I. Lying in wait.
On the savannah, on the plain, in desert sands and next to humid river beds, the predator lies in wait. Something has given off its scent, awakened its hunger. Fully awake now, the lion follows the scent, alerted to the herd’s presence. He watches, determines which of the creatures flitting before its eyes is the one it wants. Which one will be his target.
The lion cannot match her speed, so there is no chase. He trails behind the gazelle, captivated by her steps, intoxicated by her scent, thrilled that she is unaware of his presence. He moves slowly, positioning himself at the exact right distance to watch her, his hunger growing with each sure-footed step, each pace closing the distance between him and the solitary creature he is now possessed by. He does not rush, does not speed up despite the growing desire pounding through, his entire world narrowed to the vision of this one gazelle, every marking of her hide, every ear twitch, every chew, every nostril flare, every movement of her eyes imprinting him. It is all he can do to contain his pursuit. He continues to wait, wait for his split-second opening. A patient, calculated ambush. Ensnaring and capturing. The lion captivated by the gazelle, long before the gazelle notices her captor.
II. Grazing amidst the herd.
She feels the sun on her back, the weight of her fawn against her legs, the dry snap of the grasses as she tears them from the ground. She knows that danger could come at any moment, yet is undisturbed. Now is the time to eat, to make sure the young one eats.
She is a prideful one, surely it will be her downfall. Proud of this spring’s fawn, a sturdy young one with good coloring and a quick mind, ready to be out from the protection of the tall grasses. Proud of eluding the recent ambushes, quicker than the cheetah, braver than the hyena, equal, she knows, to the one who has been watching – the lion who raided the herd and made off with a too-feeble-doe last season. She knows he’s out there. He’s been out there all season.
She is his match. She catches his scent when the wind shifts. Straightens her neck, raises her head higher. Pauses before stotting to alert the others. He doesn’t want any of them. He’s come for her. She grows into her fullness under his gaze – enlivened – every muscle taut and firm, her stride more graceful. She exudes the fullness of life, joy, beauty knowing he is lying in wait. For one moment, she looks directly into his brown eyes, matches his will, invites him to follow her, challenges him to delight in what comes next. She will show him all she is. She is fast, fit, in her prime. She will gladly display her long legs, arched back, strong neck – she will take to the air for him. Her hunger has been awakened by his; she hadn’t known she hungered for more than what this herd offered. She is filled with the need for his power, the weight of his body as he closes in, the way he will enjoy her, the way he will devour her.
III. Big cats.
As a love-struck teenager, I wanted to be Joy Adamson, wanted to be the one who Elsa loved, the one and only human she would approach. Whatever George Adamson thought he was doing there, the whole kingdom knew Elsa wanted Joy. Joy – for Pete’s sake, her name declared her purpose, what she craved, what she offered. George may have helped around the campsite, or shot a photo or two, but he started out the whole orphaned-lion gig by killing Elsa’s mother, let’s be clear. It was the bond between Joy and Elsa, Joy’s undeterred belief that she and the lioness were equals of sorts, that captivated us all, captivated me, created my still-to-this-day fantasy that I will walk amidst lions.
I was in love with lions. I wrote lion stories and drew lion pictures and favored my golden, caramel brown stuffed lion above the hundreds of other plush animals in my lair; he sprawled the length of my twin bed, larger than my arm span, large enough for me to bury my face in his neck, large enough to hold me while I read, lost in his full embrace. My fantasy life was filled with lions, lionesses and cubs. I spent hours in the field across from my house; it became my savannah, my dog was my lion, joy was mine.
I grew too old to pretend, but didn’t outgrow the longing for the long-maned, swaggering lions, the willingness to be dominated and possessed, relentlessly taken and retaken over several days, until I submitted, yes, submitted, a fate not allowed in my suburban pride.
IV. Big cat exhibits.
I sit transfixed at the big cat exhibits, the chance to watch them in their natural environments, which are, of course, anything but natural. I could sit all day, imagining what they’re thinking, enjoying the cubs at play, excited and delighted at every swat, nibble, pounce, lunge, roll over, even a yawn – the most amazing thing ever.
See how they blink…
How their ears move…
How the tail swings as if it is its own creature…
How if I’m perfectly still, one will turn its head in my direction, rewarding me with the biggest, darkest eyes, and for the briefest moment I imagine he’s looking at me. Taking me in. Seeing my lungs expand and contract. Watching me. Waiting for me to move. Seeing me as I truly am. In this pseudo-natural habitat, I become the Magnificent Stranger, the one to watch, to wait for my next move – before turning back to members of its own pride, returning to the life he is destined to live, leaving me to pick up my water bottle and snacks and camera and zoo map, continue on to the next exhibit. No matter what I imagine as a life with the big cats, alas I am human.
V. He was watching.
Eyes deep dark pools covered by thick black lashes; eyes poised for delight, concealing hardships and disappointments that trace back all the way to his forebears. His scent also deep, sun-drenched, his skin a dark desert sand, baked a deep caramel brown, slow-burnt as crème brûlée, and just as sweet. Named for joy, for song, a recognition of what he brings to others, seeks in others. A protector, watching over us all. He captivated the one temporarily separated from her herd, the one who loves to sing, the one who seeks joy. He hungered for her; his hunger awakened hers.
VI. Barriers we cannot cross.
No matter what I am, gazelle or human, I cannot cross the species barrier. We get so close. We can get no closer. The big cat remains strong and predatory, sweet and juicy and deeply hungry; my bones would break in an instant, my skin would tear from the slightest brush against his teeth, I have no protective pelt for the tussling and biting, tearing and clawing. I remain small and delicate, limited to a more meager scale of experiences, forced to satisfy my hungers with mere tastes, never the full devouring. I am to remain “above” those desires.
I have always sought out the lion, have ensnared one or two. I am usually torn limb from limb, left to find my way back to humankind. I return to my natural habitat, the one that precludes big cats. I have no place in the savannah, the jungle, the hot desert, worlds ruled by the abandon of pure hunger, pure tussle, pure power, pure surrender. My real place is the one in which I need Benadryl to be around a cat.
VII. My hunger remains.
He is hungry for me. I, too, am hungry.
In the presence of my lion, I shrink to the jittery lone gazelle, startled and awakened, fully aroused but this time in terror, not daring to look the lion in the eye, taking off in fear and panic, burning a path behind me that no living creature can trace. I survive his latest ambush, but wake up alone.
My hunger will never be fed by fear. Never be fed by fantasy.
I will have to give in to my hunger, rather than deny it. Meet my lion like a lioness, not like a gazelle, not like my childhood fantasy, not even like Joy Adamson, and certainly not like the timid middle-aged lone woman who dwells inside.
This time, when he comes close – salivating for me, wanting to taste me, wanting to eat me whole, wanting to rip open my neck, tear my flesh from my bones, suck my marrow until his eyes close in ecstasy and fullness – this time I will have to give him my all, every last inch of myself, mind and body this time, spirit and soul, song and yearning, joy and darkness, meet his power with mine. Join fearlessly in the chase, launch into full stride, then be pulled down, under, gloriously and riotously devoured, not this time to be killed, not as predator and prey, but this time as true mates. This time, I will surrender to the power and splendor of my mate, who will take me and fill me. I will smell my own juices dripping from his massive jaws, revel in the thick padding of his massive paws brushing against my skin, the spacious gap when his claws retract, leaving small gashes and holes where his essence drips in, mine drips out.