THe LiTTLE DeaTH: sex & visions.
THe LiTTLE DeaTH: sex & visions, or,
More Than You Needed to Know
or Wanted to Read,
by Rewired,
who is not in the mood
to litter Bluelight with his shitty
poetry this evening, but instead
some other form of literary trash.
(And I edited this. It is more, I dunno, complete and edited now.)
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"The soror mystica may exist outwardly in the form of another person or inwardly as a part of oneself. Her first gesture is one of silence, raising her finger to her lips. As well as being a gesture of secrecy it is an invitation not to speak but to feel… the relationship is unusually charged… and then the inevitable happens - they make love, as in alchemical terms, they must… In alchemical terms, it is coniunctio, that literally means `joining of the opposites’. It is sex and it is entry…it is unpurified, if you like, unworked for. And it’s outcome is not what we think it might be… In it, we catch a glimpse of what could be - and, at another level, is."
-- Ray Ramsay, Alchemy: the Art of Transformation.
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”What are you thinking about?” Annie said from the other end of the mattress. I heard her, but didn't respond. My mind was elsewhere.
I recalled how after she had left for the Army, after that `death at the door', I had read all her letters and thought of a million ways in which I might respond - but I just couldn’t. What would I have said to her? What did we have in common anymore? She'd taken a camouflage bus ride through hell that she believed would earn her the best version of paradise in the adult world she was being thrust into. She would earn not only money, but respect, experience, and all that rot. Me? I’d gotten a third shift stock job and lost it. I lived with my parents, and I was twenty. I hadn’t changed at all.
She had changed. Some things, though, never do: as was usual, she had potential boyfriends at an arm’s reach - natural, thought I, of a girl of such beauty and intelligence.
Her letters kept coming back to two guys: a Latino named Ronnie and this intellectual musician named Dizzy, both of whom were in the Army. When she spoke of Ronnie, it seemed it was all superficial: nice, muscular body, grounded in the “real world”, a gentlemen among friends and an expert in bed, but “certainly not husband material.” She explained that she viewed sex as recreation, not as some expression of love. She said that that might sound cold, but at least she wasn't kidding herself. To her, Ronnie was a good toy, and vice versa. They pleased each other. She said Ronnie looked good on her and she looked good on him, and that he was basically, as she put it, “good decoration.” To be honest, I saw nothing inherently wrong in that, but it seemed to me as if she was cutting herself off from something.
Which is where we come to another guy she kept talking about, but with whom she apparently couldn't hook up with. His name was Dizzy, the yin of Annie’s life. In a cartoon displaying cultural symbolism influenced by Christianity and seen through my own, unique reality tunnel, he’d be the angel on her right shoulder. I think he was a little resistant to commitment. His passion was in other areas; his attention was directed within himself. He wanted to form a band, to get in touch with his soul, to find meaning in life. He was expressed by Annie as being very intellectual, even spiritual, and cradled a philosophy he called `No Thought' which he hoped would one day serve as the title of his band -- which he had not yet got around to putting together. She seemed fascinated by him, even though she called him a `dreamer'. In fact, she seemed more than entranced by him and his bizarre passions and ideas. Here, I felt, was something with substance, something deeper than the flesh, something authentic she could build on. I rooted for Dizzy, even though I’d never meet the guy.
Then it came, something between an ego boost and a slap in the face: “in a lot of ways,” she told me, “he reminds me of you.” That should have got me thinking -- but my passion was in other areas; my attention was directed within myself.
“Hey.” Annie said again, and this time she caught my full attention. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I told her.
Nothing, nothing. How many times had I myself asked questions like that only to receive the response of `nothing’, knowing full well that it was a blatant lie? How many times had I, myself, given that response when it was the farthest distance from the truth? How much love, happiness, misery, hate, fantasy and memory, truth and lie, thought and emotion, confusion and enlightenment throughout the course of human history had safely hidden behind the guise of contradiction of a word, `nothing’? That's what she'd been preaching about, though: nothing. No thought. Stop thinking, stop conceptualizing, just sink into feeling, into sensation. Here I was, thinking about thinking about nothing.
Annie and I lay on the mattress, with her head at my feet and my hers. I looked back down at her. I sighed. I couldn’t get to sleep. I wouldn’t get to sleep for hours on a usual night, and I certainly wouldn’t tonight, not with this on my mind. I kept reminding myself just how insane I was, but it didn’t help matters. my mind would not shut up. I just stared at Shelly’s room and the green light that escaped a bit from beneath the door. Was I insane, or was that girl “something else”?
I looked back down at Annie. All the time I’d known her, all that we’d been through, and she was still here with me: just one more relationship that was hard to explain, pin down, or define. One more relationship that, if logic dictates, shouldn’t have lasted. Yet I’d learned long ago that logic isn’t the guiding force in the universe, and if there was any doubt the evidence lay right there at my feet.
“You can come down here and talk,” she said, and I swung my head to where my feet had been seconds earlier. We both had a cigarette and talked for a long time on things. I thought of telling her about how I’d been fooling around with her and Sandra that summer, how I’d told Sandra and not her and how I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I wanted to tell her what Jode was trying to push out of me that night at Nathan’s house, albeit at the wrong time - but I couldn’t.
As I looked in her eyes, I thought I sensed something -- but I told the animalistic fool in me to shut the hell up and to maintain some self control. We put out cigarettes and lay down beside each other, our conversation working it’s way into reminiscing. As we talked, we rolled our heads closer and farther apart, and I was wondering how close I was permitted to get to her. I tried to read her, to ascertain what it was she wanted. In the end I went with the blunt: I politely asked if I could kiss her.
“You don’t have to ask,” she said, and I tried to justify my asking, but she cut me off and kissed me instead.
I pulled back after awhile and just looked at her and smiled. “Been waiting awhile for this,” I said to her.
She put her finger to my lips. “Do you always have to talk?” She didn’t say it in a sweet, sexy voice, either. At least to my ears, it seemed as if she was honestly annoyed. I was a bit confused, because that was one of the things I’d always liked about her: we could hold deep conversations while `otherwise involved'. I took the message, though, and I tried to stop talking.
It was a long time that we played, too, and I got to do the things I hadn't done in a long time. It got more heated. It got more heated than it had ever gotten between her and I, more heated than it had ever gotten between me and anybody. On reflex, I went to say something, but no sooner had I opened my mouth than her finger again went to my lips.
“Just feel. Try to stop thinking and sink into the moment.”
She unzipped my fly and her hand went down. I tried to do as she had instructed, shut up and stop thinking, and just enjoy it all. I felt a warmth, a comfort, a trust sweep over me that I hadn’t felt since… when had I felt that?
And then I felt something different. Something unprecedented. Something strange, beautiful, wonderful, and ultimately foreign.
"Is this okay?"
The feelings sweeping through me put me in a state of indescribable awe. I shook my head almost violently.
"Yeah," I said, and took off my cloths.
Any fear of regret in what I had just agreed to was annihilated upon my guided entry. I lay back, and she moved atop me like an angel of the god I don't believe in. It was smooth, warm, rhythmic. She was fucking beautiful; adjective. I was fucking beautiful; verb.
It wasn’t long, though, until I knew what I needed. I chanced to speak and asked her if I might try the top, and when she said okay I apologized like I’d just robbed her of her rightful throne. She insisted it was okay, and seemed to have no aversions. It seemed to be a courageous move on my part, for this was absolutely foreign territory. I tried to go with the flow; grow with the flow. I did the best an amateur can do. As I was atop her, I closed my eyes. I truly put all my effort into not thinking, just focusing on the feeling. What happened somewhere in the rhythm, somewhere in the electric sweat between her and I, is a kind of thing that had often happened to me: I saw things.
I was soaring above a dark, desert plane at a steady speed, looking down from a bird’s-eye view at the desolate landscape, occasionally spotted with what I assumed might be people far, far below. The vision was real, the sense of motion was real. I was bi-locating: I was in two places at once. Looking down upon that dead, desert landscape, I wondered if I had finally lifted from the pessimistic, futile, narcissistic wasteland I’d been stuck in the previous four years. Perhaps what I was seeing was symbolic hallucination of that. Had this been all I had really needed - ironically, something I had feared?
“Who are you looking at behind those eyes?” She asked me.
“No one.”
If I tried to explain what I was seeing in my inner eye, it would just come out total gibberish. Even if I had enough focus to talk in a comprehensible manner, I’d just sound crazy again, and she probably would’ve told me to shut up and sink back into the feeling anyway. Besides, how could I explain how she was obliterating all my preconceived notions regarding sex? That this wasn’t just some primitive, animalistic act? Sure, I knew damned well that it was a primitive ritual carried out by an organisms most basic impulse - to survive, at least genetically - but I had never believed it when my punk rock friend told me it could also serve as a conduit to a spiritual experience. I never understood Annie when she said that it was her favorite recreational exercise. Yet here I was: I felt the snake rising at the base of my spine and biting my brain, intoxicating me with it’s magical venom. Every pore of my being was irradiating in this sensual fire.
I was so wrong. This was nothing like jacking off.
“Focus on me,” she said. I had closed my eyes again, but I opened them to look down on her beautiful body. I escaped that picture show behind my eyelids, and looked down upon my beautiful friend.
After we went on awhile, she grabbed the sides of my body tightly and told me to stop moving in a very sudden, urgent voice. At first, I wasn’t sure what to think. Had I done something wrong? Had I hurt her? Was I such a fuck-up that I'd even fucked up fucking? Fuck.
"You’re about to feel a female orgasm." I will never forget how she said it. I will always admire how blunt she was. "Don't move."
It was the most bizarre thing -- the way it felt like waves, like ripples, like I had stuck my soul in an ocean. She had hers and then told me to `finish up'.
I closed my eyes again upon `finishing', and what I saw was full of color and abstractions. I saw Picasso-like still-lives in my mind’s eye, of lamps and couches and other such things. The images were wonderful, colorful and vivid. If only I could save these pictures in my head to file, I thought; if only I had paints and brushes and a canvas beside me.
“No thought,” she said, as if she could tell that I was glimpsing something in my inner eye. “Just feel.”
Indeed, I had nearly forgotten to practice the art of No Thought - but I ceased to speak, then; I ceased to think in words, in pictures. As I sped up in rhythm atop and between her, everything rushed to silence, to static, to a blissful blur. It was nothing but pure sensation; pure emotion. When I reached climax, she grabbed my sides.
“Stop.”
As I swelled in her, I felt the most awesome thing in all my life. I had thought my nocturnal habits of taking matters into my own hands had brought me orgasm, but it was truly a foreign experience until that night. I dispersed into everything. I was pure energy. I permeated the universe; the universe permeated me. I was at peace with everything. I WAS the universe. I made noises beyond my control. She made the noises of a pleased, intrigued girl. My ego, after years of being trampled by things from the world, from the unconscious, from itself, suddenly found it hard to conceive that it was receiving such a boost.
She went to the bathroom. I think I had this look of amazement, of shock, of total confusion stuck on my face. What the hell had just happened? I could, like, have that every day? Is this what people experienced on a routine basis -- was sex supposed to be like this? Is it this cool because this is the first time I've ever experienced it? That I waited two decades? Is it because I'm a quadruple-Scorpio?
She came back, then I went, and upon my return she asked me if I‘d like to smoke. I was out of cigarettes, so she offered me one of her Marlboro lights. I still can't smoke one of those without reflecting on that evening. We smoked, we talked, and I was numb and wonderful. We drank water amidst the fumes and utterances layered atop the good feelings that enveloped us. The water tasted better than it ever had. In a way, the night was all about water.
She asked me if I’d liked it, and I shook my head in the most certain affirmative I’d had in a long time. I wasn’t sure if I was sure about anything else as much as I was sure as to how fucking beautiful that had been and how great I now felt. I’d glimpsed beyond the horizon of the morbid state I’d been stuck in the last four years and had seen what could be. I felt entirely cleansed and energized. I felt as if I had gone into the depths of the dreariest sleep, and had awakened - as if gone into the deepest pits of hell, and then been given transcendence - as if I’d gone through the bridge of death, crossed it, and came out reborn as something new. They call sex the little death; I finally knew why.
“You know,” she said as she exhaled a stream of smoke, with a sly little smile dominating her face, “for a guy who doesn’t believe in god, you sure call out his name a lot."
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When I’d spent the night with her over the years, I’d sometimes wake up to her doing things to me. Usually I didn’t have a problem with it, but now and then it got on my nerves because when I actually did sleep and had to go to work shortly thereafter it was difficult to continue sleeping with someone fiddling with your nether regions.
The morning following the little death, however, I woke up in a way I had never before experienced. She was atop me, doing, as they say in Clockwork Orange, the old in-out. This time, though, my mind got in the way. It was light outside, and people would soon be awake, if they were not already. People could see. People that could hear. There could be cats.
“Who cares what they think?” She said to me.
Wasn’t that my line?
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Cigarettes that day tasted wonderful. Coffee was better than it ever had been. Her and I had gone to Mentor Eat and Park and gotten a seat in the smoking section, where it became quite evident that I was totally, utterly zombified. It was like I was stuck in a trance. I had been on overload, and now I was blissfully burnt out and rendered incompetent and, in many ways, incapacitated. I couldn’t blink, my face couldn’t reveal any emotion. I couldn’t focus on anything. I felt great, but my mind wouldn’t reveal the emotion. I was flowing with emotion, but I honestly couldn’t think straight. It was like when I’d flipped out years earlier and began seeing aliens, only it was in absolute reverse; the total opposite extreme. I had become a drooling, catatonic nincompoop.
She tried holding conversation with me. It was impossible. The emotions I sensed from her were conflicting, and they confused me. She seemed to be looking for a response; she seemed to be trying to uncover some mystery. I felt as if I was subject in some experiment; as if she’d thrown me into this to peel off some layers of skin and try to get closer to what might be underneath. I looked at her, smoking another cigarette, as if to ask: where did my mind go? Can I have it back, please?
She looked at me as if I was an alien.
“Tim,” so many had said to me, “you just need to get laid.” I had always shaken my head. How shallow, I thought; what primitive a drive, what animalistic an urge. Sex was all about the part of us that was animal. What I wanted was to be free from those urges and strive toward higher desires, detach from all this prehistoric, mundane garbage and evolve through achieving truer, immaterial and much more real and permanent things. I wanted to be free, to be my Self, to touch the highest and deepest inner core and be one with true spirituality.
I thought I’d find it through meditation. Through self-analysis, penetrating research and eventual transformation. As it goes with most things, you find it when you let go, go on a whim and venture into a place where you’ve never been and would never expect to find it. Alas, I’d found the spiritual between her thighs, and that fact scared the living hell out of me. For years I’d been tumbling in and out of a subjective rabbit hole, pulled this way and that through visions, other dimensions, interactions with odd creatures, hallucinations - whatever belief structure best suits your taste - and I’d been looking for the pieces of the puzzle, trying to answer questions I could hardly put into words. My mind, and warped and clouded as it might be, was my only defense against the bizarre realities falling apart and rising up out of nowhere around me. The psycho-spiritual rabbit hole had turned my mind into a black hole. I’d tumbled in and out of another hole that October night of the little death and experienced the other polarity of the universe - the white light of life. A glimpse of the big bang of beauty that could be if I’d pull my head out of my ass. I’d been given this gift of revelation by a girl I’d known and trusted for five years, and what had become of me?
Yes, that’s right: I had become a drooling, catatonic nincompoop.
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We eventually made it to my house that day. The bedroom door closed, we made our way to my bed, doing things that were beautiful but seemed to have lost their flavor lest they be a prelude to what had gone on the night before. They were, indeed, intended, on her behalf, to be a prelude to what had occurred the night before - but my paranoia came back. My bed squeaked. My parents or sisters could come home at any minute. What if they heard me? What if they saw me? Cats?
She asked me to, and I wanted to, but not in this room. Later, I told her. We might not have another chance, she told me. Just, just later, I told her, the scared little freak I am.
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When night had finally fallen, we were parked in her car beside my own, which was on Chardon Square. There were few cars out, and there was hardly a sign of life anywhere. To my over-tweaked mind, we could’ve been the only two people in the universe. Just two lost souls left. Just a girl confused about a boy and a boy confused about everything.
She asked me if I had any questions. She asked me how I felt. The question I wanted to ask was: how do I compliment her without sounding horribly cliché, juvenile, or shallow? As to how I felt: I felt really good and really scared about everything, and I felt very angry with myself over the fact that I couldn’t comprehend the coexistence of both of the emotions or do any obvious thing about them. As to what I said: “No.”
She told me that she was leaving tomorrow, and that it was late and she had to go home. I could follow her home, she said; I could see her off again, go to the airport and see her go. We didn’t even have to sleep together, I could sleep on the couch. I almost laughed: she really had no idea how much the night prior had affected me. Why on earth would I sleep on the couch if I were to follow her home? I didn’t follow her home, though. I told her I wanted to be alone; needed to be alone, to think, to sort out my head. She again told me that I wouldn’t have another chance to see her for a long, long time, and that I should take my chance. No, I was going to go home. Needed to go home. My head felt funny. I’d write her, it was good seeing her again, and so on and so fourth.
She drove off that evening, a girl frustrated and confused about a boy. I drove off in the other direction, a boy frustrated about his confusion, kicking himself in the ass over and over. The hope was that perhaps it would inspire his head to get out of it, or at least take a peek beyond the cheeks.
Slowly, a death began to swallow my world. There was something strange happening, and I could not, for the life of me, place it -- all I knew was that it had to do with that confused girl.
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THe LiTTLE DeaTH: sex & visions, or,
More Than You Needed to Know
or Wanted to Read,
by Rewired,
who is not in the mood
to litter Bluelight with his shitty
poetry this evening, but instead
some other form of literary trash.
(And I edited this. It is more, I dunno, complete and edited now.)
(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)
"The soror mystica may exist outwardly in the form of another person or inwardly as a part of oneself. Her first gesture is one of silence, raising her finger to her lips. As well as being a gesture of secrecy it is an invitation not to speak but to feel… the relationship is unusually charged… and then the inevitable happens - they make love, as in alchemical terms, they must… In alchemical terms, it is coniunctio, that literally means `joining of the opposites’. It is sex and it is entry…it is unpurified, if you like, unworked for. And it’s outcome is not what we think it might be… In it, we catch a glimpse of what could be - and, at another level, is."
-- Ray Ramsay, Alchemy: the Art of Transformation.
(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)0(o)
”What are you thinking about?” Annie said from the other end of the mattress. I heard her, but didn't respond. My mind was elsewhere.
I recalled how after she had left for the Army, after that `death at the door', I had read all her letters and thought of a million ways in which I might respond - but I just couldn’t. What would I have said to her? What did we have in common anymore? She'd taken a camouflage bus ride through hell that she believed would earn her the best version of paradise in the adult world she was being thrust into. She would earn not only money, but respect, experience, and all that rot. Me? I’d gotten a third shift stock job and lost it. I lived with my parents, and I was twenty. I hadn’t changed at all.
She had changed. Some things, though, never do: as was usual, she had potential boyfriends at an arm’s reach - natural, thought I, of a girl of such beauty and intelligence.
Her letters kept coming back to two guys: a Latino named Ronnie and this intellectual musician named Dizzy, both of whom were in the Army. When she spoke of Ronnie, it seemed it was all superficial: nice, muscular body, grounded in the “real world”, a gentlemen among friends and an expert in bed, but “certainly not husband material.” She explained that she viewed sex as recreation, not as some expression of love. She said that that might sound cold, but at least she wasn't kidding herself. To her, Ronnie was a good toy, and vice versa. They pleased each other. She said Ronnie looked good on her and she looked good on him, and that he was basically, as she put it, “good decoration.” To be honest, I saw nothing inherently wrong in that, but it seemed to me as if she was cutting herself off from something.
Which is where we come to another guy she kept talking about, but with whom she apparently couldn't hook up with. His name was Dizzy, the yin of Annie’s life. In a cartoon displaying cultural symbolism influenced by Christianity and seen through my own, unique reality tunnel, he’d be the angel on her right shoulder. I think he was a little resistant to commitment. His passion was in other areas; his attention was directed within himself. He wanted to form a band, to get in touch with his soul, to find meaning in life. He was expressed by Annie as being very intellectual, even spiritual, and cradled a philosophy he called `No Thought' which he hoped would one day serve as the title of his band -- which he had not yet got around to putting together. She seemed fascinated by him, even though she called him a `dreamer'. In fact, she seemed more than entranced by him and his bizarre passions and ideas. Here, I felt, was something with substance, something deeper than the flesh, something authentic she could build on. I rooted for Dizzy, even though I’d never meet the guy.
Then it came, something between an ego boost and a slap in the face: “in a lot of ways,” she told me, “he reminds me of you.” That should have got me thinking -- but my passion was in other areas; my attention was directed within myself.
“Hey.” Annie said again, and this time she caught my full attention. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I told her.
Nothing, nothing. How many times had I myself asked questions like that only to receive the response of `nothing’, knowing full well that it was a blatant lie? How many times had I, myself, given that response when it was the farthest distance from the truth? How much love, happiness, misery, hate, fantasy and memory, truth and lie, thought and emotion, confusion and enlightenment throughout the course of human history had safely hidden behind the guise of contradiction of a word, `nothing’? That's what she'd been preaching about, though: nothing. No thought. Stop thinking, stop conceptualizing, just sink into feeling, into sensation. Here I was, thinking about thinking about nothing.
Annie and I lay on the mattress, with her head at my feet and my hers. I looked back down at her. I sighed. I couldn’t get to sleep. I wouldn’t get to sleep for hours on a usual night, and I certainly wouldn’t tonight, not with this on my mind. I kept reminding myself just how insane I was, but it didn’t help matters. my mind would not shut up. I just stared at Shelly’s room and the green light that escaped a bit from beneath the door. Was I insane, or was that girl “something else”?
I looked back down at Annie. All the time I’d known her, all that we’d been through, and she was still here with me: just one more relationship that was hard to explain, pin down, or define. One more relationship that, if logic dictates, shouldn’t have lasted. Yet I’d learned long ago that logic isn’t the guiding force in the universe, and if there was any doubt the evidence lay right there at my feet.
“You can come down here and talk,” she said, and I swung my head to where my feet had been seconds earlier. We both had a cigarette and talked for a long time on things. I thought of telling her about how I’d been fooling around with her and Sandra that summer, how I’d told Sandra and not her and how I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I wanted to tell her what Jode was trying to push out of me that night at Nathan’s house, albeit at the wrong time - but I couldn’t.
As I looked in her eyes, I thought I sensed something -- but I told the animalistic fool in me to shut the hell up and to maintain some self control. We put out cigarettes and lay down beside each other, our conversation working it’s way into reminiscing. As we talked, we rolled our heads closer and farther apart, and I was wondering how close I was permitted to get to her. I tried to read her, to ascertain what it was she wanted. In the end I went with the blunt: I politely asked if I could kiss her.
“You don’t have to ask,” she said, and I tried to justify my asking, but she cut me off and kissed me instead.
I pulled back after awhile and just looked at her and smiled. “Been waiting awhile for this,” I said to her.
She put her finger to my lips. “Do you always have to talk?” She didn’t say it in a sweet, sexy voice, either. At least to my ears, it seemed as if she was honestly annoyed. I was a bit confused, because that was one of the things I’d always liked about her: we could hold deep conversations while `otherwise involved'. I took the message, though, and I tried to stop talking.
It was a long time that we played, too, and I got to do the things I hadn't done in a long time. It got more heated. It got more heated than it had ever gotten between her and I, more heated than it had ever gotten between me and anybody. On reflex, I went to say something, but no sooner had I opened my mouth than her finger again went to my lips.
“Just feel. Try to stop thinking and sink into the moment.”
She unzipped my fly and her hand went down. I tried to do as she had instructed, shut up and stop thinking, and just enjoy it all. I felt a warmth, a comfort, a trust sweep over me that I hadn’t felt since… when had I felt that?
And then I felt something different. Something unprecedented. Something strange, beautiful, wonderful, and ultimately foreign.
"Is this okay?"
The feelings sweeping through me put me in a state of indescribable awe. I shook my head almost violently.
"Yeah," I said, and took off my cloths.
Any fear of regret in what I had just agreed to was annihilated upon my guided entry. I lay back, and she moved atop me like an angel of the god I don't believe in. It was smooth, warm, rhythmic. She was fucking beautiful; adjective. I was fucking beautiful; verb.
It wasn’t long, though, until I knew what I needed. I chanced to speak and asked her if I might try the top, and when she said okay I apologized like I’d just robbed her of her rightful throne. She insisted it was okay, and seemed to have no aversions. It seemed to be a courageous move on my part, for this was absolutely foreign territory. I tried to go with the flow; grow with the flow. I did the best an amateur can do. As I was atop her, I closed my eyes. I truly put all my effort into not thinking, just focusing on the feeling. What happened somewhere in the rhythm, somewhere in the electric sweat between her and I, is a kind of thing that had often happened to me: I saw things.
I was soaring above a dark, desert plane at a steady speed, looking down from a bird’s-eye view at the desolate landscape, occasionally spotted with what I assumed might be people far, far below. The vision was real, the sense of motion was real. I was bi-locating: I was in two places at once. Looking down upon that dead, desert landscape, I wondered if I had finally lifted from the pessimistic, futile, narcissistic wasteland I’d been stuck in the previous four years. Perhaps what I was seeing was symbolic hallucination of that. Had this been all I had really needed - ironically, something I had feared?
“Who are you looking at behind those eyes?” She asked me.
“No one.”
If I tried to explain what I was seeing in my inner eye, it would just come out total gibberish. Even if I had enough focus to talk in a comprehensible manner, I’d just sound crazy again, and she probably would’ve told me to shut up and sink back into the feeling anyway. Besides, how could I explain how she was obliterating all my preconceived notions regarding sex? That this wasn’t just some primitive, animalistic act? Sure, I knew damned well that it was a primitive ritual carried out by an organisms most basic impulse - to survive, at least genetically - but I had never believed it when my punk rock friend told me it could also serve as a conduit to a spiritual experience. I never understood Annie when she said that it was her favorite recreational exercise. Yet here I was: I felt the snake rising at the base of my spine and biting my brain, intoxicating me with it’s magical venom. Every pore of my being was irradiating in this sensual fire.
I was so wrong. This was nothing like jacking off.
“Focus on me,” she said. I had closed my eyes again, but I opened them to look down on her beautiful body. I escaped that picture show behind my eyelids, and looked down upon my beautiful friend.
After we went on awhile, she grabbed the sides of my body tightly and told me to stop moving in a very sudden, urgent voice. At first, I wasn’t sure what to think. Had I done something wrong? Had I hurt her? Was I such a fuck-up that I'd even fucked up fucking? Fuck.
"You’re about to feel a female orgasm." I will never forget how she said it. I will always admire how blunt she was. "Don't move."
It was the most bizarre thing -- the way it felt like waves, like ripples, like I had stuck my soul in an ocean. She had hers and then told me to `finish up'.
I closed my eyes again upon `finishing', and what I saw was full of color and abstractions. I saw Picasso-like still-lives in my mind’s eye, of lamps and couches and other such things. The images were wonderful, colorful and vivid. If only I could save these pictures in my head to file, I thought; if only I had paints and brushes and a canvas beside me.
“No thought,” she said, as if she could tell that I was glimpsing something in my inner eye. “Just feel.”
Indeed, I had nearly forgotten to practice the art of No Thought - but I ceased to speak, then; I ceased to think in words, in pictures. As I sped up in rhythm atop and between her, everything rushed to silence, to static, to a blissful blur. It was nothing but pure sensation; pure emotion. When I reached climax, she grabbed my sides.
“Stop.”
As I swelled in her, I felt the most awesome thing in all my life. I had thought my nocturnal habits of taking matters into my own hands had brought me orgasm, but it was truly a foreign experience until that night. I dispersed into everything. I was pure energy. I permeated the universe; the universe permeated me. I was at peace with everything. I WAS the universe. I made noises beyond my control. She made the noises of a pleased, intrigued girl. My ego, after years of being trampled by things from the world, from the unconscious, from itself, suddenly found it hard to conceive that it was receiving such a boost.
She went to the bathroom. I think I had this look of amazement, of shock, of total confusion stuck on my face. What the hell had just happened? I could, like, have that every day? Is this what people experienced on a routine basis -- was sex supposed to be like this? Is it this cool because this is the first time I've ever experienced it? That I waited two decades? Is it because I'm a quadruple-Scorpio?
She came back, then I went, and upon my return she asked me if I‘d like to smoke. I was out of cigarettes, so she offered me one of her Marlboro lights. I still can't smoke one of those without reflecting on that evening. We smoked, we talked, and I was numb and wonderful. We drank water amidst the fumes and utterances layered atop the good feelings that enveloped us. The water tasted better than it ever had. In a way, the night was all about water.
She asked me if I’d liked it, and I shook my head in the most certain affirmative I’d had in a long time. I wasn’t sure if I was sure about anything else as much as I was sure as to how fucking beautiful that had been and how great I now felt. I’d glimpsed beyond the horizon of the morbid state I’d been stuck in the last four years and had seen what could be. I felt entirely cleansed and energized. I felt as if I had gone into the depths of the dreariest sleep, and had awakened - as if gone into the deepest pits of hell, and then been given transcendence - as if I’d gone through the bridge of death, crossed it, and came out reborn as something new. They call sex the little death; I finally knew why.
“You know,” she said as she exhaled a stream of smoke, with a sly little smile dominating her face, “for a guy who doesn’t believe in god, you sure call out his name a lot."
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When I’d spent the night with her over the years, I’d sometimes wake up to her doing things to me. Usually I didn’t have a problem with it, but now and then it got on my nerves because when I actually did sleep and had to go to work shortly thereafter it was difficult to continue sleeping with someone fiddling with your nether regions.
The morning following the little death, however, I woke up in a way I had never before experienced. She was atop me, doing, as they say in Clockwork Orange, the old in-out. This time, though, my mind got in the way. It was light outside, and people would soon be awake, if they were not already. People could see. People that could hear. There could be cats.
“Who cares what they think?” She said to me.
Wasn’t that my line?
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Cigarettes that day tasted wonderful. Coffee was better than it ever had been. Her and I had gone to Mentor Eat and Park and gotten a seat in the smoking section, where it became quite evident that I was totally, utterly zombified. It was like I was stuck in a trance. I had been on overload, and now I was blissfully burnt out and rendered incompetent and, in many ways, incapacitated. I couldn’t blink, my face couldn’t reveal any emotion. I couldn’t focus on anything. I felt great, but my mind wouldn’t reveal the emotion. I was flowing with emotion, but I honestly couldn’t think straight. It was like when I’d flipped out years earlier and began seeing aliens, only it was in absolute reverse; the total opposite extreme. I had become a drooling, catatonic nincompoop.
She tried holding conversation with me. It was impossible. The emotions I sensed from her were conflicting, and they confused me. She seemed to be looking for a response; she seemed to be trying to uncover some mystery. I felt as if I was subject in some experiment; as if she’d thrown me into this to peel off some layers of skin and try to get closer to what might be underneath. I looked at her, smoking another cigarette, as if to ask: where did my mind go? Can I have it back, please?
She looked at me as if I was an alien.
“Tim,” so many had said to me, “you just need to get laid.” I had always shaken my head. How shallow, I thought; what primitive a drive, what animalistic an urge. Sex was all about the part of us that was animal. What I wanted was to be free from those urges and strive toward higher desires, detach from all this prehistoric, mundane garbage and evolve through achieving truer, immaterial and much more real and permanent things. I wanted to be free, to be my Self, to touch the highest and deepest inner core and be one with true spirituality.
I thought I’d find it through meditation. Through self-analysis, penetrating research and eventual transformation. As it goes with most things, you find it when you let go, go on a whim and venture into a place where you’ve never been and would never expect to find it. Alas, I’d found the spiritual between her thighs, and that fact scared the living hell out of me. For years I’d been tumbling in and out of a subjective rabbit hole, pulled this way and that through visions, other dimensions, interactions with odd creatures, hallucinations - whatever belief structure best suits your taste - and I’d been looking for the pieces of the puzzle, trying to answer questions I could hardly put into words. My mind, and warped and clouded as it might be, was my only defense against the bizarre realities falling apart and rising up out of nowhere around me. The psycho-spiritual rabbit hole had turned my mind into a black hole. I’d tumbled in and out of another hole that October night of the little death and experienced the other polarity of the universe - the white light of life. A glimpse of the big bang of beauty that could be if I’d pull my head out of my ass. I’d been given this gift of revelation by a girl I’d known and trusted for five years, and what had become of me?
Yes, that’s right: I had become a drooling, catatonic nincompoop.
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We eventually made it to my house that day. The bedroom door closed, we made our way to my bed, doing things that were beautiful but seemed to have lost their flavor lest they be a prelude to what had gone on the night before. They were, indeed, intended, on her behalf, to be a prelude to what had occurred the night before - but my paranoia came back. My bed squeaked. My parents or sisters could come home at any minute. What if they heard me? What if they saw me? Cats?
She asked me to, and I wanted to, but not in this room. Later, I told her. We might not have another chance, she told me. Just, just later, I told her, the scared little freak I am.
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When night had finally fallen, we were parked in her car beside my own, which was on Chardon Square. There were few cars out, and there was hardly a sign of life anywhere. To my over-tweaked mind, we could’ve been the only two people in the universe. Just two lost souls left. Just a girl confused about a boy and a boy confused about everything.
She asked me if I had any questions. She asked me how I felt. The question I wanted to ask was: how do I compliment her without sounding horribly cliché, juvenile, or shallow? As to how I felt: I felt really good and really scared about everything, and I felt very angry with myself over the fact that I couldn’t comprehend the coexistence of both of the emotions or do any obvious thing about them. As to what I said: “No.”
She told me that she was leaving tomorrow, and that it was late and she had to go home. I could follow her home, she said; I could see her off again, go to the airport and see her go. We didn’t even have to sleep together, I could sleep on the couch. I almost laughed: she really had no idea how much the night prior had affected me. Why on earth would I sleep on the couch if I were to follow her home? I didn’t follow her home, though. I told her I wanted to be alone; needed to be alone, to think, to sort out my head. She again told me that I wouldn’t have another chance to see her for a long, long time, and that I should take my chance. No, I was going to go home. Needed to go home. My head felt funny. I’d write her, it was good seeing her again, and so on and so fourth.
She drove off that evening, a girl frustrated and confused about a boy. I drove off in the other direction, a boy frustrated about his confusion, kicking himself in the ass over and over. The hope was that perhaps it would inspire his head to get out of it, or at least take a peek beyond the cheeks.
Slowly, a death began to swallow my world. There was something strange happening, and I could not, for the life of me, place it -- all I knew was that it had to do with that confused girl.
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im glad u bumped this sweetness 
