-> COVER -> THE SEX COLUMN
PHALA RAY-ORIANS
Rather, better to ask and answer my mirrored self than question my insatiable Satyr.
As your keystroke weary fingertips, all ten in unison, trailed up the outsides of my legs from my ankles past my knees and then down again inside my thighs, you opened me up to a realm of new possibilities.
One by one, as I kissed your splayed and singularly columnar digits, I polished my technique and imagined what ecstasy I would bring you when my mouth eventually reached its ultimate destination.
While my one hand stroked your furry underbelly, my mouth moved upwards from your open palm. My tongue coursed the softness of your inner forearm and my lips rested on that very place where your life blood flowed closest to its outer limit.
In the background, I heard your measured beat and synchronized my movements to your paradiddle rhythm. Your shell shot hard nipples proved to provide just the right amount of resistance to my compliant teeth.
While my body was occupied with our dance, my eyes fastened on a bead of sweat that trickled across your gray shot temple. With that singular droplet of your sea man essence, I slacked my thirst but remained unquenched. Like a mewling kitten kneading its queen for sustenance, my fingers stroked your torso's hair. Also like that hungry cat, I too was blind, my face buried in that darkened pit that lies between your shoulder and your chest.
Your aroma intoxicated me. Lightheaded, I had to keep my wits intact, and resist the urge to abandon all restraint. Lest my stupor dull my thoughts and make me lose my sense of direction, I knew the time had come to move on to our journey's next destination. Our time for consecration had almost arrived, but before communion, the feast.
Transubstantiated, your testes became twin ova-like flasks filled with fruitful sweet wine; as I nipped and sucked them each in turn, I heard you murmur your approval and I felt gladdened with gratitude. As my lips reached that point of no return, where only initiates and acolytes are permitted to go, your penis manna, my staff of life, filled my mouth and cleansed my palette.
During my repast, I could not see the face of you my honored dinner guest. But I saw, being endowed with a mystic's vision, your godliness transformed by the fulfillment of the promise of transfiguration.
Our union, sure and sustained, brought us together to our preordained deliverance. Climax means beginning.
Thank you
CHARLIE THE TUNA
I am a deacon in the Church of Sex. I have succeeded Anais Nin as the spy in the House of Love. I am an emissary of the god Priapus sent with a living offering to the temple of the Great Mother. I aspire to join with one who will make the worm, Ouroborus, with me -- that one which swallows its own tail. Unless you have drank long and deep of the sacrament of sex, these mysteries may well be foreign to you.
There is nothing, or little, as exhilerating, transcendent, ego-crushing, dangerous, sublime and challenging as good sex. It is the most difficult thing for us to talk about because it is so central to the core of what it means to be human, and it is that timeless experience which defies mere words to contain it.
I know; most often in my space I portray the fantasies which drive the search for the sexual Grail, or the pull-and-tug between the gender-motivations which too often make a minefield of the sexual quest --- but that is only the backdrop...
The reason we put up with all that maddening struggle, the hang-ups and attitudes, is because the prize, the consummation of a physical union paramount which leads to spiritual transformation, is so wonderful. Wonderful and rare in its accomplishment.
Yet, accomplish it just once and you are never the same again.
It becomes a constant craving, an itch demanding to be scratched. The most phenomenal thing about good sex is that the more of it you get, the more you want. Each soul-joining, star-sparkling, heart-exploding orgasm only leaves you gasping with the promise of what can be received in the next.
The nuances of good sex with the right partner are almost musical.
In good sex, you gain a greater understanding of the elasticity of time, of contrapunctal rhythm, of the subtle vibrations emanating within the earth and seas and through our bodies, constantly beating beneath our heartbeats and seeking to coalesce into becoming in unison with the Cosmic Rhythm, the Universal Beat.
As you lay gasping afterwards, the rhythm still quivering in your loins, your bodies covered in a patina of sweat, raw still and dazzled, you know the holiness of life.
You are humbled before the realization that everywhere, all life, from seedlings of grass to the great whales of the deep, grasp for this self-same rhythm and are ultimately, through the sex-need, driven by it. It's so simple then: the meaning of life is more life.
"Be fruitful and multiply." In this blessed state, as close as you can get to Creation, two hours pass like moments, a day can pass like two hours.
Reaching this sacred consciousness in the Church of Sex, the House of Love, calls for a willing suspension of belief in the importance of any other concerns than those of pleasing your partner, driving her to the outer reaches of Total Abandon, by exploring her body and the sensations you can pull from it with all the diligence and patience of a cartographer exploring an undiscovered country.
Every single inch of human flesh is an erogenous zone and it is your job, pioneer, to light up her body zone by zone until the pleasure becomes so exquisite it borders on torture. Nothing so wonderful as to gaze down into the face of your lover and see wild-eyed, desperate hunger, skin flushed and damp, pupils dilated, nostrils flared, hot gasps escaping from her lungs like blasts from a bellows. This is joy! This is the border of Total Abandon. Cross over! Cross over!
For it is only in the precincts of Total Abandon that you begin to perceive the towering portals of the Church of Sex. Because you cannot enter Total Abandon until you lose your sense of yourself. There is no Charlie, or Bill, or Steve in Total Abandon, no Jean or Jo.
You shed the insignificant fixtures of personality as you cross over and enter only as a faceless soul, an offering in the form of your freely given body onto the altar of Life.
That is all you want here in Total Abandon, all you need: to give yourself up to Life, completely, wholly, brazenly, however Life in the body of your lover will take you.
You become shameless, heedless, wanton, driven by the desire to give and be taken. And you become a slave, too, to the rhythm which permeates the throbbing structure of the universal Church of Sex, the rhythm that overwhelms your body and your lover's.
This is where you let go, this where you offer yourself up, this where you finally join.
You join and become whole, merged, Ouroborus swallowing its own tail. You are totally abandoned, left behind at the border, and totally revealed even as you receive the revelation of your lover, all women, and merged into all humanity. Your auras mesh with each other, that final distinction between yours and hers evaporates into the new wholeness of the Nation of Two. You will never be the same again.
CHARLIE THE TUNA - appeared intermittently in the G21 from 1993 until 1998. Charlie the Tuna buys all his vines at www.pimpit.com