Beautiful, depraved

Intimacy. Debauchery. Irreverence.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Girls girls girls

I went to an all girl play party this weekend. I’ve been wanting to explore this particular scenario for quite some time.

The room is ambient, with an Arabian nights theme. Flowing pieces of organza cascading from the ceiling, couches in various corners, candlelight. A small dungeon space is set up in one corner of the room, a dancefloor in the center, and a see-through curtained area with mattresses, sheets, pillows. Women draped everywhere. Some naked, some topless, others in lingerie, latex, a lady cop. In the mattress area, many naked, heaving women. A gorgeous woman with long dark hair to her waist and perfect, full breasts is straddling another. Bodies rolling.

I’m vaguely in huntress mode. As always, I constantly scan the room, narrowing down until I find the person who lights up for me.

“DIRTY LITTLE SLUT” catches my eye. Or at least, that’s the name on her t-shirt. Ah, a woman after my own…heart. I watch her dance for a while.

I lean on a post and keep scanning. I know the kind of boy-girls I like and I haven’t really seen any yet.

Until now.

A group of boy-girls come in, they all have short, shaved hair and baggy clothes. There is one with a very feminine, beautiful face. Think Natalie Portman, post 'V.' She swaggers with the confidence of a teenage boy. I can’t take my eyes off her.

I’m waiting for her to notice me.

I talk to a couple of women. One looks like Erykah Badu with a shaved head. She asks me to dance. The music steps up, a racy techno beat. I'm all legs and hips and ass.

My other girl/boy steps onto the dancefloor with her little posse.

Now she notices me.

I’m wearing a black bustier and little see-through boy panties and tall black boots. I rotate my hips a lot. There is girl-porn playing on a screen behind me: women stripping in sexy lingerie, women and strap-ons. Two girls, one in a little schoolgirl outfit, step into a cage next to me and grind against each other. The schoolgirl is getting her skirt lifted.

My boy/girl moves closer to me on the dancefloor. She doesn’t look at me, but she keeps bumping into me, practically shoving me. I wonder if this girl I’m dancing with can see that I am so distracted.

Erykah asks me if I’d like to join her on the mattresses. We wander over and kneel next to each other, hands gliding over skin. Hands pausing.

I’m aware that I’m really not that hot for her. Not like the swaggering teenage boy. And, as the goal says, I want to be really hot for this girl.

So, I break away. The evening is winding down and finally my boy is on her own. It's now or never. I approach her.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” Big smile.

“I like the way you dance.” Bigger smile.

"I like the way you dance."

I lower my head a little and look up softly. "The way someone inhabits their body tells me a lot about how they'll inhabit mine."

On the way to crossing one off the list. Ah, but still more work to do. A girl must remain steadfast to be productive.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

The birthday presence

David Deida gives a great analogy about the core desires of men and women, in The Way of the Superior Man. In this book/chapter, he is addressing men.

"…Because what she really wants is a man who can figure it out for himself. She wants a man who loves her, and escorts her with his loving, without having to ask her what she wants all the time.

One of the deepest feminine desires in intimacy is precisely not to have to figure it out for her man and guide him. She wants to be able to trust him in his direction. There are some times when she does want to figure it out for you, but far more often she feels your gift when you offer her a direction in your intimacy without her having to ask you for it or tell you what she wants.

Suppose it’s your woman’s birthday. If it were your birthday, you’d love it if your woman would do anything you wanted. So you think she’d like that, too. You say to her, “Happy Birthday! For your birthday, we can do anything you want. We can go anywhere and do anything. And I’ll do anything for you. What do you want to do?”

This is exactly the opposite of most women’s idea of an ideal birthday present. Most women would get far more excited if you were to say, “You’ve got 30 minutes to pack your bags for the weekend. Everything is taken care of. Just pack your bags, and leave the rest to me. I’m going to give you the best birthday you’ve ever had.”

One of the deepest feminine desires in intimacy (though not in business or simple friendship) is to be able to relax and surrender, knowing that her man is taking care of everything. Then, she can simply enjoy without having to plan it all herself and tell her man what to do. She can be pure energy, pure motion, pure love, without having to analyze all the options and decide which ones are best. She can enjoy her man taking responsibility for the direction, so she can be what the feminine is: pure energy.

A happy woman is a woman relaxed in her body and heart: powerful, unpredictable, deep, potentially wild and destructive, or calm and serene, but always full of life, surrendered to and moved by the great force of her oceanic heart. When you ask her to analyze her heart’s emotions, it’s like building walls around a part of the ocean and turning it into a swimming pool. It’s safer and more predictable, but far less alive and enlivening. Most men have made their women into swimming pools by continually treating them like men, talking with them about their feelings as if they can be analyzed to the point of “fixing” them.

Women do not become free by analyzing themselves. They become free by surrendering into love. Not your love. Their love. They become free by surrendering to the immense flow of love that is native to their core and allowing their lives to be moved by this force in their heart. It may involve moments of analysis, but primarily it involves deep trust.

Be so full in your loving, so strong and stable in your presence, that she can just let go and surrender the limits she has put on her feelings. Let the emotions of her heart flow unguarded. Let her love be expressed with no limits. Let her go mad with love."

If it was going to happen, it would look something like this

Hermalinda was the only young woman in all the land – a female they could see and count on, one with a heady mixture of blood in her veins and a hearty taste for a good time. She was in the business of solace out of pure and simple vocation, she liked almost all men in general, and many in particular. She reigned among them like a queen bee. She loved their smell of work and desire, their harsh voices, their unshaven cheeks, their bodies, so vigorous and at the same time so pliable in her hands, their pugnacious natures and naïve hearts. She knew the illusory strength and extreme vulnerability of her clients, but she never took advantage of those weaknesses, on the contrary, she was moved by both. Her rambunctious nature was tempered by traces of maternal tenderness, and night often found her sewing patches on a shirt, stewing a chicken for some sick drover, or writing love letters for distant sweethearts. She made her fortune on a mattress stuffed with raw wool under a leaky zinc roof that moaned like lute and oboes when the wind blew. Hermalinda’s flesh was firm and her skin unblemished, she laughed with gusto and had grit to spare. In every embrace, however brief, she proved herself an enthusiastic and playful friend. Word of her firm horsewoman’s legs and breasts without a trace of wear had spread across the six hundred kilometers of that wild province, and lovers traveled many miles to spend a while in her company.

Hermalinda had conceived a plan to turn a sure profit without cheating anyone. In addition to cards and dice, the men could try their hand at a number of games in which the prize was her person. The losers handed over their money to her, as did those who won, but the winners gained the right to dally briefly in her company, without pretext or preliminary – not because she was unwilling but because she lacked time to give each man special attention.

A man could lose a month’s pay in fifteen minutes playing the game of Toad’s Mouth. Hermalinda would draw a chalk line on the floor and four steps away draw a large circle in which she lay down on her back, knees spread wide, legs golden in the light of the spirit lamps. The dark center of her body would be revealed as open as a fruit, as a merry toad’s mouth, while the air in the room grew heavy and hot. The players took a position behind the chalk line and tossed their coins toward the target. Some were expert marksmen, with a hand so steady they could stop a panicked animal running at full speed by slinging two stone bolas between its legs, but Hermalina had an evasive way of sliding her body, shifting it so that at the last instant the coin missed its mark. Those that landed inside the chalk circle belonged to her. If one chanced to enter the gate of heaven, it won for its owner a sultan’s treasure: two hours alone with her behind the curtain in absolute ecstasy, seeking consolation for all past wants and dreams of the pleasures of paradise. They told, the men who had lived those two precious hours, that Hermalinda knew ancient love secrets and could lead a man to the threshold of death and bring him back transformed into a wise man.

Until the day that an Asturian named Pablo appeared, very few had won that pair of wondrous hours, although several had enjoyed similar pleasure – but for half their salary, not a few coins. By then, Hermalinda had accumulated a small fortune, but the idea of retiring to a more conventional life had never occurred to her; in fact, she took great pleasure in her work and was proud of the sparks of pleasure she afforded the drovers. This Pablo was known to be a surly, pugnacious loner who ridiculed the weather, the sheep and the English. He had no fixed home and he admitted to no loves or obligations, but he was not getting any younger and solitude was seeping into his bones. Sometimes when he awoke at dawn on the icy ground, wrapped in his black Castilian cape and with his saddle for a pillow, every inch of his body ached. The pain was not the pain of stiff muscles but an accumulation of sorrow and neglect. He was tired of living like a lone wolf, but neither was he cut out for domestication. He had come south because he had heard the rumor that at the end of the world there was a woman who could change the way the wind blew, and he wanted to see her with his own eyes. The vast distance and the risks of the road had not dampened his determination, and when finally he found Hermalinda’s saloon and had her in arm’s reach, he could see she was forged of the same hard metal as he, and he decided that after such a long journey life would not be worth living without her. He settled into a corner of the room to study her and calculate his possibilities.

El Asturiano had guts of steel, even after several glasses of Hermalinda’s liquor his eyes were still clear. He refused to remove his clothes for the other contests he frankly found infantile, but toward the end of the evening, when it was time for the crowning moment – The Toad – he shook off the fumes of the alcohol and joined the chorus of men around the chalk circle. To him, Hermalinda was as beautiful and wild as a puma. He felt the stirrings of his hunter’s instinct, and the undefined pain of the alienation that had tormented hin during his journey turning to tingling anticipation. He saw the feet shod in low boots, the woven stockings rolled below the knee, the long bones and tense muscles of those legs of gold in the froth of full petticoats, and he knew that he would have but one opportunity to win. He took his position, planting his feet on the floor and rocking back and forth until he found the true axis of his being, he transfixed Hermalinda with a knifelike gaze, forcing her to abandon her contortionist’s tricks. Or that may not have been how it was, it may be that she chose him from among the others to honor with her company. Pablo squinted, exhaled a deep breath, and tossed his coin. Everyone watched as it formed a perfect arc and entered cleanly in the slot. A salvo of applause and envious whistles celebrated the feat. Nonchalantly, the smuggler hitched up his pants, took three steps forward, seized Hermalinda’s hand and pulled her to her feet, prepared to prove in two hours that she could not do without him. He almost dragged her from the room, the men stood around drinking and checking their watches until the period of the reward had passed, but neither Hermalinda nor the foreigner appeared. Three hours went by, four, the whole night; morning dawned and the bells rang for work, and still the door did not open.

At noon the lovers emerged. Pablo, without a glance for anyone, went outside to saddle his horse, a horse for Hermalinda, and a mule to carry their belongings. Hermalinda was wearing riding pants and jacket, and a canvas bag filled with coins was tied to her waist. There was a new expression in her eyes and a satisfied swish to her memorable rump. Solemnly, they strapped their gold onto the mule, mounted their horses, and set off. Hermalinda made a vague wave of farewell to her desolate admirers, and followed El Asturiano across the barren plains without a backward glance. She never returned.

** The Toad's Mouth is from Isabelle Allende's collection, The Stories of Eva Luna. I first read the book about 15 years ago, and this story is the only one I've ever been able to remember.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

My composite lover

I’ve come to read so much in the braille of my lovers’ bodies: Soft, pliable flesh of a gentle soul. Ripply hardness of a fiery polo player and ruthless deal-maker. All of my lovers form one, big composite lover who inspire me to bring out different parts of myself to meet them. In bed and out. Some are gentle, and surprise me that a thousand feather light touches can penetrate so deeply. Someone else will slam me up against the wall, meeting me in that bed-shaking hardness that I so often crave. It’s sexual homeopathy – like cures like. *

With some, I drop into my intellect and wit. I miss that sometimes. Others are more heartfelt and emotional so my poet I become - we float in the sea of that “never-ending simple tenderness” that Neruda speaks of.

It is a conscious gear shifting I do within myself. As much as I lead them, they lead me.

* This concept I first saw on a blog – Sexual Homeopathy - Myths and Metawhores.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Tantra demystified

I was talking to my hairdresser about this recently. I finally found one of those stylists, the infamous ones you can tell everything to. I gained her respect when I told her the story about bringing home a sexy Argentinian for a threesome with my former fiance. I also invited her to a Taoist Jade Egg class I was taking: vaginal weight lifting exercises for women.

Me: “What is tantra to you?”

My stylist/confidante: “Being present while you’re humping.”

That pretty much sums it up.

Monday, July 03, 2006

The science of trust

A cell cannot be in growth and protection mode at the same time. If it's in protection, it stops growing.

Ah, the implications.

- Dr. Bruce Lipton's research on cellular biology