I Didn't Even Touch Him

Let me set the scene for you – summer camp, the sticky sweltering heat, the mosquitoes, the cold showers outside.

I walk into the kitchen for breakfast, glancing over a dozen faces I’d never seen before. As if he’d been waiting for my arrival, he looked at me. Or was it that our eyes met? Anyway, instant recognition was.

He walked toward me; attractive, warm eyes. We shared an extraordinary hug, the kind of hug that made me dizzy. We were instant friends.

So it was no surprise when, later that week, we landed as partners in an exercise, sitting cross-legged one in front of the other. This was a subtle-body practice exercise, one to heighten awareness of the energy inherent in silence and in proximity.

All I remember of the exercise is me passing my palm millimeters from his face, hovering there. I say millimeters because I was too close to touching him to measure the distance in inches, but too far away from his face to be touching him. His eyes were closed. To me it felt as if our beings were a commingled cloud of smoke, merged together, and my hand near his face was a mere formality to help me focus my attention.

After a few seconds, he moaned, then shuddered, then moaned again.

I held silent, staying with the expanded state I was in. Greater than myself. Merged with him. Expanded beyond my physical form.

After the exercise I felt…beaming. The sun was glistening off his cheeks, all I saw was the light he was radiating. We were both smiling at each other, as if we’d shared a lifetime of joy.

“I just came,” he said.

“What?” I answered, still smiling, not quite parsing language yet.

“I just came. In my pants. I came.”

A bit of laughter escaped me, the kind of laugh that isn’t quite disbelief, but isn’t quite ready to make sense of the moment yet, either. “Really?”

He nodded.

I hadn’t even touched him.


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