorm room, we found Marco already in bed, but Boris and I were having a
hard time ending our conversation. I lay on my bottom bunk, and he sat down on
the floor beside me with his arms wrapped tightly around his bent knees,
leaning against the wall by the head of my bed. Every time a lull in the
conversation would suggest impending sleep, one of us would seize the
opportunity to fill it.
“One of my best friends moved away to England. He’s
studying at Oxford.
I haven’t told him this, but I really miss him,” Boris said once.
I reopened my eyes and noticed the
glimmer of relief in his own: I was still awake. He continued, “I really admire
his courage for moving abroad. I want to leave Brazil too. Fuck Brazil. I want
to see the world. There’s so much more out there.”
“So what is stopping you?”
“My friends in Brazil say I’d
be crazy to leave my job. Everyone wants to work for this company, and if I
left I’d have to start all over. There would be no guarantee I could get a job
like this again.” As Boris shared his dream, the hunger in his eyes was
reflective of my own longing for something more.
Though I didn’t want the night to end,
I regretfully expressed that exhaustion had taken over my body. With a hint of
disappointment, but in a nurturing tone of acceptance, Boris wished me a good
night and retreated to his top bunk on the opposite side of the room. I lay
awake for a while, smiling about my new friend. I had a strong suspicion he was
beginning to see me in more than just a friendly way. I started plotting how to
block any advances. My fear and shame around sex were so deeply embedded in my
brain they kept me from wanting to open myself to any relationship beyond
friendship. My biggest wall was Boris’s own: he’d be returning to Brazil in four
days anyway. How much could happen?
The next two days began with
what became my weekday routine in Buenos
Aires. My alarm would go off at 10:55 a.m., which gave
me five minutes to take advantage of the hostel’s free breakfast. I would
gather my dos medialunas con mermelada de
durazno (“two croissants with peach jam”) and jugo de naranja (“orange juice”) and leisurely dine at the communal
table on the patio. For those two days, I had had the special treat that Boris
would already be there telecommuting. I delighted in his morning company before
I had to get ready to attend my Spanish lesson, followed by a tango lesson
later in the afternoon.
In the evenings Boris and I would team
up to do a bit of sightseeing. That first night on the town, Thursday, he
invited me to join Marco and him for dinner at a pizzeria down the street. I
had already eaten, but I eagerly joined them to continue exploring this
compelling Brazilian man. Doing so with Marco present made me feel safe. Seated
at the dinner table, Boris pulled from the cavities of his brain the few
Italian words he remembered from school so that we could interact somewhat
within our trio. Marco invited Boris and me to join him for a concert after
dinner, but we took turns saying we preferred to stay in for the night. It wasn’t
yet spoken, but we both felt a seed of promise at the opportunity to be alone
together.
Relaxing on the patio back at the
hostel, we stole penetrating glances at each other in between bashful
withdrawals of focused attention. Conversation came naturally, but our thoughts
playfully considered a connection beyond merely verbal territory.
“Do you want to do something together
tonight?” Boris asked with the same look of hopeful yearning I had recognized
the night before.
“What did you have in mind?” My heart
began to race.
“Do you like wine? I can buy a bottle,
and we can share it back here.”
“That sounds great.” I released a sigh
of appreciation that my nerves would soon be able to experience a respite.
He went out to buy a bottle and
returned shortly to where I’d continued to sit on the patio.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Sure!” I said enthusiastically, while
remaining seated at the communal table.
Boris moved to step inside our dorm
room.
“Oh,” I said with surprise. “You mean
in there?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered
curiously.
My insecurities began to boil. I had
already demonstrated the innocence of a child, not the confidence of an adult
woman, by expressing surprise that he had intended us to share the wine
privately. Hesitantly, I followed him into the room. My mind fought flashbacks
of being led to another bedroom in my past, but I knew this was a different
man. This was one who sparked emotions in me that I had never felt with anyone
else, even though I still did not know him well.
Relax,
Rebecca,
I thought. Sharing wine with a man in a
hostel bedroom does not mean it will lead to sex. My intuition, however,
told me two things: one, that he was a good man, nothing like Ryan back in
Nashville and, two, that it likely would lead to sex—if not now, then soon.
Boris locked the door behind us. I was
acutely aware of this extra step—a certain sign that something private was
about to happen. I was somewhat scared to be there, but I wanted to take this
next step nonetheless. We opened the bottle of wine and began listening to
music on my laptop. B. B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone” joined the rotation. The
sheer beauty of the opening notes evoked feelings of foreplay in my mind, and I
could tell that Boris was particularly moved as well.
King’s voice eased into a seductive
moan as I stood to allow the music to pass through my body. I was inspired to
express the intensity of what I was experiencing, and I invited Boris to dance
with me.
Our eyes met as we swayed in a close
embrace and quietly sang along to the words that transcended continents,
languages, and cultures to land in the hearts and memories of both our beings.
I led Boris through some basic blues
moves, isolating and rolling various parts of my body to accentuate and hit
particular notes, pausing to breathe slower and deeper in communion with the
more profound parts of the song. The dance allowed me the freedom to express
myself without feeling vulnerable. Much as dancing is an excellent outlet for
the socially awkward because it doesn’t require talking, it is equally an
effective outlet for the sexually inhibited because it doesn’t require nudity.
I just needed to respond instinctually to the music. It felt like I was coming
home to myself. I let go of my inhibitions a little more as the song began to
come to a close.
Although the lyrics suggest a
triumphant release of attachment, our experience was contradictory. We were
falling under each other’s spell. One more pass around the room, and Boris
pressed me up against the wall of lockers and kissed me passionately. I’d never
been kissed like that. This was a Latin
kiss. I found myself wondering if the term French
kiss should be revised.
We were hooked—“just friends” be gone.
The fairy godmother sprinkled her magic stardust, and we were magnetically
connected from that point on. Until Sunday, that is. Three days away.
The night ended sweetly. We kissed some
more, and then some more, before retreating to our respective bunks for the
night. So far, so good. I wasn’t completely found out yet. I might still be a woman in his eyes, I considered.
Friday night we met up after our
daily activities and joined two other couples I had met through my tango dance
class for dinner and salsa dancing. At dinner, Boris’s and my hands joined
under the table, and at the dance our eyes continuously sought connection. When
I danced with another man from our group, Boris openly demonstrated his
jealousy. I took pleasure in the fact that he saw me as desirable enough to
catch the eye of this attractive other man and felt okay with that feeling
because I wasn’t playing with Boris; this other man was not a threat to him. I
was, instead, enthralled with this striking Brazilian man who felt so familiar
to me.
We closed the night in true porteño style, the way Buenos Aires
natives do, not returning to the hostel until 5:00 a.m. Boris and I were
disappointed to find new roommates in our dorm, but our sheer exhaustion would
have prevented any degree of intimacy anyway. We went straight to our
respective beds.
Saturday would be the first—and
only—full day that Boris and I would spend together in Buenos Aires. We took full advantage of it,
walking along the newly developed waterfront of Puerto Madero before crossing
the river and renting bikes to explore Costanera Sur, an ecological reserve of
trails amid gorgeous marsh and grassland. It was a refreshing place to escape
the noise of the city and find some privacy, but the severity of the mosquitos
prevented us from indulging too long.
The geography of Costanera Sur reminded
me of La Crosse.
I had traversed trails like this by bike many times throughout my life, as they
weaved behind both my elementary school and my college campus. I found rare
moments of seclusion on those trails, away from my family and, later, away from
my roommates. I finally had a place to just be. I filled journal after journal
while sitting on benches among the wetlands; I wrote poetry depicting both the
beauty of nature and the anguish of my adolescent soul. Always, I daydreamed of
faraway places.
And now here I was, nearly six thousand
miles south, and my surroundings looked the same as where I’d come from. A
deeper look, of course, revealed that I couldn’t have been farther away—Buenos Aires flora could not survive in La Crosse. I was different too. The distance
from home had changed me. I had a companion by my side, an exotic man with whom
I’d already become quite comfortable. How could a man from so far away—raised
with a different culture, language, and religion—have so much in common with
me? Why did he feel so familiar?
I left the questions to hang within me.
I knew I was inexperienced in the realm of love. I’ll likely feel this way with many men in my future, I mused. This particular story has an obvious and
impending ending. A few more days, and our relationship will simply become
fodder for nostalgia.
But there would be time to contemplate
the future later. All I knew was that now, our experience together at what we
dubbed Puerto Mosquito was blissful. My heart fluttered with each stroke of
Boris’s touch. I delighted in visibly being part of a couple. When you’re
painfully single, couples in love can be spotted around every corner—or at
least couples in lust. For once, I was one of them. To experiment with the idea
of being in a romantic partnership while in public felt safe to me. There was
no pressure to go too far.
Later, back in our room, we wondered
how we should end the night. It was St. Patrick’s Day—a good opportunity to
celebrate. It was also Boris’s last night in Buenos Aires
before returning to Brazil.
I sat on my bed as he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me.
“I just had a crazy idea,” he began. “I
really don’t want to spend my last night with you in this dorm room. Would you
be open to me getting us a hotel room?”
I felt an intense wave of inner
conflict. I was simultaneously flattered, excited, and terrified. Our mere four
days together had come to this. My instinct told me that this next step was one
I should take, and I interpreted that message as approval from God. So, I knew that
if I said no, it would be strictly out of fear and my own insecurities. I was
on this trip to stretch my boundaries, to challenge myself and see what came up
for me. I knew what I needed to do.
“I’ll agree…on two conditions. One, we
get ice cream first and, two, we get a bottle of wine for the room.” The little
girl in me was craving the comfort of a sweet and familiar physical sensation,
and the emerging woman was inviting me to experiment with new aspects of
pleasure.
I thought Boris was going to jump for
joy, as I could feel his energy level heighten, but he remained seated,
allowing only a generous smile to grace his face.
“Great,” he said quietly, with the
adorable accent that touched my heart.
I walked cautiously with him to an ice
cream shop. My stomach was a bundle of nerves. I trusted my desire to share
this night with him, but I also felt like each step was bringing me closer to
impending doom. Well, I’ll probably never
see him again after tomorrow. Once he realizes I have no idea what I’m doing in
bed, it will just be a matter of passing a few more hours with him. At least I
won’t regret not trying.
We ate our ice cream and continued our
walk to find a liquor store. It was too late to purchase a bottle from a wine
shop, so Boris came up with the idea of buying a bottle from a restaurant. The
manager on duty eyed us suspiciously, contemplating if he should sell us a
bottle without our having been patrons at his establishment. Boris managed to
charm him with a gesture toward me and a plea along the lines of “Please be a
gentleman—it’s for the lady.” He
finally acquiesced and, bottle in hand, we found the nearest decent-looking
hotel to check in to for the night.
We approached the front desk carrying a
bottle of wine and no luggage. I wondered how many times the hotel staff had
seen this scenario. I had been informed by locals that Buenos Aires was infamous for its albergues transitorios, hotel rooms
rentable by the hour for young couples needing a reprieve from their parents or
married individuals needing a reprieve from their spouses. But this was not a
hotel of that sort—the entrance was not hidden by protective walls, and the
edifice lacked decorative neon lights.
We spent considerable time
communicating that we were in need of wine glasses and waiting for the staff to
try to locate a pair. We ended up settling for two paper cups. Though the hotel
was not of the high-class variety, it still came with a concierge who eagerly
rode the elevator with us to bring us to our room. I think he simply wanted to
eavesdrop on, or perhaps participate in, what appeared would be an enjoyable
night. Five awkward floors later, and only after repeatedly being assured that
we needed nothing else, the concierge left us alone at our room.
We enjoyed our bottle of red wine,
which aided in loosening Boris’s tongue, buying me some time to adjust to the
fact that holy crap, I’m in a private
hotel room with a man I barely know! We talked for a couple of
hours—principally about God.
“You know, my religion would condemn me
for being here with you now.” My eyes met Boris’s as I searched for approval to
continue without being judged.
“Do you believe you should be
condemned?” He held my gaze.
“Well, no. But I do believe in God.
There is so much beauty in the world that I can’t deny something larger than us
has created it all.” I paused before continuing, “So I try to follow his
teachings. I figure if I live an honest, good life the majority of the time, a
few sins will be overlooked, and I’ll still go to heaven.”
Boris waited for me to finish before
revealing his perspective. “I used to believe in God, but growing up in Brazil I have
seen so much suffering. Where is God in that? I prefer to just live my life as
a good person and not worry about someone else’s judgment. When I die, I die.
That’s it. At least my life will have offered some purpose while I was here.”
“Really? You don’t believe we have a
spirit that lives on?”
“No, I don’t. Our spirit just dies with
our body. Death doesn’t scare me. I like the idea of death. When my grandmother
died last year, I asked my mother if I could keep her skull. I thought it would
be so beautiful to have it to remember her by. She wouldn’t let me, though.”
“I’m not surprised.” I laughed. “Where
I come from, that would be considered sacrilege.”
“Where I come from too,” his words
trailed off, revealing more similarities between us than we’d originally
thought.
Speaking to Boris about my faith
allowed me to feel known. If I was going to share the sacredness of my body with
this man, I at least wanted him to know a piece of my soul.
Finally, the crutch of conversation
that I’d been leaning on gave way to the reason we had placed ourselves in the
hotel room to begin with. A look came across Boris’s face that read, It’s time.
Book is FREE for a limited time:
09 - 13 November, 2014
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Though one
of her childhood fantasies was to have superhuman powers that allowed
her to travel instantaneously around the globe—or at the very least,
fly—it is Rebecca’s distinctly human persona that causes strangers and
dogs alike to want to be her new best friend. With a commitment to
spreading joy and inspiring others to let go of shame and let shine
their light, Rebecca unabashedly reveals her own vulnerability so that
others may feel safe exploring their own.
Rebecca was a prize winner in Christine Kloser’s 2013 Transformational Author Writing Contest and has been featured on Viki Winterton’s Write Now Radio! program alongside top literary experts and publishing professionals. She currently resides in Portland, Oregon, though you may not find her there year-round—a vagabond spirit cannot be tamed. You could look for her frolicking in forests or careening on rocks by the sea, but you’ll have a better chance following her at www.findingecstasy.com.
Rebecca Pillsbury is available for select talks. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact
http://findingecstasy.com/cont act-us/
info@findingecstasy.com
Rebecca was a prize winner in Christine Kloser’s 2013 Transformational Author Writing Contest and has been featured on Viki Winterton’s Write Now Radio! program alongside top literary experts and publishing professionals. She currently resides in Portland, Oregon, though you may not find her there year-round—a vagabond spirit cannot be tamed. You could look for her frolicking in forests or careening on rocks by the sea, but you’ll have a better chance following her at www.findingecstasy.com.
Rebecca Pillsbury is available for select talks. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact
http://findingecstasy.com/cont
info@findingecstasy.com
This is what Reviewers say about this book:
Amazing!!!
I immediately connected with this book and its characteristics. finished reading it in one night and it was completely worth the read.
I immediately connected with this book and its characteristics. finished reading it in one night and it was completely worth the read.
Julissa @ Goodreads.
A book that sticks in your mind.
They say the sign of a good movie or book is that even when you've
completed reading it, the words and ideas continue to take up space in
your mind. This book is of that variety. In between sets of reading, and
certainly after swiping the last e-page, I found myself frequently
pondering some of the ideas she offers and comparing them to my own. And
the beauty of this book is that the author encourages the reader not to
necessarily believe in her beliefs, but to share her passion for living
with a set of beliefs that work for her, with the hopes that her
readers will do the same for themselves. The premise being that once
we've carved out a path of our own - once we have a better understanding
of who we are and who we want to be - we are better prepared for
blazing our own trail, moving through our lives with fearless grace.
The author describes her spiritual journey and sexual healing process via snippets and flashes of her life story. Part travelogue, part love story, and part inner-conversation, she pointedly and fearlessly expresses not only the shame she felt growing up, but also the release of that shame by braving new experiences, finding her truth through reading and deep introspection, traveling near and far, and dancing the Blues.
The great thing about this book is that its stories are relatable. The beauty of that type of memoir is that we are offered a space to reflect on our own "ordinary" moments in a deeper and more thoughtful way. Finding Ecstasy encourages this, and may even be the author's "soul" purpose of the book itself.
If you're up for a book that forces you to reflect, this one is definitely for you!
The author describes her spiritual journey and sexual healing process via snippets and flashes of her life story. Part travelogue, part love story, and part inner-conversation, she pointedly and fearlessly expresses not only the shame she felt growing up, but also the release of that shame by braving new experiences, finding her truth through reading and deep introspection, traveling near and far, and dancing the Blues.
The great thing about this book is that its stories are relatable. The beauty of that type of memoir is that we are offered a space to reflect on our own "ordinary" moments in a deeper and more thoughtful way. Finding Ecstasy encourages this, and may even be the author's "soul" purpose of the book itself.
If you're up for a book that forces you to reflect, this one is definitely for you!
Julie V @ Amazon.
I have my copy. Do you?
Book is FREE for a limited time:
09 - 13 November, 2014
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