A Woman Unto Herself

You are all-goddess – in your very Humanness,

your own form, I see only goddess and nought else.

I see myself offering puja to her, this very goddess,

thereupon she is receiving me into her –

homage paid in the kiss,

in the armpits, the nipples, the belly,

then my face deep in this Yoni – long and slow,

controlled, disciplined, concentrated,

till she gives the signal to be entered.

You are still you, to be admired and appreciated,

ideosyncrasies synchronized mutually

in serendipitous symphony.

Not a personal fixation, and yet,

not the least bit indifferent to your person,

every hidden and open fibre of your unique embodiment

of what is drunkenly divine and manifestly set

in the eternal ecstasy of each moment's expression

of Union.

Not sharing a need but joining in mutual worship,

a statement of fulfilled desire.

"Getting Religion" II

Religion is like a body –
like a body it has a head,
a heart, a gut, a yoni and a lingam.
And an asshole.

Religion is like a body –
the head is for thinking-too-much;
the heart is for bringing light into the world,
circulating divine nourishment into all organs,
manifesting love as Human so this world might survive
in knowing joy through that One Breathing Truth;
the gut is for drawing the darkness out of its scary corner:
to do the work of offering it into the light;
the lingam is for positive penetration of Consciousness
into the Earth; the yoni is for warmth and depth, bringing forth life.
The asshole, in over-abundance, gives us jihad and all manner of control issues.
(Every body has one of these – only in religion there are ever so many.)

Religion is like a body –
in which head defines and calculates, feels separate from body;
whereas heart is in that body, nourishes it constantly, earthy and divine.
Head thinks thoughts, writes a theology, says heart doesn't think;
heart indeed thinks – but in dimensions of Unity head cannot grasp.
The asshole is entirely thoughtless, narcisstically striving to
dominate and to rule with unquestioned authority.

The Bringers of light – for whom religions were named, systematized
– these always were first of the heart,
feeding the body as only heart can.
They taught in heart, knowing there would be heads later.
And they knew that religion is like a body –
there would be assholes.

When Sufis give themselves over to zikr,
or Yogis to nada and laya, the Yogas of sound –
when these are practiced devotedly in homes,
in temples, in caves, or in ashrams;
when choirs move listeners and members both
to inner heights which only heart can offer:
then is religion like a body well-served.

(O pious egos! Ablutions will never remove your dirt,
a clean heart will: clear your hearts not of taste of pork –
but rather of envy and intrigue, of bigotry and loathing,
of supremacism and subterfuge, of primitive posturing.
If enemies would just finally love their enemies, then
"the enemy of my enemy" just might well be my friend.)

Then you can think with your heart, act from your heart,

heal other hearts through your heart, as God so intended.

For God is Love, and this Love brought us into manifestation.

A Birthday Greeting, from Berlin to San Anselmo

An' if I do reach eight-score in Years

as is my Will, God will't e'en so,

on thy Breast I'll shed no less the Tears

for Love, which stay'th undiminish'd – know,

that if thou likewise give no Way to Time,

Sporana's flow unbroken through our very Limbs:

this very Lingam shall that very Mouth sublime

and that graced Yoni, still service with Light undimm'd.

Thy Birthday sacred in my Heart's Rememb'ring,

with Vigor's own Wisdom shall many more yet be;

e'er green, the Sap in this Tree for Lovemaking

shall e'er firm and whole indeed be spared for thee.

No Time's Ravage, no Years laid waste, but rather:

increaseth ever new this Love conscious, Tina-Benson . . .

to timeless' bathe with you, and cover you in Lather

by Light of countless Birthday-Candles, fulfill this Passion!

Body, Psyche, Sexuality

(you must be 16 or older to read this, please show ID)

I've massaged for some 40 years now. It developed ad hoc without schooling, over time, on inspiration and inner movement. I developed a style which made limbs and backs and psyches feel great, I removed headaches in a few minutes, I began with feet and stuck primarily with that for two years, washing and massaging feet of every kind of person, friend or detractor, acquaintance or stranger (and some were pretty strange), in rooms or on the street or in parks, as an act of private discipline and devotion toward my ideal. Foot-reflexological developed of its own and became a specialty – the reflex book or two I much later consulted or owned mostly served to confirm what I had already intuitively learned through doing. And I'm still at it.

 Massage is body work – nothing and no age-process or ill-health either disturbs or disgusts me. I love the body as I love my own. I found through massage that this was always effortless for me, it could not tire me out, as I felt coordinated with the other body (my back is your back is my back, so I automatically know what to do) - I always received energy in the giving, and the person felt great and I felt wonderful. And I'm still at it.

I have massaged men and women, children and adults, of all ages, body types and conditions – gorgeous and hot, ugly and plain, all are beautiful to me, all. In nursing school here in Berlin I did a 6 or 7 week practical stint on maternity – as a bonus I gave pressure-relaxation treatments (Beruhigungsbehandlung) particularly designed for women on maternity but good for anyone, and it was a huge hit, non-stop; this little number I did pick up from someone, an alternative fellow-traveler among my nursing faculty. And I'm still at it.

I have massaged men, gay and hetero, and with the gays all went well (sometimes amusing because of their expectations or because of my own residue of clichés) and even if they had wishes I could not fulfill as a hetero I certainly had no qualms about massaging them, as comfortably as with any other person on earth. And nothing has changed.

Now when I massage – anyone, but let's take women as I am going in this direction in this writing anyway – I see through the massaging itself, only a woman's beauty. There was a grade school teacher, 40ish, unattached with no sexlife (or none currently) and with horrible lifelong acne on her face, she was a client of mine for awhile many years ago. Nice bod, but that acne! When I massaged her she became beautiful. First was my imagination, then the transfer of this recognition into her – not visualisation because I was just recognising her as she was – through the touch, and she'd relax in herself, knowing through my hands that she was loved and even possibly desirable as a woman. No words about, no talk, all conveyed through the massage. She asked me once after many sessions, how I would view her from the standpoint of looks. First what went through my head was, “shit now what – think fast and be authentic but accurate!“ Then I spoke from the heart and knew the higher mind was speaking: I heard myself telling her, when I look at her face I see the beauty behind the exterior. She got it and was moved, soothed, relieved, satisfied. And it was true: hearing my own words I got it: that you don't lie about the acne, you don't give it center place either – you move beyond that and talk real. People will know it, they're not stupid.

So I see the beauty, massage the beauty, the beauty is awakened through this, and in the relaxation of self-loathing, the beauty takes place and is there, it wells up from within and rounds the body again or it descends from its banishment back into the body like spirit and finds it place there where it belongs. No shit. I really really do love bodies and I really really do love women. And no bodily function or happening or excretion scares me or inhibits me or disgusts me. That said, I have no fetish-perversions nor entertain any, so I won't even go there.

Beauty is not in the barbie-look, an exterior, culture-dictated babe-look isn't beauty, it's an empty shoe box. Can't dance. Beauty has so many dimensions, and one dimension which itself is multi-dimensional is the erotic component. I have known this intimately in women who never would have turned a head by ordinary standards – I have my own and stick to that - but I sensed it with a nose for the erotic I could only wish every other guy.

Over the years the massage has also developed its erotic component, I gave this full expression after many years not having done so. And the results have far more often been far more rewarding for both, than the occasional hit-and-miss. I have had many lovers from many walks of life, and many ages, older and younger than I. Some in their eighties. Very rewarding, and I do mean mutually. Each a Sam-Story of its own.

There are - or have been, over my 25 years in this town, bordellos where I was a most welcome semi-regular, where I arrived to massage and we took it all out in trade, where I gave instruction in the “Tibetan 5 Rites of Rejuvination,“ where I was the only male I ever saw being granted the neighbor-status as I call it, of being welcome to hang out at the kitchen table of certain said bordellos and yack with the ladies, proprietess included, whether there was necessarily bed-business or not sometimes.

My eye for erotic is a wide-lens camera: I never compare two women ever, and I never judge – I not only accept “flaws,“ I cherish them, that's sometimes where the erotic component even is, which is why so many guys miss it – it requires a mature eye which most altogether lack because they've bought into the bland dick-tates of cultural status quo and commercial marketing. I rejoice in bodily hair wherever it is, au naturelle, and if a woman is herself more cmofortable without, that's alright. There is not a bodily orifice on a woman I avoid, either in massage or in tongue-play or cock-ulation, not a single one. Firmly but gently, with timing everything is possible – and passionately in-joyed. Nature has given us so and so many digits and so and so many orifices, who needs toys – or to borrow from Monty Python, acoutrements. I love mouths, lips, breasts, nipples, vaginas, butts, anuses, thighs, I absolutely relish armpits, I tend away from too-slender twd. a robuster fleshy, a healthy amount of it, I don't consider any woman “overweight“ until she acutally is. I'm not telling this to be vulgar, it's just a matter of fact and openness, I don't intend to get graphic here. To recall from an earlier passage:

…The wild erotic energy radiating from its female form is full-fleshed, generously-haired, musky and mature, and not without subtlety.
By full-fleshed is merely meant, that the entire span of her corporeal body communicates a hearty welcome to life-radiance at the erotic level.
By generously-haired is meant, she is not bound to male dictates of artificial beauty.
By musky and mature are meant, her own-scented fragrance and earthy experience are her jewels and likewise independent of controlling-male notions toward hygienically sterile bodies robbed of their history and wild heritage.
By subtle is meant, even if the personality were somewhat crude or asleep, the energy is certainly awake, and for those who will encounter and acknowledge it with an attitude of respect and meet it with the proper degree of energy, it is as benevolent as it is wild. …

 

And now I'll finally cut to the chase. An American woman looked me up while here on business, end of summer '94 Berlin, she got a full, good massage. She was by all accounts, in her sweats and bike and glasses, “not a looker,“ yet when she'd disrobed and received the massage, not only was I storngly aroused by her splendid erotic beauty, I felt it in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. Still I exercised caution. She was leaving town that day to do a 6-week stint in the new-East Europe as she was with a major news network based in Atlanta, I won't name names though. We hugged and agreed on a massage when she swings back through. I left a message on her recorder explaining my impressions, offering the full monty if she should so wish, and if not then the best massage and we'd leave it at that. On returning she told me she'd played my message back six times, so she got a massage and we spent one long splendifulous night together, followed by a very very hot correspondence until gentle and loving closure – remember, there was no internet back then, you licked stamps with that same tongue you...never mind.

Now here's the kicker: As good as my hunches are, this one went right under my radar. We went up to her borrowed flat that second encounter, and we kissed. I noticed she was a bit unhandy and it didn't matter, it was endearing. When she told me she'd been out of practice for a long time, I only figured she meant at all, but she meant with men – then she explained she's lesbian and in a relationship with her partner back home going on 15 years. I laughed so hard from the belly, I had to explain that the laugh was on me, one because that had not even occurred to me although it ought to have, and two because I could now really be the proverbial “lesbian in a male body.“ She had been harboring a growing need for the whole past year to feel a man in her again. We not only loved and in-joyed one another deeply, erotically, passionately. She said this had healed a wound in her she'd carried since age 16 – I understood immediately without any elaborations. A lot of women could relate. I later encouraged her to remain as lesbian as she wants, whatever came of her partnership, but that she also could know herself now as bi-sexual, and that this was also wonderful. What matters is only to know and to cop to it. I've met lots of lesbians in dail life and the ones I've always really appreciated are the butch-cut ladies who are so fucking cool and mature (usually over a certain age) and self-confident and male-friendly-while-needing-none.

So there it is. By the way, before I clothes – sorry, close – anybody know the one about the old wrangler sitting in a bar having his beer, and an attractive woman takes the stool next to him, has her drink in hand and asks him sort of off the cuff, “So, are you a real cowboy?“ To which he replies, wrangler-like, “Well, I get up mornings early, go out to the horses, tend to them, drive cattle out, brand calves, repair fences, pick up feed and supplies from town,“ etc. etc. - “...yeah, I guess you could say I'm a real cowboy.“ She replies, “Well I'm a lesbian. When I get up mornings I think about women, when I shower and have breakfast I think about women, when I go to work and go through my day I think about women, when I come home and watch TV or read or have dinner I think about women, right up until I go to sleep, I just think about women women women.“ Then she sets down her drink and they part witha mutual nod. He sits there and stares forward, until a nice frinedly middle-aged couple from out of town join him at the bar. “Saayy, are you a real cowboy?“ the husband inquires. The cowboy takes another swallow and considers for a moment, replying reflectively, “Well, up to now I thought I was, but now I reckon I'm a lesbian.“

Much of my poetry reflects what I've written here:

You there, with that nose of yours,
that longish, elegantly erotic nose you hate;
you with your 'not quite symmetrical' face, don't you know:
that very jawline which shames you delights me?
Quit feeling 'fat' - define your standard, who told you that?
Stop chasing warts, leave them;
if your body-tatoos can be so alluring, why can't a mole?
Are your breasts still 'inadequate' - or overmuch . . . but
look at your thighs, what form they give you!
Think of Aphrodite, not Claudia or Naomi!  Erotic, not neurotic!
Go neither obese, nor half-starved to please; shave nothing, smell enticing!
Stop cursing your buttocks, think classic, not anorexic!
Breathe in your own inner aroma, let it wend its way in and out unimpeded,
brightening your woman-face, your sensual sensuous body, restoring health -
or haven't you suffered enough sickness over false self-image?
When you speak against your own beauty, when you deny it,
you speak against me, you deny me - for I,
I am full of your beauty, and cannot get enough of it.

Come-Union, or: On Be-Coming

(not for minors, please show a current ID at the door)

Tongue and lingam should work together,

tongue must lead and lingam follow, always in tandem,

attaining a rhythm most naturally arrived at and held

through wakeful concentration and passion of interest.

And age is no matter, let us

dispense with that right now;

where erotic knowledge is concerned

youth and advanced experience meet well.

And a wizard or crone might bring

more energy and maturity to bear,

having long struck down the conditioned inhibition,

and unlocked beauty overlooked by puerile dictates.

Tongue and lingam should work together;

tongue and lips, stroking and caressing,

flattering, fluttering, probing, preparing,

arousing moisture and goose bumps, bringing flavor.

Entering all the same places, received with wild care,

creative passion always considering you, beloved,

where timing and spontaneity are taken to an art

through intuition or matured instinct.

Tongue tip on tongue, on lips, on neck and throat,

tongue washing armpits, over bitten shoulders,

teasing raised nipples with crazy circling,

tongue over belly, navel, thighs and clit.

Yoni and mouth yielding to swooning but untiring kiss

as tongue sweeps and caresses without care,

the taste of you and your luxurient hair,

your perspiration mingled with rose oil and juices.

Small of back massaged with hand and with tongue,

so the buttocks, kneaded; so also between, where cleft and anus

are stimulated in a manner known since ages

and still indescribable.

Coming in your mouth, lingam gliding over your tongue,

I feel myself entering your very bloodstream,

charging every cell in your entire body.

That is just one variation of course.

Gliding lingam on your neck, over your armpits,

between your breasts, against your nipples, across your belly,

along your thighs – and coming anywhere there,

is well spent . . . but spent.

Coming in your yoni via whichever of so many positions,

your gratification is central to my interest,

for by abandoning the central interest in mine,

my own climax is assured merely by being in you, serving yours.

But for all that, I find coming in your ass to be

the gratification par excellence for both,

bringing forth unimagined fruit, once discovered

never to be forgotten nor forsaken.

I will tell you why I know this.

Deep as the yoni well is, there is something

primally deeper still, in a different and healing way,

about entering that ass gradually with lingam.

The ass is charged with a negative and a postitive

association both, a crossing of pleasure and pain,

reward and punishment, expectation and relief,

tension and gratification, erotic and banal.

Negatively seen, the brutality of a sadist finds

in this the very place to ravage and humiliate,

to abuse and fuck to death your very soul

in that place of your most basic security.

Positively seen, lovingly and consentually entered,

there is deeply erotic, healing, validating union

in a place so deep in the psyche as to defy words.

And to come there in love, respect, appreciation, is ecstasy.

http://titsandsass.com/the-erasure-of-maya-angelou/

Woman Rising

A male ultra-orthodox Jew would tell me:  that if a woman so much as touches him he has to do ablutions again or he can't perform his prayers, or lay hand on a Torah or a Talmud.

A male orthodox Muslim would likewise tell me:  that if he so much as touched a woman he also has to repeat the ablutions before he can orient himself toward Mecca and perform his prayers, or even lay hand on a Qur'an.

I would reply to both:  that if I've touched a woman I no longer need ablutions, and if a woman has touched me I can skip the prayers altogether.

The common root for the Arabic "compassionate" and "merciful" is the word WOMB, and it is no accident or coincidence that the cleft in the big cubic Ka'aba holding the sacred black stone for so many centuries, still kissed by throngs of worshippers, strongly resembles a YONI.

The orthodox male is terrified not merely of the power of a woman or of her sexuality - he is terrified of her divinity.  Terrified enough to regard her as "weaker," as second order, and as the sexual trap reflecting his own underdeveloped, unevolved ego - so that she remains for him "sexual" in order that he can "master" that in her.  (She becomes for him:  master-bait.)  So he cloisters her or throws a burka over her, beats or brutalizes or humiliates her, owns her or pimps her, or keeps her barefoot and pregnant, or shoots her or pours acid on her, or marries her off to the nearest cousin.  Anything but see a partner in her - and why?  Because he is "God" - and naturally "God hath no partners"...

The relegating of woman to second or third class citizen in the Name of God will wind up in the dustbin of history, and we will even see women standing in the Catholic pulpits as they once had done among the very earliest Christians - this or the Vatican will crumble once and for all.

The Aquarian Age has arrived.