Emergency Contact

It was most definitely an emergency. It came with sirens in the form of moans and screams, lights in the speed of my movements, and urgency in my anxious gut throwing me on an airplane in a two week spontaneous decision. Hell, it practically came from a megaphone that was magically attached to my shower head while I sang my heart out.

At least that's how my mind would describe it.

I needed contact with another. Physical, emotional, genuine, tangible contact. I needed to feel flesh. I needed to smell skin. I needed to hear another's heartbeat. I wanted fingers intertwined and legs draped. I wanted tongues to touch and run. I wanted breath to breathe life into me. I needed to know I was real. That my body still had feeling. That my soul still had energy and connection. It felt like an emergency.

Emergency Contact.

Over the course of the past few months, I have had to brave my doctor and then a dentist and soon the dermatologist.
With these visits comes a lot of paperwork. Forms with check lists and redundant information that is located on my driver's license, my insurance forms, my medical records, etc. Questions about my sexual activity, my allergies, my family history, my habits.

Then there is always the emergency contact section.

I always pause when I reach this point in the forms. My pen or number 2 pencil hovers over the blank space.

I don't have anyone to put on the emergency contact.

I certainly can't put the beautiful man who, only recently, satisfied my longing and craving for emergency contact.

I guess the emergency is over. But, I still need the contact.

You know, in case of an emergency.