Sometimes, I crawl on my bed and under my doona with my street clothes still on. I think I'm too tired to change clothes. I tell myself, I live alone; I have no one to impress or placate. I find myself tossing and turning, searching for the night's position. Finally, I settle onto my back and begin my prayers. I pray to all the benevolent entities, my guardian angels, shamanic companions and all beings throughout the cosmos. As I quiet my mind, focusing on the sincerity of my feelings, I review, transform, and let go the events of the day. As my body begins to feel lighter, a flash of light surges through my field of awareness, my physical form; from my fingertips, to my crotch, to the tip of my nose, on my crown, 3rd eye, legs, toes and tits a distinct scintillating pressure registers. I try to lie still, to drink in every sensation given me by these prayers.
Slowly sweat begins to form behind my knees, asking me to make a choice. I stall by wriggling out of my pants, stripping off my socks, shirt and bra, leaving on only my panties. My skin retracts, quenched momentarily, by the cool sheets. I flip onto my belly to nestle in, an instinctual action meant to protect my soft side, my heart, and to keep myself warm. Lying so still with pressure on my breasts, I am transported back into a field of subtle vibration. Involuntarily, my pelvic muscles contract, so I cross my legs and squeeze in an attempt to override the muscular invitation. But, heat gathers. So I flip over again in tacit response.
I allow one hand to begin massaging my crotch. The other traces fingertips across breasts to tits and down to my belly, sometimes scratching, digging in with fingernails. Ticklish drips of sweat begin to flow down my ribs and thighs, so I remove my panties. I embrace my lower belly with a strong hand, stretching the skin. Then, I tease out the hot nubbin that is my clit hidden deep by red hair and the skin that is its armour... Mmmmm... The rubenesque feel of the ridges below my mound indicate it's already time to rotate my hips, spread my legs. I breathe deeply, suddenly realizing I have been holding my breath. But, as I breathe, at once the heat dissipates and energy surges throughout my entire body, elevating it. So, I search for the rhythm, just enough breath to levitate me, but as little breath as possible to maintain the heat. My nipples begin to feel taut, reminding me of the marionette strings connecting my breasts and crotch. I fondle one breast, then maybe the other. Meanwhile, the circling and stroking of my clit and labia have yielded the thick viscous fluid which flows from my vagina. I feel all my pelvic muscles begin to tighten, slowly, as my lower body vibrates more and more. I think, I can not possibly open my legs, hips any more, but my body rotates just a wee bit more as the vibration becomes a rumble. The crescendo is building uniformly, quickly. My head, arm, hand, fingers, crotch and belly move in synchronicity, entrained for a common goal.
My hips begin to move up and down as if I am matching the rhythm of a male lover penetrating me, at once below and above. The thought of such action makes me start to shake, uncontrollably. So, I don't touch. I try to concentrate. I force my mind towards sexual visions where great attention is lavished upon every inch of my body, long languid caresses, short sharp slaps. Ruggedly handsome men poke, prod, lick, nibble and bite using firm hands and even firmer penises. We wander and frolic through gardens, rolling onto fresh mown grass, splashing through cool pond water, and then falling down onto soft wool blankets. The men penetrate me with their eyes and bodies. As they rise up, just before their collapse, a cool breeze crosses my breasts. It causes my tits to ache. Adagio harp melodies begin to fill my ears where tongues have left off, and awareness of a raw burn begins arising from below.
I return from my sanctuary calling out. My sweat is soaking the sheets, my pungent organic perfume wafts up from underneath the doona as I squirm, adjusting my position for maximum exposure. The honey has worn off; friction of finger on labia lights up my crotch like a fire fly butt, gathering it into a sweet, sweet hardness. The philosopher's stone? I can still stop, dip into the well, breathe and let go. Really. But, this time I lift, arching my back and moan, gasping as more fluid streams out of me, onto the floor of the sweat lodge that was my bed.
And I stare into dark space, into the eyes of my beloved, drifting off to sleep in exquisite visceral peace.