Prayer, meditation, music, dance and flight all together as the very core and seeds of my electric spirituality—how could there be any other resort he should like to explore and contribute a little cartography to than human sexuality in all it’s diverse paths to celebrating the massage dreams of the soul?
Speaking of music, the New Age sort was playing on her laptop, they were in her living room sitting on her red leather couch.
She had welcomed him in about fifteen minutes ago, she found him dry yet novel and intriguing, like the front page of a daily newspaper—from the headlines and the pictures to the beginning texts of the articles– as he explained to her how it was that he had ever decided to become a sexologist.
She was blowing her hot pink fingernails dry as he gazed at her with lust as ecstatically overwhelming as New Years Eve is to those who scream with the Times Square Mob as the ball drops and they count down from ten—for this was no nihilistic sort of lust, not just another shot of whatever liquor the host offers the guest you know?, but rather the kind that made him feel as if the karmic energy of her cultivated, sympathetic, cosmopolitan empathy dove into his inhales.
He spoke to her of how he could not shake off from him completely his awareness that to some his work was “taboo”… as if a “scarlet letter” were branded on his forehead… and that indeed, at family get-togethers on the holidays he is often avoided like gnats and mosquitos in the summer time air of temperate regions.
Grinning like the sparkles of the Caribbean sea’s water and the diversely colored fish one can often see through this water on one of the sunniest of days, grinning as if cautiously, innocently and giddily tipsy from a margarita (well, one plus just the first few sips of a second), she asked him if he found vibrators and dildos intimidating, laughed, then asked if he would like some tea with a spoon full of honey (for neither of them were intoxicated by more than their attractions to and fondness for one another).
No, he typically did not find them intimidating except for when the women blocked him out of their experience completely, he said to her feeling a chill as if it just occurred to him his shirt was off so literally felt a little cooler (but no his shirt was not off but she made him feel like it was and her fingers were gently playing the piano on his stomach and chest) and yes he would like some tea with honey, and he said he was looking forward to their date at the zoo because he loved the zoo; it was one of his favorite places, he said, because animals, well they relax him, they give his eyes a soothing dance to learn.
That sounded fun to her she said as she stepped to the kitchen to boil the tea, so yes she would and a couple of minutes later, handing him the mug of tea (with “yoga” written in red letters on it) she asked him when was the last time he made love and he said to be honest with her lately he could not “get it up” (or rather, he could “get it up” but could not “keep it up” or “get it off” lately, there’s something wrong with the context of this point in his life though he wasn’t sure what it was and that was a matter for which he was in therapy and oh really she was in therapy too because she suffered from insomnia—he had a friend who suffered from that so she had his sympathy– so how did he like that: a therapist in therapy?
Playing now a little with her hair (he loved the way she did) she said she appreciated the rather serendipitous opportunity of getting to know the part of him that had been humbled to the extent that he had learned what it is like to be, for a time, incapable of even masturbating to any substantive physical effect—how one’s psychology, whether a negative thought or the experience of a misfortune could be as salt is on a snail; there was, she added, something so fascinating about exploring the soul of a man when, even if only briefly (and not to stereotype so much as to say in the context of how many men she knew who stereotyped themselves), sex does not seem to so considerably influence the direction of his streams of consciousness plus didn’t he have to admit it was ironic given his profession and had he ever thought of kissing her before?