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Wednesday, July 25, 2018

MOTHER MARY MEMORY DOLL

MOTHER MARY MEMORY DOLL

MOTHER MARY WITH MY PARENTS'  AND MRS. MEHTA'S CLOTHES/ROSE BUSH/CRIB Linda Mary Montano  2018
We remember our dead in many ways. My Rosary Practice brings MOTHER MARY into my life in a way that allows me to  prayerfully and respectfully and hopefully with her guidance, honor my dead parents and my adopted mother, Mrs. Mehta, by wrapping their once used clothing around the photo of Her with Baby Jesus to create a doll-form. The sticks are from my father's Rose tree that died this year. The crib I found recycled at  Garrison during a meditation retreat. Everything MATTERS.
I make MOTHER MARY MEMORY DOLLS for your intentions. lindamontano@hotmail.com

THE ECSTATIC STORIES OF LINDA MARY MONTANO

THE ECSTATIC STORIES OF LINDA MARY MONTANO

Dream Stories Written During 7 Years of Living Art
Dear Friends,
Thanks for reading this because it explains why I feel conflicted about including 20 stories written in both the middle of the AIDS epidemic and in the heat of  “opening” my 7 chakras! Three friends said, “Put the stories in, put them in,” but now that I’m 75 years old and back in the Catholic Church, I’m catapulted into a dilemma. Yes, some are somewhat readable, some intimate but most, in retrospect, are not as Tantric as I would like. In fact some are embarrassingly bad soft porn. The entry below might explain why sex and I are such complicated friends and why some of the stories reveal my wavering allegiance to intimacy. Reader discretion advised!!
I was raised in a small town, a strict Roman Catholic. Because of choice and fate, I became the nun’s favorite at school, made the nine first Fridays at least 70 times (it entailed going to Mass on the first Friday of each month and insured that I would bypass hell), and tried never to sin by thought, word or deed against the sixth commandment - chastity. To put it simply, I was good and sex was bad.
At 16 my world collapsed when I was even more sexually confused. To escape further into ‘purity’ and away from shame, I entered a convent at 19 and stayed there for two years, basking in celibacy, although at the end I was beginning to form loving but non-sexual crushes on other nuns. The convent life was utopian: time was devoted to silence (we talked only one hour a day), study of scriptures and singing in an echo-chambered chapel with 150 other nuns while wearing a nuns habit right out of the Middle Ages. But I left anorexic and went from 145 to 80 pounds, unable to adjust to that great calling. Causes for my discomfort got stuffed, and I married, divorced and lived marginal lifestyles for years, trying to make peace with the mystery of sex.
Eventually I taught myself a sexual healing diversion tactic which goes like this; when the sexual desire or shame became greater than my ability to handle it, I wrote instead. These stories are the result. Writing began to function as the safe-sex-no-AIDS other, as the lover. And it functioned, practically, as a vacuum cleaner, because they (a few felt somewhat divinely channeled) sucked out fantasies and memories lodged in a cave inside me. When the memories came out as stories and were transformed into art, they stopped being labeled and judged as bad or shameful because of the alchemy of the creative process! Art healed my shame.
After years of writing memories, fantasies and wishes, I felt empty; the ‘housecleaning’ provided a relief and great interior space. Sex and I were now best friends and I won the added bonus of being able to be my own priest, forgiving myself, legislating my own sexual morality.
This book is now yours. Use it like a workbook. After reading Annie Sprinkle’s magical ability to introduce me with an insight born of years of sexual wisdom, enjoy the stories and then follow the recipe at the end of each story and although not every one will stir you poetically, if one does, use the sensation of catharsis to travel into your own treasure chest of sexual fantasy and feeling. Why? So that you can then travel out again into the brilliance of soundless sound and lightless light which are metaphoric terms for the Ecstasy of Nothingness. Words can be fuel to ignite and stir the magnificent energy that we all are. Hurrah for LIFE!
In ART/LIFE
Linda Mary, 2017

***

+++

Love for Linda: Introduction by Annie Sprinkle
Since 1986, I have had the pleasure of being madly in love with Linda Montano. Oh, I am not the only one. Everywhere there are people who ache with love for her. Extremely modest, Linda would deny this, but it is true. So wise, caring, brilliant, humorous, charismatic and deliciously eccentric, she’s irresistible. Many people have tried to win her favors, and many have failed. She is also elusive, private, discriminating, and ‘hard to get.’
Thank heaven for her Dream Stories. Now we can all make love with Linda Montano, whenever we desire. I see this book as her way of finally saying “yes, come, enjoy me.” She opens herself to us, shares her sexual skills and knowledge, and with each printed word bestows a kiss, a caress, and much, much more. I see this titillating tome as her consolation prize to those of us past, present and future who’ve tried and failed: or who simply haven’t gotten enough of her.
I don’t know how I got so lucky but I have had the great fortune of having had quality time with Ms. Montano. As many people have fantasized, I can actually attest to the fact that she is indeed unique and special. Her keen intuition, attention to detail, psychic skills, sensitivity, willingness to be weird, acute awareness, non-judgmental attitude, years of spiritual training, and her immense creativity add up to as expanded and enlightened an understanding of sexuality and sensuality as I’ve ever encountered. And as with all of us, she has her insecurities, inhibitions, fears and deep wounds. In this book she generously shares with us both her strengths and vulnerabilities. 
I learned a lot about sex from Linda. She taught me that there are three types of sex. ‘Sex 1’ is very physical sex, the way most people do it. ‘Sex 2’ is the physical aspect combined with a spiritual/energy oriented aspect, like with tantric sex. ‘Sex 3’ is sex without the physical element. It’s purely on an energetic level. (She is a master of the more unacknowledged, less understood ‘Sex 3.’) In these stories, Linda uninhibitedly explores it all, and creates a wholistic, multidimensional view that is rarely encountered in erotic writing, or art, or porn, or anywhere in life.
If you peek between the lines, you’ll find that these stories are more than they appear to be. They are tools for healing, recipes for change, loving blessings, and sensuous spiritual paths. These sexy tales can stimulate all seven of your chakras: your genitals might pulsate and swell, you may have some gut reactions, your heart may open and or hunger, your lips may tingle, your mouth may water, your third eye may open, you may hear the voice of your inner lover, you may even have beautiful memories from past lives when sex was more meaningful, more powerful, even more fulfilling than it is now. Savor the sensations Linda’s stories evoke, and by all means feel free to take breaks between stories to make love: alone, with a partner or two, or with the whole cosmos.
Funny that in spite of all Linda gives, I find I never seem to get enough. Like so many other people, I continually lust for more Montano. But at least we can continue to collect and fondle various intimate parts of her - her drawings, photographs, clothing, her publications. Ohhhh, ahhhhhh, it's so good. Thanks for the Sacramental Sex, Linda. 
Please don't stop. More. More.
Love, Annie

***
+++

 1 + 1 = 1 
Ecstatic Writings for the 1st Chakra
My Darling,
Do you remember these pictures? You took them when you were in Germany, and I was stripping at Le Club. I will never forget that night and the subsequent nights, years, decades of our love. That particular night I was wearing a light blue, see-through harem girl outfit. I made it myself, spending hours on the trim, each sequin hand-stitched. I came out, my hair clean, long, covering my face, my breasts exposed and firm. I wore high heels ... gold ... and then slowly, very slowly moving to Scheherazade, I strode like an Amazon, around the room, dancing, stomping, my nipples hard, breasts becoming firmer, hands on my hips, my nails flashing red. I was Venus re-incarnated. My perfect body ripe for you, bringing the soldiers to ecstasy, but you to me ...
I noticed you immediately and a voice in my head gave me a message, "He will be your friend," it said, so I was not surprised when you came to the dressing room later that night. Both of us were panting, and I knew why. Both of us had trouble talking. Both of us ran toward each other, soul mates. You were rough, yet gentle, a boxer for 30 years, having won many titles, and still in training, so your body was incredible as was mine. I will never forget your hands, large, firm, strong, almost overdeveloped and yet so light, gentle, energy-filled. You placed many fingers inside me, and they felt like lightning rods; yes, even that night in my dressing room it began, the moaning, sucking, licking, mutual satisfaction. Our differences astounded us; you, an American soldier and me, a German artist, stripping to survive. But it didn't matter, your halting German and my bad English. What we had was deep, non-verbal and forever.
And so it continues. I wait, you wait. We visit each other when we can. The eagerness pushes me to heights that are producing permanent states of union. I have become love itself in loving you. And so the wait gives me a chance to extend that passion to every minute of my day and night, the air becomes you and love, eating becomes you and love; sleep is you and love, every second is desire, completion, then more desire. I float and do not breathe anymore. Life and death are One.

Yours Always, 
Marta

***


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:

***
+++

Ascension 
Ecstatic Writings for the 1st Chakra
For the past three Summers, she had been attending The Center For A Holistic Life, located deep in the New Hampshire mountains. And every summer it was the same: 300 people, 14 workshops a day in everything conceivable. The added bonus was always a torrid, weekend love affair. As soon as the car pulled into the campgrounds, as soon as she saw half-clad bodies oozing health, as soon as she smelled miso soup and Caffix ... the fantasy began ... a smile grew from inside, lodged permanently (at least for a weekend) behind her eyes. Juices bubbled. And for the next 77 hours she would not worry about food, sex, money or getting to work on time. Here, her job was to let go, her work was to be happy in the safe, womb-like 85 acres where release was the password and health, on every level, the goal. It was Paradise and she was Eve looking for her Adam. Except this time, she would be Adam, having signed up for Yang-like experiences: African dance, Near-Death Encounters and a Zen retreat. And if she got bored with them, she could switch and sit in on something else. Given that profile of classes, she was covered ... physically, mentally, spiritually, and whatever wasn't healed, mended or taken care of, she could get fixed by dropping in on the Anger Workshop or sweating in the sauna after a light supper of bean sprouts, fresh juices and red zinger tea.
Her catch this year was obvious. Another seeker, just as hungry as she, only shy about it. He obviously had not been going to summer camp very long and didn't know how to look perpetually happy ... his cabin-in-the woods, living-alone vibe was apparent. In fact, she could smell ‘the Essence of Woodstove’, even on his summer clothes. His naiveté made her ready ... ready to bring him out, ready to help him unwind, teach him her new age tricks and tantric positions, ready to initiate him into the goodies promised by the Harmonic Convergence, ready to show him his aliveness.
Before she got down to her mission, Kate had something to learn in addition to all of the secrets that would unfold with him ... and that was ... SHE HAD OUTGROWN HER TEACHERS!!! Watching the instructors sign in, unpack, eat, walk, relate ... she observed that they fumbled just as much as she did, that they knew just as little, and that they were differentiated by just one thing, they were convincing and charismatic enough to say, "This is how I do it," whatever it was that they did. That summer she graduated to another level (was she a teacher now, she wondered?), and Jason was to be her first student. Wisdom preceded action and she waited for the right moment to show him alI she knew. In the meantime, she followed the Center's schedule assiduously, getting up at dawn before everyone else for one hour of private rituals ... then walking mindfully to hatha yoga class ... walking even more attentively to a guided meditation led by a beatific Vietnamese monk who talked to her subconscious in a sweet, sexy voice, saying things like, "I am peaceful, I am happy, I send love to everyone ..." over and over, so that by the time she left there, it was on wings ... a cloud of knowing.
Eating breakfast at the dining hall which seated 300 was an experience in the human condition. On the north side of the room, the exceptional cancer patients sat, glad to be alive. The Anger Workshop people sullenly occupied the middle of the room and reacted over-sensitively to everything that looked like an oversight, interruption or loud noise. African dancers still sweating profusely from an early morning workout picked at a few salad greens and exuded first chakra red light and heat, chose to sit outside, near nature, the earth and the drummers who would lead them to deeper trances later on in the morning. All points of the wheel of time and existence were represented, right in one room. And yet out of that sea of faces, suntans, hope, sauna, clean bodies and well-toned (having just swum across the lake) energies, she found him.
"Coffee, Caffix, tea? I'll get whatever you need," she said, observing that he had finished his granola and was looking at the ocean of people a bit wistfully and with the expectation of relieving his mountain-induced isolation. “Coffee, Kate,” he said, reading her name tag while eyeing her large nipples at the same time. He was simple, easy to please and getting high on the caffeine, a treat for him, since he usually drank herb tea made from the weeds he gathered and carefully dried each spring. They lingered over the morning drug until the place had almost completely cleared and then went, aura to aura to the orientation which was one half pep rally and one half pragmatic instruction on where to receive emergency phone calls (oh no, the world comes here also?) and how to sign out (all this, too, will pass; impermanence is everywhere!). A die-hard male cheerleader type warmed up 300 expectant soon-to-be-reborn sentient beings with hoots, finger wavings, karate yells and obliquely obscene gestures, followed by an aging cult figure playing a three minute zither solo sounding like a new age American morning raga, accompanied by the audience's long tones. East has met West. The energy from 300 pulsating chakras times seven went into hers, and she sent all of it, mentally, to Jason. “Do you get it? Feel it?” She asked him astrally, and he responded on her interior TV screen with a smile, nod and slight roar. Pleased by the visualization and his response, she left orientation secure that something physical would follow, that what she had imagined would actualize.
Aliveness, trust and getting cured were in the air as they walked to their first workshop for the day, The Theory and Practice of Rhythmic Ascension, taught by Muhammad Olingi, a dark, red-eyed, walking passion flower. Exotic is too mild a word to use to describe him, too tame for this alchemist who, for three transported, transcended, transcendental hours, led all 77 of them through spinal configurations, repetitive movements, rhythmic circlings, sways, chants, visualizations, aids to union, and like the tiger, tiger, running in a circle, burning bright, turning into butter from the concentrated motion, they, en masse, turned-at the end of three hours, into an instant tribal unit, all because they had been brave enough to quickly drop body and mind.
At lunch, Jason seemed transformed. “Kate, let's have more, some dessert, I'm staying in a tent by the lake. It's far away from everybody and everything. The lotuses are out, yellow and white. I'd like you to come there. Come and see.” Astral programming had worked successfully, and although a neophyte at this level of seduction, she was proud of her mental dating service and so accepted, as if surprised by his offer, “Are you sure, Jason? Don't you want to take this afternoon's workshop?” “No, I think we can do better on our own,” he answered. So they went off to his private Tahiti, lit high quality incense, lay breathing each other's smells, and moaned, moved, merged, melted outside and inside each other, received and gave golden showers on the edge of the lake, pissing long into eternally thirsty mouths, grateful that their healthy diets made the bright yellow, vitamin-enriched nectar both sweet-smelling and delicious.
And for the remainder of the weekend, they occasionally came out for meals, a nude swim at dusk, and going to the bathroom in the woods, returning without hesitation, without guilt, without loss, to a new workshop that had now begun.



Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:

***
+++

Nadia by Linda Mary Montano
For as long as she could remember, Nadia had always loved women. Certainly all her life decisions were tainted by her lust, since she continued to place herself in almost exclusively female environments, Recently she had begun tracing her sexual history back to her childhood, so that she could understand her inclinations. Although there were warm and somewhat sensual memories of nursing for what seemed to be hours at a time from her mother’s ample breasts, an even stronger image was retrieved. It happened when she was twelve, olive-skinned, quite mature for her age, having menstruated at nine. She was incredibly at ease with her fully developed body and its erotic needs. Masturbation was a daily ritual, even then.
Nadia met her girlfriend, Jane, in a place that they had constructed for themselves in the woods. That particular day, after hours of climbing and playing, they went back to their hut and talked; their faces near, breath flowing equally between them. Jane reached down and slowly unzipped Nadia’s dungarees. Although they had been close with each other before, this was the first time that touch became explicitly sexual. Nadia responded naturally and with pleasure to Jane’s stroking and began kissing and burrowing in the soft hairs on Jane’s face. Their eyes and mouths met, tongues exchanged warmth, hands touched in twin motion. Each became the other, mirror images. And after an hour or so, Nadia and Jane came gently, simultaneously and with a hint of the excruciating passion which Nadia found later on, with age and time, intensified with care, talking and surrender.
This one event changed Nadia and allowed her to understand why she had had so many difficulties in the convent. Before entering she never denied her instincts and continued to feel comfortable with her girlfriends without guilt. Yet when she became twenty, Nadia chose to enter a life of denial. Almost immediately it became apparent to her that she needed the kind of closeness denied by her former ascetic way of life. Luckily there were others like her, who were not afraid, so that the few years she remained there were rich with encounters, even though these actions were contrary to canon law.
Nadia, now Sister Bernadette, would meet her special friend and almost duplicate the intense and complete love that she and Jane had experienced as children, but this time with mature urgency. Mouths met and then found each other’s clitorises which they pleasured softly, then intensely, then softly, until finally nuns’ habits were tangled and soaked, faces were covered and sometimes stained pink with each other’s musky, vaginal fluids, bodies reeled with electricity so that the inevitable would happen: they would come, merge, raise pelvises, roar and then lay back, laugh, talk and begin again.
Nadia remembered that once the light emitting from their bodies after they had made love, illuminated the earth and trees in the circle where they lay. An elemental proof.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Cleaning Houses
Ecstatic Writings for the 2nd Chakra
Cleaning houses was the only viable alternative to her life as it was. Two years of sitting, writing a doctoral thesis on the Morphology of Molecular Biophysics had made her sluggish physically, so when she saw the ad for, PURIFICATORS, A NEW AGE HOUSEKEEPING SERVICE in the paper, she applied - half in jest, half seriously. Ever since the Harmonic Convergence, she had been purifying, shedding skin in snake-like fashion, even to the point of being asked to move. Next to breast cancer, moving was her worst fear; having to uproot, pack everything, find storage, etc., a nightmare for an earth-bound Capricorn. It meant going through four file cabinets, weeding out her archive and looking at the past. To save or not to save, that was the question;  regretting that she wasn’t famous enough to send the whole thing off to a major university for them to mind; making it available to students eager to learn her process and thereby facilitating and speeding theirs. But that wasn’t the case. She played with fame; avoiding it, not performing those small professional details which made for visibility and grants; not schmoozing with those who mattered in the field. As a result, she was always financially bereft and needy. So instead of going to department heads and assertively claiming a token women’s position or chair at the prestigious college across the river, she cleaned people’s bathrooms. It was a sociological problem; wives were now working and too busy to do things in the home, so she filled that function. It was really very absurd because she would run in with a cleaning partner and in two to three hours, they would restore order and good smells again. She was a maintenance and prevention expert who often never met her clients, while becoming intimately involved with their coffee makers or Balinese mask collection. In the meantime, they became intimate with their computers. Amanda often sensed that the lndustrial Revolution made fools of us all, wrenching us from roots and a simple life. In her wildest fantasy she saw the picture clearly, everyone owning a home but leaving in the morning to rush to the home next door to work, only to come back at six to repeat the process over and over for years. Or else, they stayed home, glued to their home office computers and needed her because they were just as busy, but this time at home.
Participating in the cycle peculiar to the computer age, which heralded a megatrend, she grew to realize what she wanted, it was more from life. She wanted to stay home, see clients (real people), and get involved in the software of the 90’s, bodies!!! Even if that meant being a massage therapist! That way she would still be doing a physical service, but this time cleaning out tensions from necks and polishing auras. If she were at home doing that, she could remain informed, stimulated, educated and financially solvent. Strange what other jobs can teach: here she was cleaning houses and at the same time doing a vocational counseling job on herself. 
Although not perfect, the situation did offer some interesting diversion: Peter, for example. The first time they came to clean he instructed, “Don’t touch that lamp; it’s an antique and quite fragile. The kitchen floor gets sticky if you use anything but ammonia. That’s the kids playroom and as you can see, my wife and I allow them to really play there, so you don’t have to clean that or my office.” Impressions were flying all over the room, and he had already passed her first test. Sparks flew like darts between their eyes and strongly musked animal scents exuded the thought, “Yes, I like you chemically.” She approved not only of his aesthetics but loved the way he let the children have a free space for playing. That was more than a plus. Were all commercial artists that way??? Ordered, tasteful, liberal, clean lines everywhere, well-stacked libraries, state-of-the-art clocks, video and sound equipment, all the right Fisher Price toys? He must have come from an Ohio farm community at one time, since his tendencies toward clean design and simple yet functional comforts seemed so Mid-Western.
Her mind raced. Making his bed, she saw herself in it. Precognition? Misdirected energy? It took heavy programming not to want him, having already bad experiences with married men when she was in her 20’s, falling mutually and deeply in love, and yet, being enough of a feminist to not want to hurt the other woman. The whole thing stunk of pain for everyone and she vowed never to do it again. 
But it was almost as if she forgot. Almost as if her hunger for mutuality and nourishment outweighed experience and common sense. She was smitten, becoming his surrogate wife (just the cleaning aspect) each Thursday, seeing the wisdom of the statement, “What you clean, you own.” And although the kids were at the nursery school, and she never saw them or his teenage daughter, she already felt them to be hers. Cathy, the other Purificator was her only check on reality because if it weren’t for her, she would have gone into his office and consummated her desire.
After two months of this particular form of madness, she found herself in the situation she had longed for. Cathy called in sick, too late for the agency to find a replacement, so she would be doing the job alone. The nearness set up an intensification, an inner fire. They both sensed it even though they were rooms apart. Lust was exponentially being converted to bomb-like equivalencies. He came to the kitchen where she was washing the floor on her hands and knees, reclaiming Catholic martyr fantasies and feeling like a 22 year old Italian saint, cleaning the house, purifying herself and the home at the same time, being the good girl. And what happened was almost surreal, the dream once dreamed. She remained on the floor, her ass in the air. He knelt in back of her, slipped in and fucked. The fire remained. It never happened again.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Real Business
Ecstatic Writings for the 2nd Chakra
It was summer. Paula was hot, but in the air-conditioned office she was able to divert herself by directing her mind and attention to stocks, bonds, IRA’s and the market. As one of the first women to make it out to the floor to do trading, she held a position of esteem and privilege in a world dominated by men and the old boy’s club. Not once did this even tempt her away from her femininity, probably because years of dealing with the opposite sex as a businesswoman had taught her many strategies now useful to the younger women she mentored. “You don’t have to jeopardize your womanliness, but you do have to give up a number of things to gain respect and make a position for yourself. One is easy love affairs. If you do otherwise. you’ll have many lovers who despise you. Instead, have many friends with whom you’ll be on easy, equal terms.” 
That was the advice she gave. It was substantial and held for the 90’s when the first thing you did before kissing someone was to find out if they had had a blood test recently. Now couples remained together because it was better than wearing rubbers with someone new and maybe not safe. Paula’s reasons for loyalty were different. For the last seven years she had been obsessionally, passionately, intensely in love with a married man who also worked at Shearson’s. His marriage protected both of them, providing a safe space and framework that they found flexible. She was more than a mistress, more than a second choice, more than the ‘other woman’ because the arrangement pragmatically offered her time and space to write books, to teach classes in self-defense and meditate. Tony’s needs were different; he wanted children, a wife, a traditional world that gave him stability and the courage that spirited him through life. 
Coming together was always ecstatic, and since they each had private offices, it was quite simple. Paula had always turned on, instantly, at the drop of a grey flannel suit, white shirt and expensive tie. So Tony had the advantage. Their encounters were daily. That is, Monday through Friday. To communicate, they designed a private email code. Messages were untranslatable. No one suspected.
Her therapist often asked why she was so fascinated by men in business suits, and her response was that they had everything under control, were intellectually ruthless and loved money. This added up to passion. So she studied the field, worked with them, took on all of their best qualities while remaining a woman. 
Thursday’s lunch was special. An anniversary of the day they met. She called him. They met in her office. “I’m coming, just thinking of you. Eat me,” she moaned. “You don’t have to touch me today, except with your tongue, your lips.” He fainted mentally with pleasure, with the thought of 45 minutes of sucking and licking, remembering how she fondled him in her mouth yesterday for the entire lunch hour. She asked him to take his cock out, place it between her large, succulent lips, and he unzipped his Brooks Brothers very expensive pants. A perfect, full, erect, hard, waiting penis came out as if it had a mind, heart and need of its own. She was on her knees, in front of him, not worrying about getting cum on her silk blouse. But that was yesterday. Today he returned her sweetness by being sweet, by sliding her carefully on top of her desk and eating her without greed but with intense desire. “I can’t stand to see your entire body today, I would die if I did,” he said, imagining a softness that drove him insane. Kneeling by the altar of love, he drank devotionally. Both surrendered, and then with competent moves, they positioned themselves as if neither initiated the movement. Both benefitted and they found themselves on the rug in front of her desk where they exchanged, like two incredibly hungry, free children, nourishing each other to satisfaction and tears. “Will you come to Maine with me on my boat for a week, Paula?” He spoke the invitation into her cunt, echoing it to her ears. Her response was, “MMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm”, exciting his cock to begin another erection with the hum.
To begin their trip, they met clandestinely at a small hotel in Kingston, NY and by morning were drunk with oneness. Defenses were down and gone, tensions fucked away, fears forgotten, separations bridged; and existential loneliness cured. And after hours of breakfast in bed, plans to buy a place in the country, taking another shower and beginning again and again and again, they left the sun-bright motel in the woods and drove to the marina and their boat-cocoon, where they would live for the next seven days. 
Can you imagine the effect?? The effect of being outside, being together? The effect of water? Of green? Of wild flowers? Of being away from the Dow Jones averages? The effect of docking off coves in a small yacht, of living together carefully while performing improvisatory dances of love which were a testimony to the genius they both had for finding truth and beauty in each other? Can you imagine fishing? Eating? Fucking in that floating womb? And like all fertile couples, they felt the need to add, to multiply, to share, except their child was the ultimate quiet behind all motion - nature herself.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

East Meets West
Ecstatic Writings for the 2nd Chakra
Their relationship thrived on differences. Bryan, an American, had always been his own person, a self-defining visionary, somewhat cynical, always the artist. She was Sri Lankan and new to this country. Although groomed to be a Buddhist nun by an overly devout father, Karuna (a name loosely translated as compassion), chose social action as her life’s work, becoming an activist and environmentalist. As a lay person she could do and say what she wanted without the restriction of vows and yet practice the dharma. 
The Sri Lankan government sponsored and paid for her trip to LA. primarily because they were gathering strategies to organize against large industries polluting the air and also because the med fly was beginning to worry them. In a few cases, fruit had carelessly slipped through Indian customs and the island’s produce was as threatened as Orange County’s. But it was worse in L.A because not only were the fruit and avocados being eaten by bugs; people living in the LaBrea - Mt. Washington area were reporting strange physical illnesses from malathion, a syrupy chemical sprayed nightly by four helicopters. Some reported that it ate out holes in cars parked in driveways; others reported vomiting, headaches, flu-like symptoms and a paranoia new to residents of a normally laid-back community. Vietnam vets were re-nightmaring napalm. Always the missionary, Karuna was determined to do something for the people here, as well as for her people at home, and since she was a vegetarian and natural earth mother, for the land itself.
Scene 1
They met in a neutral and most probable place, the Bodhi Tree bookstore on Melrose. Bryan was looking for Shiatsu books even though he suspected eastern cures, the new age and any alleviation of his neuroses and suffering. Since Shiatsu was somewhat painful it was allowed into his world view, which had not changed since the late 70’s. He was angry, and the tragedies in his life were becoming paranoically more intense. His response was Western: my life is a nightmare, I’ll make art.
Karuna noticed him on her way to the herb section of this new age supermarket hoping to discover an antidote for malathion poisoning. His blond hair, her oriental version of Farah Fawcett hair, but this time black and shiny with Ayurvedic oils, her large lips, his Pinocchio nose, her island breasts, his swimmer’s legs, activated something primal. They fused, mobilized, merged. She found it impossible not to smell him and knowing a lot about acupuncture, guessed that his triple heater meridian was working overtime. In fact, smells from his body incensed the air around him like a clothes dryer emitting perfume from jasmine or musk scented wash. Smell was her nemesis and could produce altered states in her quicker than four hours of sitting motionless in the family temple during morning worship. His weakness was lips and hair.
Scene 2
Cut to his Santa Monica studio and the 25 x 25 foot violet colored room he was using for sensory deprivation experiments. Cut to his insistence that there is a god and that his body was real and solid. Cut to his penis in her mouth for hours, cut to her lips and tongue sliding organically around it using an island technique learned from observing dolphins and manatees and breast-feeding babies. Cut to his long blond hair feathering her breasts, cut to his need, cut to her detachment, cut to him, pressing her with his strength, cut to her contained action which pyramidically became non-knowing then knowing then non-knowing. For her, none of this was a problem. She was, after all, guiltless, Asian, a Buddhist and knew that she was conditionally creating herself and her own world, endlessly bringing into existence that very moment by means of, and because of, desire. She tried explaining to him that he was nothing, a nobody, not even a person. Replaceable. She laughed at his insistence on the importance of food, sex, money, sleep and himself.
He cried in her arms, then spoke. His words were hardly discernable: “Suck me, baby I hate you. I know you’re enlightened. You win. Just suck me. Let me suffer and make art. Then you buy my art, baby. Now sit on me and teach me how to meditate, Then, just suck me.
Cut to: no separation.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:

***
+++

Making It
Ecstatic Writings for the 2nd Chakra
It was hard enough being an artist in NYC with studio apartments renting for $4,000 to $7,000, but to make matters even worse, it had been 96 degrees outside for the last three days and nights. The heat exhausted them even more than the treadmill that they were on. Doggedly, determinedly, Jennifer and Steven pieced together a life as they had for the last two and a half years-with gallery jobs, putting up walls, consulting, waitressing and sometimes dalliances in real estate, the ultimate cause of all of their problems. Before downtown Manhattan was so popular and called Soho, spaces were large, rents low, so that no one had to work hard to eat or sleep. Art then was about a lifestyle which happened in luxurious time-space frames. Now it was business and no longer mental and physical play. Money back then was hardly an issue, seeming to come miraculously from little effort or maybe the sky; that’s how easy it was.
Now was entirely different. Both of them had made it, were famous overnight stars with reviews in Artforum and Japan Times, as well as 150 other newspapers and magazines. To keep everything going, they needed more money yet had less time to make the art that might bring the money. which resulted in extraordinary amounts of stress which they blamed on the system. “Once you’re famous, they think you’re rich,” Jennifer told Steven almost every night over steamed veggies and Sue Simmons’ nightly report. Steven responded with his own worries, “I’ll have to call my agent to see if she booked that 10-week teaching gig at UCLA which should cover the costs of the new video that I’m working on”. They often wondered if this is what the Buddhist precept, Right Livelihood, was all about. Would their pace and need to be in the world so intensely, co-exist with enlightenment? Or was the work similar to a Herculean boulder pushed up an unquenchable art hill? Maintaining the fame to pay the rent was a dialectic seemingly without solution or merit. 
That was the pattern: days at other people’s jobs and nights at their own work but after four and a half hours in their studios, they forgot the day and became themselves again. Jennifer’s 36D breasts responded first, signalling, anticipating Steven’s hot hands. Although neither of them ever needed the added excitement, she often put on a red push-up bra, spilling herself over the top, nipples half showing. “Steven, would you like some milk before we go to bed?” she asked, appearing at his studio door, then pushing her body into his, with a Judo-like strength, her ass sliding against his cock which massaged his balls since they were both sitting on an “art” chair he was working on for a performance at the Kitchen. He felt her up from behind, wanted to nurse but limited himself to touch.
Reaching behind to grasp the back of his head, she would pull his face into her neck, upper back, his nose nuzzling in her hair, smelling everything. She felt him grow even harder (if that was at all possible) but constrained by her ass pushing against him. A minibondage. Unable to stand it any longer, he picked her up, turned her around to face him so that his tongue could be satisfied, a hunger that never ended, an eating without food. Their mouths were caverns of delight, caves of pleasure, wet rhythm makers. They played, slowly at first, giving completely with soft lips, teasing, thrusting, pressing their tongues together as if on a pane of glass ... exchanging wavelengths and twin vibrations, ionizing with that watery muscle.
No more was needed but they continued, generous with their pleasuring, giving gifts, getting gifts. His cock was now tight between them, both of their stomachs created vaginal lips, large ones, lubricated with summer sweat and spit that she dropped purposely down on the head of his erection. Likewise, his balls imitated or became a mock vagina for her clitoris, now hard and large enough to rest between and in their softness. “Who’s first tonight?” she asked, knowing that it was her turn since they traded off every week. It was her turn to be assertive, to ask, to come first or not at all, to tell the truth. “Me first,” she breathed in his ear, “Me first, and I’ll tell you how I want it.” She led him into the bathroom, hardly able to walk, his penis a divining rod, desiring her ass, her cunt, her cleavage, her mouth, everything; a place inside. Lowering themselves slowly into the hot tub, they sat, re-birthing, breathing, clearing out old conditioning. “This is sex, too, Steven, I’m coming all over, up my spine, in my crotch around my eyes, and it’s because of us. This is what I wanted tonight and more.” The dance was not over; in fact the improvisation had just begun. She swam to him; he lowered himself into the water and simultaneously into her clean cunt with the punk haircut.
Lifting her legs over each side of the tub spread her more so that he could eat higher and deeper, “Harder, harder, yes, that’s right” instructing him shyly, assertively. With her orgasm, she descended down his body, a slide, a fish-like move, eventuating in his cock going deep inside her, becoming an anchor. They moved as if twins in utero, safe in placenta liquid. “Now let’s dry off and go to bed. I’m not finished with you,” she said after a half hour of lying together in the water, joined at the genitals, absorbing mucous, rhythm and warmth. By then they were deified, prepared, opened, having set up an atmosphere of trust, exchange and potential flight.
The reality of drying off didn’t break the mood or concentration, just tuned it to another level - that of practicality, but done so consciously that it was sensuously sacred. “Do my back, Steven,” and he dried her shining skin with an attitude so maternal and so unabashedly adoring, that she cried with gratitude and an even deeper release. “Steven, I can’t bear another moment. Do I deserve all of this love?” ... secretly thanking the years of therapy and hard work that both of them had done on themselves to clear any barriers in the way of trust.
They were now truly innocent, as if in Paradise, that guilt-free, that available, that giving. And they continued. “Let me on top. I’ll slide slowly, then suck you so that I can taste you and myself,” and she began arousing his balls, both in her mouth at the same time as if bowling, propelling them out of her mouth into his penis which got exceedingly harder as she ate. “You are my ice cream, my son, my tower, my father, my god. Fuck my tits, push into my roll.” He slid in, wet, with her saliva. “Jennifer, I can’t wait any longer. Let me come.” “Wait”, she pleaded, “It’s my night. I want to give us more...,” and she began riding him, all seven inches: in - then out, in - then out. “Use your fingers on me, Let’s come together.” He knew exactly how to do that, light streaming from his sculptor’s hands, setting off a current that flowed from the base of her spine to the crown of her head. “Fuck me, show me how much, you want to fuck me. I’ll give you everything. Just fuck me. Love me, fuck me.” And he did. He did it over and over. They groaned like lions that night, like the earth thawing in the spring, like an electrical synapse in motion, exquisitely timed and synched. While lying together afterward, consciously moving the energy between them, she didn’t have the heart to tell him that she would need the abortion after all, since her pregnancy was fallopian.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Forever One
Ecstatic Writings for the 2nd Chakra
The time between visits was too long, His job in the States took him away from her, but she knew that every Friday night he would be flying into the Honolulu airport and that it would begin again, they would remember. One week seemed like forever to be away from their roots, from their culture, from their fire.
The ritual was always the same. That provided a continuity and memory and sweetness that contained their desire until they could get to the beach. It was then that they truly relaxed. But Kalana made it possible for it to begin immediately, in the airport itself. She would run toward him, with her ‘fuck me’ shoes on, and the pattern was always the same; her embrace was all-embracing and included running the heel of her shoe up his taut leg; he shivered in response. The week of being in the business world was escaping like vapors through the shoe acupuncture and psychic hole she pierced in always the right spot on his calf. He loosened his tie, and she would smile with passion at the sight and smell of the nape of his neck. “Harani, say nothing, don’t talk, let go of the week. Let’s use every second of this time. We don’t need to rush.”
He would drive and she saw, then felt his penis, beating against his grey pants still smelling of Wall Street ticker tape and Manhattan lunches. “Work hard, play hard,” she teased in a low, sexy voice, helping them both justify their high-pressured jobs and the time away from each other. And like most successful urbanites, they invested wisely in both their relationship and real estate and, therefore, had three nests they could play in and transform into tree houses, a church, brothel, boxing ring, judo mat, each place changing to satisfy a mood or desire. Fridays they went to their private island, not to her condo in Honolulu, but immediately to the water. In fact, they slowly became water as they got closer to the site. She put their favorite tape on, changing the car and themselves into receptive entities, de-programming the distance that physical space, time and necessity had imposed on them. It was a 20 minute ride (with Brian Eno’s music, time was inconsequential) and then another 10 minute boat trip to the island, secretly named, “Amora,” Hawaiian for mystic love.
The walk from their boat to the beach home was unnerving, she never knew if he or she would make it. They stopped, his tongue finding her flower or her tongue; often she would faint with feeling and he would fall on her in a similar ecstasy, then realize she was incapable of walking so he would carry her, moaning, to the cabin, It had been that way for several years, the intensity getting stronger, not weaker with time.
Inside, primitive rites of passage, things native to their soul, would begin because they would be in their element: true natives, true inhabitants of their own land, their own climate, their own flowers and smells, true inhabitants of each other.
The beach house was simple, unpretentious, easy. A bed, jacuzzi, kitchen and large room - empty. It was their playpen. Fantasy became reality there. All that they had imagined, using the visualization process taught them by grandmothers long ago, came to pass, and more. And it was sacred. Their golden skin emitted flames of fire, and they would sit quietly for some time in this heat, looking, merging, letting that ferocious energy, that flame energy, burn through their barriers and demons. Many years before they had learned how to make themselves comfortable by facing the eyebulging, multi-headed, many-armed images that might spoil their union, and they gave time to pacify these distractions with almost violent vigilance, until there was a stream, a thread, a web of oneness that was inescapably seductive, unspeakably magnetic.
After three hours of purification, of just sitting and watching each other, they would bathe, and that was when their child selves would feel safe enough to emerge. Their innate knowledge of touching and massage (a cultural inheritance) was a gift that they freely exchanged. So between the water, jacuzzi jets and light-charged hands, their bodies became luminous with similarly charged ions. They worked until they were physically one, having done that psychically with sitting, facing each other and just being totally present.
By then they were engorged, full; blood vessels were close to the surface. He was hard, then soft, then hard; she was soft and hard simultaneously. His shoulders got broader, her hips wider. He rode her. She rode him. They milked each other for hours without fatigue. They weren’t bodies anymore but typhoons and tidal waves and blooming orchids. They knew the secret of imitation and transmigration of themselves into elements, and particles, into planetary phenomena, mirroring nature by forgetting corporeality, at times becoming stars, the sun and moon conjuncted, or a flowered mountain in spring. There was no exhaustion, only circularity.
It was no surprise when they were both found on July 7, 1981 with his son in her moon, both dead. 
Another kind of ONE.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++


The Phone
Ecstatic Writings for the 3rd Chakra
This week it was his turn. He timed it perfectly. Knowing she would be back from her meditation class by 9:30, he allowed her an hour to eat, take a bath and called at 10:30. In the meantime she was steaming with desire, the first ring of her phone released a liquid down her thighs.
“Hi, Joseph,” she answered, “Let me do the talking tonight.” He moaned approval as she got right into it. First of all, you are very comfortable, lying down on a large bed with fresh sheets. Smells of sandalwood, a high quality incense and flowers fill the room. Smell them, bask in smell, everything is smell right now, only smell. You swoon with it. Eventually I come into your room wearing a loose gown. Opening your eyes slowly, you see me, are happy and wonder if I’m naked underneath the robe. That excites you. I am radiant. My skin is soft, warm, smooth, easy to touch. I hold out my hand. You pull me toward you, eager to see what I have on underneath the robe. Rubbing my body, you discover by touching that I have on a garter belt, stockings and push-up bra. The thought of what I must look like wearing them drives you crazy. But you contain the urgency and kiss me, leaving my robe intact but eager to remove it.
Insistence becomes desire, and as if molecularly charged, we begin moving together all over the bed. First I’m on top, then you. “Let me take it off, let me take it off,” you say. I resist, wanting to heat myself until I am cooked with passion. Flames which you have caused with friction from your fingers and tongue have already begun in my cunt. “You taste like “wine,” you say and drink for a long time. Holding your head with my hands I direct the pressure.
Your cock is wanting to see me and eventually pushes into my mouth, a second vagina. I suck the head slowly; then rub my tongue down the sides and back over the entire shaft, eventually taking it into my throat. The warmth of you and my spit is too much. 
“That’s all that I wanted, your hands, your mouth, your closeness. Talk to me. Talk to me in another language. “ And you begin telling me how you really feel, but it’s untranslatable and, therefore, so deeply revealing that I understand it through instinct and intuition. “Tell me more, Margaret, more,” you say, speaking outside the dream in real time, because by now both of us are confused, and neither of us is sure if we are actually making love or if we are remembering a time when we did or imagining a time when we will. Neither of us are sure of anything, having broken and stretched boundaries.
Margaret continues, “Then I strip for you, take the robe off slowly. You mention that I probably got it in Morocco, eroticizing me, making me an adventurer! I rise to the flattery and say, “Yes, it’s when I traveled there on assignment for Time-Life books.” A fantasy? The truth? Neither of us cares. 
My body is perfect, ripe, full. I belly dance for you. You respond by stroking your chest and thighs, self massage. “Margaret, I’m getting too excited, I want to come,” but no, talk more, tell me more. I can wait.” “I can hardly talk myself, Joseph, I’m panting very hard, but I’ll continue.”
I finish the dance, put my leg on the bed and you look long, eagerly, lovingly at my cunt, giving us a chance to play doctor and nurse without any reproach or shame, just childlike wonder.
I sit on your face, cover it so that you can eat again, and we continue our game. While holding both breasts, you want me to slide down your chest onto your cock, to be on top. You pick up my ass and bounce me up and down at a pace that drives you crazy. Your pace. ‘’I’m getting hot. So hot, Margaret, stop it.” By now Margaret is hoarse, whispering the scenario, sound vibrating her body, her words. Then you turn me over and pump into me, running your hands over my chest, hair, ears, head. I tighten my pussy, then release, then tighten, release, massaging you rhythmically, coming together. The release is mutual, synchronous, animal-like. We lay energized and not exhausted, breathing audibly into the phone, oxygenating each other, silent but there on a cellular level. Margaret used that time to give suggestions. “Now see every atom of your body energized. Every immune system healthy, every gland filled with light. Your body of light shines free and clear.” “Thank you, my sweet Margaret. That was wonderful. I’ll call you next week, same day, same time.” When they hung up, Joseph dictated this letter to the night nurse:
Dear Margaret,
The disease has taken its toll. In fact, I don’t know if I have the strength to meet you on the phone for our Wednesday night date. Our time together has been incredible, but all I can do these days is check with the three or four doctors who come by each day to do tests, eat a little and sleep, although it is difficult without oxygen. Evelyn, my nurse, is going to send you a list of AIDS symptoms. Please stop being so stubborn, and get checked out immediately. Thanks again for being my phone buddy.
I will love you always,
Joseph

                                           SYMPTOMS OF AIDS
1. Excessive tiredness or shortness of breath for no reason.
2. Periodic fevers over 100 degrees, shaking, chills, high sweats for a month.
3. Losing 15% body weight not related to diet or physcial activity. 
4. Unexplained swollen glands in neck, armpit or groin.
5. Flat or raised blotches or bumps on eyelids, rectum, mouth, nose.
6. Persistent, unexplained sore throat or dry persistent cough. 
7. Persistent diarrhea of unknown cause. 
8. Easy bruising. 
9. Unexplained bleeding from any orifice. 
10. Blurred vision, memory loss, severe headaches. 


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Swimming
Ecstatic Writings for the 4th Chakra
It was California. Anything could happen. So it wasn’t surprising that on the non-sexist West Coast, they had been members of a co-ed swimming team since early adolescence. Daily proximity established a bond between them. Pre-knowledge. In fact it seemed as if they were closer than college classmates because the water functioned as a medium of transmission, allowing them to be receptive as if in a womb, as if in a placenta-like liquid co-existing as twins, picking up each other’s thoughts through the ever-moving element. Even then, at 15, she desired him. At first, purely, accidentally. She and her diary remembered the day; it happened at a swim meet they attended in San Diego. She passed by him on a narrow landing that surrounded the UCSD pool, her breast brushing against his back. That was enough to start a volcanic vibration in every molecule of her body, but even more primitively basic and alluring than touch was his smell. It was huge, an enormous smell if there is such a thing. It was like jungle animals, like elephants, like the traditional description of musk mixed with last night’s Old English Shaving Lotion. Smell woke her mind and heart.
But they had to wait. Constraints. They were young, lived at home, had rigorous training schedules and no time. Limitations forced them to become adept at giving non-verbal messages. Her nipples would erect uncontrollably and push against her bathing suit whenever she became chilled by the water or felt his glance. He sent fire beams from his eyes to hers, and it seemed that in combination, they could heat up a 9- by 12-foot room with unexpressed longing. Eventually, what was happening on the etheric plane demanded to be realized. On his 20th birthday they decided to move from symbol to reality, from thought to action, from mind to physicality, from vision to actuality. The thick, blond hair under her arms was included in his fantasy for he knew that he would caress and gently stroke that area as well as every inch of her exercised body. Their desire went beyond bodies and sexuality alone because they were wise enough to want a commitment to a lifetime of transcendence and change. And to achieve this they would work with and next to each other when it was both hard and easy.
Where was it to happen? When? They dreamed. By that spring she had her own apartment on a beach, the waves providing a 60-beat-per-minute sonic background which kept the right hemisphere of the brain soothed while she studied for her pre-meds. His father had loaned him his southern California second home, assured that his son could eventually pay him rent because his salary as a financial planner would be sizable. 
May 23. They met. Were virginal in their exchange. His chest hairless and heaving; the light, downy chlorine bleached fuzz on her muscled legs literally stood with excitement. Neither of them aggressed, neither pushed, Their years of practicing effortless effort, of imitating dolphins had opened the secrets of water, had opened the art and way of moving gracefully: under, in back of, beneath and within the deep percussion of liquid time and space. Their birthright. And even though they had been competitors for years and continued to be as teammates on the varsity swim club, they understood that competing was actually doing your best, training both mind and spirit to do as well as you can and learning how to relax and tense, to expand and compress when appropriate, Winning was being yourself. From that attitude grew an appreciation and knowledge of receiving and giving pleasure. And so from May 23 until forever, they learned and practiced how to look, touch, caress, and slide effortlessly and monogamously into eternal, well-balanced and lubricated bliss.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Goodbye
Ecstatic Writings for the 4th Chakra
It was time to say goodbye. Signals were clear. It was over, finished, couldn’t go on, or their lives would self-destruct, heads would blow, guts spew. Enough was enough. Passion now led to discomfort and not release. At least that’s the way it had been for the last six months. Even though it had started innocently, easily and seemingly without strain, things had escalated into full-blown drama without relief. Both of them were dying, and it wasn’t only because her frequent trips around the world as an ethnomusicologist separated them or made them lonely to the point of despair. Even more essential to their discomfort was her marriage. Number one, it was real. Number two, she was going to stay in it. And although she thought that her time with Michael was just a dalliance, she was learning that it was more like a campfire in a dry, California forest that caught on, burned out of control and was now threatening her own home.
The thought of losing her lover produced a panic and breathlessness that sent her to asthma specialists, cardiologists and X-ray technicians. Hysterical symptoms preceded the separation. Breasts that he might no longer touch produced lumps as if to say, “Pay attention to me, touch me, look at me because he can’t much longer.” She called every woman she could think of who might know something about fibroid tumors, and then went to three gynecologists who were more intrigued by her flexibility and the ease with which they could get deeply into and examine her uterus, than they were concerned about her panic that she might have cancer. To them it was just another woman, another lump. Her feminist anger flared, and she imagined screaming at the balding head lost between her stirruped legs, “Get your hands out of there. Stop examining me. Can’t you see that I want only him to touch me?” All three doctors found another lump someplace else, and she was sent to check them out ... from the cervix, to the uterus, to the breast, in effect, spending months calling friends, holding her own energy filled hands on her breast and empty womb while dreading the news and X-rays which eventually came back reporting that all were non-malignant fibroids which come with age, stress, poor diet and, as her psychic so aptly put it, “The lumps are symbolic children (like false pregnancies) that you both share, you and your secret lover. And they are also coagulated tears locked in your erogenous zones which need to cry because you and he can’t continue as before.”
She warned him at the beginning, “Don’t get serious. Don’t ask too much from me on any level, certain that she could handle their passion, having previously had liaisons in Jakarta when she taped the gamelan, and one in Africa while documenting Nigerian drummers, and even an affair in Mexico when she visited Maria Sabina and did an exclusive interview with this powerful shamanic healer. So having affairs was not the issue. This was different.
She wasn’t prepared for the effect that Michael would have on her. Michael the musician, the one that she met at the New Music America concert during, a reception for Pauline Oliveros, the earth mother of contemporary music. The party afterwards reflected Oliveros’ friendliness, and it had a cupid-like effect on the gathering. Jan introduced herself over the dip, their first food together, “Hello, I’m Jan Morgan.” “Pleased to meet you. I’m Michael Windsor.” And for the next 45 minutes they exchanged body chemistry, information and phone numbers. He was staying at the Sheraton, also, and would be presenting a paper on Harmonic Resonance in Tibetan Ritual Music while she was equally preoccupied with her panel on Trance in Bali and Beyond. Those commitments didn’t deter her from sleeping with Michael that night and for the subsequent nights of the ten day festival. They were inseparable; fusing, melting, laying the foundation for a hunger that could hardly be named or fed.
“Be careful,” her therapist, warned her when she returned to Manhattan. “I realize that your marriage allows for your individual needs, but in the seven years that we have seen each other, I have never felt from you what I am feeling now. You have met your match. This is archetypal, soul to soul. A union, not just a sexual flirtation. Be careful.” Jan denied it, wanting not to know, and proceeded to meet him at his apartment whenever she could between research trips to Sao Paulo, Tokyo, Benares and Nepal. His teaching job at NYU stimulated him enough so that he could endure the times between. Keeping busy was a basic survival technique when you felt the way they did; in fact, it was essential to stay occupied, and the rhythm of work, desire, being together and then more work was mutually inspiring. The shift from ecstasy to nightmare came quickly. Cruelly, Jan’s 16 year marriage, although solid and able to function as a triangle, suddenly needed more. After a two week project in Hawaii, studying Huna she returned to her husband, shocked by his condition. He hadn’t left the apartment for a week. Although he had complained of headaches, neither of them realized that he had a life-threatening brain tumor which top surgeons at Sloan Kettering operated on, only to discover that the lemon-sized growth could only be two-thirds removed. It was the worst kind, would grow back, sending tendrils around the cerebral cortex. Even though they proceeded with radiation and chemo, new symptoms appeared even a month after six hours of major surgery. “Jan, I can’t see well. My short-term memory is affected, I’m unsteady on my feet, and I feel something growing in my brain.”
Jan’s life changed. Her devotion was now to her husband and to waiting:
- waiting to get the first doctor’s report to confirm whether Hans’ headaches were caused by an ear infection or a tumor
- waiting for CAT scans
- waiting for the surgeon to come out of the operating room with his prognosis
- waiting for the bandages to come off Hans’ head and for the stitches to come out
- waiting every day for six weeks while he got his radiation treatment
- and now she waited for the right time to say goodbye to Michael.
“You’ll know,” her therapist reminded her. “And believe me, time will lessen the pain and confusion. You are lucky to be a practicing Buddhist. Shambhala training, meditation, bioenergetics and, of course, your friendships and work will get you through all of this. Hang on.”
March 7 she woke, called Michael and told him that she had to see him that day. It was that spontaneous and that insistent a message from her subconscious. She arrived at his apartment, having rehearsed, visualized and prepared for months, and was buoyed with a bottle of Dom Perignon, roses and Nathaniel Branden’s book, Honoring the Self. Good-bye gifts.
“Michael, say nothing. Hold me, Get me drunk. Take care of me, I can’t stand it anymore.” He sat her on his lap, facing hlm, and as always buried his mouth in hers, devouring liquids and sweetness. “Drink me, my love,” he said. “Forget everything.” The pathos was evident, and she cried in his hair and neck, on his chest. “Michael, I’ve come to tell you that this is our last time together. Of course our friendship will continue, but I can’t see you as a lover anymore, or at least, not right now. The pull to you is strong, but I need all of my energy to take care of Hans.” As she talked, he cried, having intuited her message but still shocked. ‘’I’ll never forget you, Jan. Will you continue to send me dream visits as we have been doing?” “Of course, darling. I’ve been wondering how we can stay in even deeper contact, and I thought that we could practice something I learned from a tantric master in Nepal. It’s my secret. When I am away and want to be with you, I do this technique.” “Where shall we do it? In the bedroom? My meditation room? Right here?” Jan chose the bedroom but first undressed Michael slowly, lovingly and maybe for the last time. Her ritualistic way of moving, of attending, of intending, of caring, relaxed both of them even more deeply. “Sit here in the middle of the bed so I can move around you.” When he was sitting comfortably, she faced him, called in her unseen teachers, guides and the tradition that she had been initiated in so that they would be in good company. Her hands signalled that they were charged and ready by vibrating an all pervasive warmth. “Michael, I will chant the seed mantra for every chakra as I lay my hand on each one and in opening these seven centers, starting at the base of the spine, culminating with the last on the crown of your head, you will be started on a journey that you can continue on your own. To do that after I am gone, visualize energy in the form of a snake coiled three and a half times at the base of the spine. Then by consciously breathing and visualizing, let the snake rise slowly up the vertebrae to the top of the head. Co-existing with that internal sensation, picture me, as your other half, as your yin, in sexual embrace and contact. That completes the charge and transformation. Don’t be afraid when you do this alone because time and ego will cease to exist, but I will be with you on the astral plane where we will have sex without sex.”
She began intoning, crying as she transmitted the power but was able to rise above emotion to the heart center traditionally known as the wheel of compassion, the place where sorrow and ritual can co-exist. As if climbing a ladder, she moved ancient magic up his spine, opening internal flowers and lights which would permanently plug into her own circuitry whenever he imagined her as a consort in union with him. At the end of the climb, she set a kitchen timer for 34 minutes, sat on his sweet hard dick while they communicated to each other without release, without conventional orgasm.
And for the next half hour, the peak was being exchanged for the valley, a sneeze for the ocean, power over was given up for relaxation with. Neither of them could believe it when the timer went off. Out of trance, they met with their eyes and through tears, signed goodbye. And then, for the last time, as if blind, as if children, as if free, they moved without any consideration of past or future, without any consideration of consequence, disappearing in love.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:



***
+++

The Return of Moon Warrior to Shining Flower 
Ecstatic Writings for the 4th Chakra
He couldn’t visit her tepee that often; that was the price they paid for being from two different tribes. But when he did, it was the meeting of two hearts and minds, two bodies made to be one. The eagerness was embarrassing. His bare shoulders heaved and puffed with yellow light and testosterone; the sinew band around his right forearm constricted muscles which swelled in her presence. Her body reacted similarly, nipples pushing out of her chamois dress, belted with a turquoise buckle he had given her at their first corn dance celebration. Their bodies didn’t lie. She knew intuitively when he was coming and would go into the sweet woods near the settlement, looking for lemon grass for her dream pillow plus herbs that would make it safe for her to accept his cream into her body without having to bear another child. She made a leather pouch which she fitted over her womb, and this held the herb infusion her grandmother had discovered when she was a girl. Her own mother and four sisters also used this technique, and since each family had their own recipe, it was a pleasure to find the weeds, brew them and make the protection.
That had been ready for weeks, days, so she was not surprised when she sensed small, then larger contractions of desire in her lower abdomen as she felt him approach on his horse. It was almost as if she heard her lover and the horse’s hooves sounding in her abdomen. “Moon Warrior is coming!” her throat, heart and bowels sang. And like always, a few days later, he would be there, his body throbbing with days and nights of nature and work.
In the time between visits she made ornate sand paintings for the sick who visited her; a gift she was given on a vision quest while recovering from a serious wound inflicted by a horse that ran wild through the village one hot summer day She was nine then, thinking that she could stop the wild animal, always the adventurer, doing, then thinking later. But she couldn’t, even though they had become friends when the spirited horse was tied in the corral in the back of the chief’s tepee. She had an affinity with animals, especially horses, remembering the time her playmate, Yellow Feather, who was also six years old, lassoed her off of her own pony when they were playing in the spring sunshine. The pony jolted and cared enough to step away, avoiding her head when she tumbled to the ground. So she was startled when this happened at nine,  when this wild horse kicked her so hard that even the three medicine men summoned from neighboring tribes couldn’t rouse her. She wanted to stay where she was, lost in a coma, because while there she was being taught by ancient ancestors and animal spirits. Her accident became her blessing; in fact, it was time well spent. In these places she was given songs, dances, protection, advice and instruction on how to help others when she returned. But it became a burden, that return. It was only at the insistence of her favorite upper-world astral friend, who said, “Shining Flower, go back and sing your songs, paint and keep helping yourself until you are empty enough to help others. Go, and someday you will have a human helper, someone like you who will share this information and energy. You and he will lie together on Mother Earth and be one with each other and our worlds. But for this you must wake up. Now! It’s been over four years. Your parents have bathed you, fed you, prayed by your bed. The teachings are over. Go home, go home, Shining Flower, and share your kind heart.”
She cried, embraced her teachers, learned how to re-enter their worlds so that when she went back to earth, she could visit whenever she wanted. And, having made that decision, almost without effort, she observed her spirit slowly come back into her body. It was like adding light to earth because she had to squirm and slide into the denseness, filling every molecule with diamond-like brilliance. It took time to reenter, but finally she woke and could see expressions on the faces of her sisters, her grandmother, her silent father and brave mother. They were shaking and just as she was coming to life, so were they. Just as she shed her old skin to become new, so they, too, over those four years, had shed pain, fury, grief and expectation. Now they were left with joy. And that they showed. The copper bell in the center of the meeting grounds was rung nine times, the signallng of birth, death, or war. And everyone came running to the tepee, telepathically knowing that it was Shining Flower’s return.
So that is the story of her second birth and mission. She was now a healer, gathering weeds to make dyes so that she could have many choices of colors to mix into the sands with which she painted. And for each person she healed, she made a beaded arm band with their spirit guide’s image on it. Those guides she found for them during her journey to the lower and upper worlds.
And that is how she spent her time, healing herself, healing others and visualizing Moon Warrior. In doing that she was really visualizing herself, visualizing love itself, visualizing energy, visualizing fire, visualizing the elements, visualizing pure light. They both did this by agreement at appointed times so that they became one even when miles, days and months apart. One light. Being together was almost a paltry substitute for the mind work they did together. That was always perfect, but then they found that the more years that they practiced, they were able to correspond that perfection to them together; in fact it was hard to tell the difference between the two states, and eventually it became hard to tell the difference between the two of them, that was how complete the merge felt.
The first time they experienced this quality in their relationship came after they returned from a long trip. That particular one had been arduous: up at sunrise, running in the mountains to catch their breakfast and then hours of waiting at a particularly fecund oasis where rabbits, squirrels and partridge came for food and water. Later they could have another meal in the evening. On those trips they were neither male nor female, except at night when he fit inside her flowering cave so easily. During the daylight they were hunters; he honed and directed her already acceptable skills, her survival techniques, group games and foot races at all communal ceremonies. It was never a matter of competition or envy for them; they approached everything as a team, as WE, appreciating each other’s strengths, Supporting and encouraging new strategies in each other helped them both evolve.
At night, they tore at each other’s clothes and flesh, the passion unabated, unchecked. Her ability to almost schizophrenically change her body and mind to that of a crone, or to a luscious earth mother, or to a wise mistress, delighted both of them. He responded with a blend of tenderness and virility that came naturally to his nimble body and mind. Neither of them was fixed in time or place. They gave each other whatever was needed, asking for advice, clues and new positions. Her breasts engorged with milk at times, even though she had never had children. She fed him and he drank until he swooned with pleasure. Other times, she would go to the riverbed hours before their sleep and remove her pubic hair with a sharpened knife exciting him later on with the illusion of softness. He responded with even more creative gestures, moods and actions.
On the anniversary of their vision quest, he brought her to a waterfall, deep in the mountains, leading her blindfolded to this hidden wonder, where often four rainbows could be seen. And there they stood, behind the water, the sound producing white noise, deafening them both. He undid her blindfold after having knelt at her feet, his head buried in her aching genitals, receiving her water and the water of nature for hours. When he stood, she saw for the first time that day and they hid in there the next three nights, catching fish, cooking and eating the food and their love.
Back at her tepee, they discovered the next pleasure. He knew that he would be gone a long time again. Her back arched with longing, even when he was there. So out of necessity a new way of relating came to them. It was after a night of screams, of grief, of ecstatic pleasure. She said, “Moon Warrior, I cannot go on this way. Your absence is my death. I see my heart ripped in two, sewn up again. But it leaks. Arrows pass through it while I sleep. We must decide what to do. Either we leave this village and go off by ourselves, or I go with you, or we find a new way to be. This cannot go on. I die.” He embraced her, came inside her with a force that reached her throat, borrowing sounds from the thunder and rain. “I die also, Shining Flower. My heart leaves my body, extends out into space, and I also run day and night to catch it. While it is out of my body, it breaks because half is with you, and the other half comes back to me. I ache until we meet again. But you know that I must also fulfill my vision quest. I have five more years to keep this vow. This I must do alone, so only once every two or four months can we be together physically. Let us place the sacred rock given to me by my grandfather under our pillow tonight and ask a dream for advice.” After hours of union, hours of opening their skulls and sounds and questions and silence and legs and stomachs and hands and tongues to each other, they lit some more sage and the candles they had both been presented at their respective births to be used in case of emergency. They placed the rock under the lemon grass pillow between them, falling into each other’s arms and genitals and mouths, finally sleeping.
The dream came to both of them, in pieces. And when they woke, they put those pieces together, finding their new way. “My grandfather’s grandfather appeared to me,” said Shining Flower, “telling me to have a medicine woman come to us from your tribe, and for her to take out both of our hearts while we sleep, to divide them.” And then he added, “And join them together so that you would have one half of your own heart, and the other half would be mine.” “Yes, how did you know?” she said. “I was given the same message, my Flower.” And they stopped talking for a moment to consider the consequences of that merger; he would be physically and permanently with her heart; half of his heart, that is, would be attached to half of her heart, and the same for her. What an ingenious solution to their physical heartache. Now the two halves would beat and act as one, communicating blood and messages from right side to left and then back. What a relief that would be when they could go inside their heaving chests and be connected at such a vulnerable place! So that when Shining Flower sang or worked gathering corn, she would hold her hand to her remembering breast and would feel her lover remembering there also. They smiled with a childlike joy at the solution, not even fearing the surgery, trusting the magic and dexterity of the medicine people.
“But there’s more,” he said. “We are not only to be physically joined forever but transparently “siamese-ized” so that both the inside and outside will be satisfied.” Shining Flower was a bit startled by this, having forgotten the second part of the dream, still thinking about the company her heart would have. “Yes now I remember, but tell me the details.” Moon Warrior became more animated than ever and began: “A medicine man from your tribe must come for this half of the ceremony It has never been performed before, the dream told me, and in this 70 hour ritual, we will merge as we do each night when we are together, but the medicine man will make it possible for your body of light to multiply itself so that you have two of them, and the second one will be permanently and immovably attached and joined to both my physical body and my body of light. Your flower will never be without my rod, and for you the same thing will happen; my second body of light will be permanently united to your light body. Our next breath will produce the next orgasm. That will be our pleasure and our secret.” Shining Flower finally began to relax, knowing that they were to transparently make love every second for the rest of their life. And no one would see or know. It would happen constantly, consistently, eternally and only the smile and afterglow on their bronze faces would give hints of their internal/ external ecstasy. “Only we will know and see,” she moaned in anticipation. “And I forgot to tell you that the dream suggested that we use the letters 1+1=1 on my beadwork and you must include it on your leather pieces.”
And so they began the initiation; gathering drummers, the medicine people, blankets for gifts and sand for the sand paintings. He prepared his translucent bride by massaging her physical body for hours every day, healing her past, present and future, using techniques learned in his own vision quest which he was told to perform only with her. She prepared him by painting the most beautiful sand painting she had ever made, lying him down on it and curing his shoulders and back, blowing power into his navel.
And this is the end of our story. That next morning, for the first time on Mother Earth, a transplant of great magnitude and beauty and majesty and of unending union was begun. And if you listen very carefully when it rains, or when the wind ruffles the trees, or when a bird passes in the morning or at night in search of haven, if you listen very silently and with great attention, you will hear and sometimes see Shining Flower and Moon Warrior being ONE.

1+1=1. 


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Reality Check
Ecstatic Writings for the 5th Chakra
It got so that Leslie could hardly wait for Philip to leave in the morning ... and she suggested to him that he work out at the club at 6 a.m. instead of on his way home from work. After a good night’s sleep and the continuation of an erotic episode from a long dream sequence started years ago, she was not only eager but absolutely in need of seeing Lorraine as soon as she awoke. Her marriage had become a deeply permissive convenience. Conversely, she and Lorraine were desire itself. Twelve years before, Leslie and Philip had set in motion a structure of togetherness large enough to include this kind of growing away from, then toward, then away from each other, stumbling on open marriage by default ... before the women’s movement, before the books, before lesbianism was a political must for every thinking/feeling woman.
Somehow their more-than-dalliances strengthened the marriage, and that strength came from circulating energy, came from refueling, came from affirming aliveness. Often she thought that she needed both Philip and Lorraine because of a birth trauma. That is, she had fallen in love with both the obstetrician and the nurse! Maybe her bisexuality was a displacement of that primary and initial “thank you” that all new-barns feel when pulled from the womb to a new kind of safety, even if by forceps, even if by a tired, distracted and mechanistic doctor and obedient, gentle nurse. So with Leslie was it pattern that she was reliving or were they co-equals who could give and receive maturely and interdependently?
Leslie often wondered about it and came up with a personal koan to express the puzzle, is Lorraine a pattern or a person in my life? Pattern or person, pattern or person??? Why am I obsessed? In need? Why do I shake when I phone her, or go by her house at night when I know she is watching TV with her husband in their newly-painted living room? Is it an addiction to taboo? Is it because I can’t have her that I want her? I’m a woman who loves too much, that’s the problem. It’s learned helplessness in the face of unrequited love. But what drives me?
She spent hundreds of dollars on therapies, relationship workshops and audio/visual tapes which re-programmed subconscious negative beliefs. And invested more of her meager salary on psychics, mediums and automatic writers just to be sure that she wasn’t conspiring against her best interests in this unabated lust for her friend. Because even though her marriage allowed it, she was insistent on the integrity of her choice making sure that she didn’t trick herself. Quality was always priority in all of her undertakings, and she especially demanded the truth from her inner self, never taking the easy way.
All of the confusion and analysis was turning her into a schizophrenic. One half of the time was spent redoing the past, redoing beliefs, questioning the obsession and the other half was immersed in the amniotic fluid of passion, in an obsession that coiled and snaked through dream and waking states, an obsession that nearly crippled ordinary reality. “Please remove this if it’s the taboo I need,” she prayed literally reenacting childhood gestures and positions of supplication to higher entities, embarrassed to be found on her knees, palms together, tears pouring out of her eyes. All of this was done in private. “Please don’t make me a foolish, victimized romantic, dying for a love that can never be mine,” was another prayer. Fervor outweighed any guilt that might get in the way of pleasure. But it was always a two-way running commentary ... a day of deliciousness, in bed with her lover and then a day of supplication to the unknown and unseen powers asking why??? Then the self-examination would begin again; “Am I regressing? Am I powerless? Am I ignited only because I can’t have her on a day-to-day basis? Do I love her because this is so unreal? Am I on fire because I don’t have to see her belch, blow her nose or not pay one half of our phone bill? Am I in love because we are hot around each other not long enough to hate? Am I fainting when she kisses me because she isn’t available day and night? Have I regressed to a teenager inspired by insipid, danger-seeking soap opera media images?” Questions became a self-inflicted torture and absolution after pleasure. And with increasing rigor she dove into the past, coming up with even more material; “I wanted dad, so did mom. So I’ll give dad back to mom and let go of the need to have the impossible person, then I’ll be cured of wanting Lorraine.” She did that exercise for months, comforting the little girl in herself for not being able to get what she wanted”. “I want my daddy, I want my daddy,” she sobbed into her pillow, and to be extra sure, changed the exorcism to, “I want my mommy, I want my mommy.” And yet even after all of that therapy, she still wanted and hungered for Lorraine. Was Miss Lane the cause? Did she love her French teacher too much when she was fifteen? Or was her secret crush on the Presbyterian minister who taught Sunday school in junior high part of the pattern? Always the taboo person. Was it God himself that she wanted? Mary Magdalene? Always impossible ones. In ferreting out the possible causes, she uncovered years of garbage, pus, mucous, slime and unexamined material.
It continued. After weekend sweat lodges with Hopi Indians, after spontaneous re-birthing and gut-wrenching screams of release, after shiatsu massages and acupuncture treatments, magnets still pulled, and she stumbled to Lorraine’s every morning to taste ecstasy. Finally she gave up the struggle, bought herself a baby bottle which she sucked on when alone, curing herself of a deep need to nurse while no longer blaming herself for wanting breasts and milk and smells and warmth. In giving in, she relaxed so much that she became real with Lorraine, told her everything one night while sitting on her strong lap, in fact, cried it out, getting drunk to do so. That interaction ended things as they were ... burst the bubble and tested limits because Lorraine could not respond in kind. In fact, she pulled out, pulled back, shut down, iced over, gave signals that her story line had a different script. And like any bonding, it took time to pull out the cords and ropes of attachment. It took incredible self-esteem, It demanded a choice between life and death. Eventually paradox and irony won because all of the personal therapy and prayer that she did while questioning the force between them had cleared her heart. The valves were doomed to stay open. And even though nothing would every matter again, she lived.
For 20 years after that happened, whenever they saw each other in the Central Market check-out line, her breath caught, while their eyes still said it all.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Jane 
Ecstatic Writings for the 6th Chakra
She worked on Broadway only for the money. But then again, excitement was in her blood. Something quite electric happened to her in sexually charged situations. In fact, she could feel her nipples rub against her shirt quite often at work She was always ready. Maybe it had something to do with her repressed childhood and the guilt which hung like an albatross around her neck, or perhaps it was memories of Catholicism which repressed pleasure as a perfectly normal and acceptable instinct. All she knew is that she had a lot of catching up to do. So for ten years she chose jobs, situations and people who would teach her about sex and enliven her dormant passions. This current job was perfect.
With standards so high, her clientele consisted of overworked businessmen and professionals who sought wisdom, comfort and eagerness on a weekly basis, She was teaching them and herself a highly skilled art, one lost with habituation and callous dailiness. The art was, surrender.
She was good at it, never revealing the fact that she was a mere beginner, a novice abandoning patterns of frigidity and guilt. No one ever knew that she had been afraid of herself and sex because she would appear at her client’s door (often a hotel room) hungry for their hunger, happy to be there, eager to learn and let go of barriers to oneness. Before he could even say hello she would push persistently against her client, both responding, genitals yearning for contact, pubic hair standing on end. It was always that way. In bed she would begin smelling him, his shirt, neck, ears, underarms, imprinting herself on him, chemically merging. Long blond hair feathered his back. Then she bathed him, cat-like with her moist tongue, an animal in the truest sense, a creature free of taboos and cultural imperatives, an island woman, warmed with sun and permission. Sounds were permitted in this ritual: laughter full and deep, groans of satisfaction, repetitive breath, sighs. And after hours of play, they would both join in re-creating the cosmic void and come.
Sex was her religion, an antidote to life and its seriousness, sorrows and unavoidable injustices. She could never understand why others didn’t feel the same.
One day she was having lunch with her friend Elizabeth at a Soho cafe. Often they would meet, talk about their separate lives, exchange information. Elizabeth was an artist, a seeker, a meditator and one of the few people Jane completely confided in. “Elizabeth, I’m amazed that I find this world and work so non-threatening, so essential” “It must be because of a past life connection,” Elizabeth responded. “Let’s go see Julia, a medium I go to once a year for a soul reading. She can see or learn why you’re doing this, what it’s all about.” Jane was reluctant, thought it over for a month or so and then asked her friend for Julia’s number, called, and got the first appointment that she could. “Bring an empty tape and all of your questions,” Julia told her.
The house was in Westchester, the suburbs. It was nondescript, clean, well manicured, practical and not outrageous. Julia answered the door, hiding her talent behind the mask of housewifery. “You’re surprised that I look this way, I can see. Come on in.” The inside was as normal as the outside: no shrines, statues, scriptures, just the faint scent of yesterday’s incense. Jane trusted her immediately. “She’s not a quack!” she said to herself.
They sat in an overcrowded office/sewing room opposite each other. Julia explained the process, “I will go into a light trance, channel from the other side. Stay open and ask whatever you want.” The connection was made quickly, easily. Jane’s head dropped as if she was pouring the contents of her question into Julia’s lap, and so she was not startled to hear a transformation of Julia’s Long Island accent into a low, raspy, androgynous voice from the other side. Another planet perhaps? It was coming through and was not of the person sitting across from her.
After asking the usual money, sex, diet, health and where to live questions, and feeling satisfied with the “entity’s” response, Julia asked the question she had come for, “What about my work? Why do I do it? What is it about?” Wisdom answered. Julia shuddered, and her left ovary twinged, a sign for her that she was hearing the truth. “You were a Taoist nun in a former life and besides living a simple, uncluttered existence, one of your functions was to initiate men into Tantric sex. You were able to move them from a fixation with genital release to an understanding of cosmic union by uniting polar opposite energies, yin and yang~male and female. You taught them how to do that by giving them techniques and breathing practices for concentration. You initiated them into a new way to orgasm, a new way to maintain an erection while inside you. In fact you taught them not to orgasm but to keep their seed and share it on the etheric plane so they could let the liquid rise up the spinal column, energizing the body, speech and mind. There is no dissipation in this form, no tiredness. It is conscious sex, not sex which is like a quick sneeze. That was your divine function then, and it is your function now. Go, be happy, be peaceful, and teach yourself and others how to join and marry their true self, so that even if they are alone, they can marry the other partner who lives astrally in their imagination. And if they have a companion. then they can practice with each other. Energy must be understood and exchanged. Be at peace.”
With time this message changed her entire life. She took it seriously, moving deep into the forest for privacy and space to receive teachings, constructing a living space from surrounding trees. And after many, many years it was rumored that a very beautiful woman, with long blond hair and crystals for eyes could be seen coming out of her door saying goodbye to transparent, dream-like humans who disappeared into the sky as soon as she went back inside.



Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

Dominique and Alain
Ecstatic Writings for the 6th Chakra
So that she wouldn’t have to obsess all day about Alain, Dominique immersed herself in a busy practice as a hypnotherapist. An ad in Paris Match attracted a continuous clientele. It read:
HYPNOTHERAPY
MAKE  YOUR  RELATIONSHIPS  WORK
CONTROL  YOUR  WEIGHT
END  YOUR  TOBACCO  DEPENDENCE
ELIMINATE  PHOBIAS
LEARN  HOW  TO  RELAX  AND  ALLEVIATE STRESS
ENJOY  YOUR  LIFE  AND  YOUR  WORK
All day she was in delta; every time that she induced someone into the light trance necessary for post-hypnotic suggestions, she went there herself. And so she had the best of all worlds; she was being useful to others, was financially secure and most significant of all, loved Alain.
He had a similar need to ground himself, to plant his feet in the earth by doing his work, because he lived in a dream state. That’s what love did to him. Furthermore, since he was a composer, he was almost exclusively preoccupied with an inner atmosphere of sound, which he would then transpose to written musical scores or else go directly to the studio and make a cassette recording using state-of-the-art digital equipment. He knew the necessity for good sound and demanded that his work replicate what he heard and imagined with accuracy and precision.
Luckily they both had markets for their occupations, enjoyed their livelihood and believed in the Sartrian philosophy of existential nothingness which posed the need for each individual to assign meaning where it wasn’t, thereby creating the self by taking responsibility, by maturing, embracing the life force without placing blame or expectation on others. That was a French position, inborn but also learned from hours of attending Sartre’s lectures at the Sorbonne. In fact, that was where they met, as part of the group that socialized with both Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir: spending hours in cafes, discussing, arguing, unlearning, discovering, attempting to personalize theory, making it applicable. Finally, weaning from the teacher and eventually designing a unique and individual style and ideational approach. All ideas were brought back to earth, back to dally life via considerations of ethics, morality, and responsibility in delicate issues. For example, they discussed how to talk to a neighbor about their noisy cat, things like that. Those were dynamic days. Both of them held their own in those hours of mental heat, discourse and discussion and in so doing, whetted their appetites for physical love, since they had satiated themselves mentally and remained secure in the knowledge that they were part of a “thinking club” which would meet again and again and again. Ideas might not save the world, but thinking was obviously helping the two of them evolve to an unimagined, joyful brilliance.
Turns were taken. Who would be the first to run a finger up the other’s leg, under the table, out of Sartre’s sight but certainly felt by him on some level? That particular night Alain initiated, leaning over to Dominique, “Do you want another Pernod, darling, or shall we go?” Her eyes gave the answer. Enough said. And in French fashion, they excused themselves, said goodbye with face to face embraces on both cheeks of everyone there (another version of an American handshake or Japanese bow), giving all a chance to smooth ruffled feathers, ritualistically come back into accord or exchange secrets or scents. Simone whispered to her protege that night, “Dominique, I’m so happy with the friendship that we have established. These discussions are always abundant in their input and generously allow me information for another chapter, another book, another night of exploration on every level with our beloved Sartre. And we women have a very special secret and privilege that we must never forget because as potential child bearers, we are designed to experience the child within. And so when this is not our calling, we create our male self, our other half, our assertive side but within ourselves as if it were a child needing growth and schooling. And we do this through meetings with successful men whom we imitate. Eventually with enough reading, discussion and friendship with our inner male selves, we become whole. Once we single women have done that (and yes, child bearers know this and do it also), we can then lead our male friends to this garden of knowledge and teach them how to work with their anima. I see that you have done this work, have attained union and I congratulate you because you did it at an earlier age than I.”
Dominique was surprised at what seemed to be a graduation speech from her dear friend and mentor. Tears filled her eyes. Simone noticed that it was not the tears that connected them at that moment, but the exquisite awareness of dual experience that restores consciousness of self. There was more. “Know and feel the work that you have done. Tonight celebrate even more intensely with Alain.”
How brave, another woman, an older woman, in fact, permissioning sexual intensity. Dominique’s goodbye kiss to Simone was extra long: a kiss of gratitude, a kiss of response, a kiss of support, a present that propelled her and Alain down the street and into the apartment on 7 Rue de Jardin, hungry for the night’s ecstasy which had begun already with hours of non-sexual proximity and glances. It was almost impossible for them to walk the steps to the second floor.
“Kiss your son, Dominique,” he moaned in half language, half song as he undid the lock. They were propelled inside. She knelt fearlessly in front of him, almost yanking the sweet dessert from his crotch, treating his more than ample penis like ice cream, then a flute, then like an enlarged nipple filled with nourishing milk. His right toe found the slit of her cave, and in precise, almost athletic form, he pleasured her to serene surrender, copiously creaming in her hungry mouth and eager throat. It was sweet. Miniature fish sperm swam exuberantly to their new home. She was now seeded, and they continued the liquid exchange, passing thought forms and potential transfusions of entire selves through salivated, deep throated soul kisses which they sometimes described as the battle of the tongues. That’s how insistent their mouths were.
And the door is where they stayed because that is where she eventually slid, in sweat, and a strange sexual swoon. “You want more, don’t you?” He was correct, pulling up her gaberdine skirt, brushing the static electricity from her pubic hair and eating her. “I want to taste our daughter’s tears. They are my wine, the finest French vintage.” That’s what he called her wetness, aware that there were healing properties, homeopathic remedies and antidotes to loneliness in her vaginal juices. “Your flower shines, ma cherie,” opening the petals, closing them with his tongue, going deep inside the flower for its honey. “Fuck me,” she whispered, “eat me, fuck me,” And he carried her to the bathroom, sat on the bidet, placed her on his lap facing him, “I can’t yet, I must touch your breasts. You are Venus. Perfect. Let me drink more.” She pushed her chest into his face, and his hand into her cunt, three delights at once, counting the jet of water from the bidet. His erection found her asshole, ready and open. “Be gentle and slow. Please don’t hurt me. Hurt me, hurt me,” she said. And he came only an inch into her ass, but two inches into her cunt with long, shaking fingers, “Let’s do everything,” she said, but she always said that, knowing that they would share ecstasy every night (and had done so since they met 12 years ago) as if for the first time. Every night was that degree of magnetic and natural energy or maybe it was compelled pull. Her breasts were now upturned, fuller than usual. She felt a synaptical connection between her nipples and clitoris which always amazed her, in fact, so much so that once she had traced the meridian in an acupuncture book, wondering what the scientific reason was for the direct line between these two erotic sites. But now was not a time to think, it was a time to feel, and she suggested with an even deeper urgency that they shower. He clung to her like never before, his face buried in her cleavage, both regressed to beyond infancy, to past lives, to an attitude of cooperation and non-violence that invited new behaviors. “What do you want,” she asked, a romantic redundancy that opened him even more. “I’m yours,” he mouthed in her ear, over and over. “I’m yours, I’m yours. Let me rain on you.” As they showered he sat on the tile floor facing her, eating her, fingering her ass, drinking the waters inside and out, like a child enjoying a summer monsoon, with joy providing thunder and lightning sound effects.
Refreshed by exploration, validated by true need, grateful for desire, they toweled the other dry, finished their champagne and caviar, and lay close to each other, not speaking but awake for three hours. Sending and receiving, charging batteries, letting themselves be.
Would the pattern change? There was such reluctance to telling Alain that Dr. Girad’s biopsy revealed a malignant tumor. The radical mastectomy would have to be performed as soon as possible.   


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:



***
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A Visitor Forever
Ecstatic Writings for the 6th Chakra
It happened every full moon. At least it had been this way for the last three years. The vehicle would land near her cabin, the site where they had landed for centuries. And even though the area was now developed and inhabited by humans, they continued to visit at the same spot, keeping a lunar-based cycle and commitment. The first year she was frightened by the whole thing; the whirling, swift movements, almost helicopter-like rustlings the ship made as it touched the earth outside, 100 feet from her front porch. The sound is what she loved the most. It was familiar. Almost synchronistically she felt she had prepared her ears for it by listening to the best computer-generated music that pioneering composers had made; esoteric and experimental music that would hardly ever get heard publicly.
At those concerts she would imagine a space beyond space, go into deep trance and altered states but now she didn’t have to visualize any more because out of the finely delineated flying disc which moved circularly to fly, emerged a super intelligence disguised as an earthling. He was always the same; timeless, perfect, balanced, warm, yet unattached, tastefully wise, accommodating and respectful. At first she couldn’t believe the image, thinking him a hype, a super-cool machine that hid violent macho outbursts, selfishness or intoxicated drinking bouts that led to obnoxious excess. Conversely, he was none of the above, but in actuality was truly alien, truly beyond anyone she had ever encountered. The only signs of his specialness were a pointed right ear and a birthmark which was actually a removable flap of skin under his left big toe. That’s where the computer chip, wired to his circuitry was located. And that’s where light leaked from his luminous interior whenever he opened the flap. 
He did that on their anniversary; wanting to show all, tell all, no longer keeping secrets, a tribute to how much their exchange had evolved. Trust permissioned everything. In fact, he took her into the ship that December night, a night very cold, although snow had dissolved around the warm disc. And when they entered an ingeniously pre-calculated sliding door, what was revealed inside was so electronically sophisticated, yet simple, that she felt chilled by the beauty of maintenance-free, superior design. Most of the cabin consisted of a scanner, large enough for an entity to lie down in. It reminded her of the CAT scan machine her mother had to be hooked up to when they checked her for a possible reoccurrence of cancer.
But the ship’s device had a different purpose. Like a giant magnetized battery charger, it gave heavy doses of electrical impulses at extremely high speeds to the entire body, which was a flesh-encased luminous network of circuitry. He demonstrated how he and the machine worked together, almost eager to reveal his inner self. In his case, that did not mean that he showed feelings or told secrets, or cried, or was gently vulnerable. Those were earthly techniques. His variation was to attach his toe to an activator switch, which turned on a highly complicated mechanism that he used every day, at least that is the time frame implied when describing the process. “I lie down every day, plug in and receive mega-doses of light implosions, intelligence and in general, become linked to headquarters in our space station. I do nothing else, only that.” She envied the simplicity and ease of his life and mission. And it seemed that he had it all because he was enjoying the pleasures of earth but suffering none of the attachments. She was recognizing a jealousy that she felt when her friends down the road kept their cabin at 70 degrees all winter and never complained about the heat bills. The feeling was, “That’s not fair!!!” And although he was beyond it all, he joined her not only in bed but also went through the motions of humanoid patterns to keep her company; he washed, ate and, on occasion, actually burped just to make her comfortable. “Now I know we’re true friends,” she said in response. After his treatment they went back to her home, and she felt as stretched, spacious, enlarged as he did. That was what his presence did to her. And in her warm, human, non-maintenance-free place, where she wrote novels, cleaned and maintained herself the way humans do, in that place they acted like humans. There they united with each other until boundaries relaxed. Electricity poured through his cock that emitted light instead of cream. And after they became comfortable enough to joke, she called it low-fat milk. When her breast was in his mouth, it took on the quality of radiance that he was. She was lifted up. He simply was.
On that third anniversary, she announced a human desire for marriage which he translated for her in this way: “I am everything, the universe. I take this form on the full moon so that I can be with you. There are 70,000 entities from my galaxy with the same mission. Be careful, and don’t hold me to a decree as you would a human. I will come to you in this way forever, so you don’t need anything that would remind you of that. It is your fate to transcend, and I am your vehicle. Let that be enough.”
Before he left that night they lay in bed holding each other. He called out what seemed to be a password, and a disc as big as a dessert plate appeared. “I’ll use human terms to describe it to you. It’s similar to my scanner. Use it daily. It emits a high velocity ray that will balance all systems and help speed the process of transformation that you are destined to experience. When you want to use it, trace the symbol ‘%#’ in the air, and the disc will appear. By tracing it in reverse, it will disappear. Write it down 100 times until you know it, then burn the papers and inscribe it in a secret place in the house, so there is one place where you can always find it if you need to. It would be dangerous if someone else found it and used it indiscriminately. We’ll try it together now, so you can see how it works.”
It moved slowly, warming, melting tension, relaxing, objectifying, disengaging old ideas, memories, patterns, illusions, doing the work of 100 lifetimes of meditation, discipline, self-analysis, all in one treatment. She shuddered spastically in response as twisted, encoded messages lodged in tired muscles, filled with untruths and the lies of the human condition, left her wracked cells. He held her tightly, keeping her there, conscious and brave. “Believe me, it will be more pleasurable in a month or so.”
As he left, he tapped on her window to say goodbye. It was a natural sound, like a twig hitting glass in the wind. “I’m glad that you came,” she said through the closed door. “I’m glad I came also.” Even though she always had the feeling that she didn’t need him as she did other humans, watching his vehicle leave had always been hard except that night. Eager to try his gift, she went back to her room, traced the symbol that he had just taught her in the air, recalled the disc, used it as he suggested and dissolved her toes into the light. Then her feet, then her legs, pelvis, heart, throat, and finally her mind. Lying like that, ageless and glowing fiercely on the bed: not eating, not paying car insurance, not having to answer the phone, not fixing leaking pipes, or having pap smears, not maintaining her impermanence. 
It is said that’s how she survived between his monthly visits for the next 777 billion years.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

The Switch to Real Cool
Ecstatic Writings for the 7th Chakra
Although she waited for six months for his response, it came ... but only after she had finished that hard work of cutting the cord, letting go, disengaging. Now, she lived in a state of non-attachment. It was heart-free and pragmatic. She loved like a man. All of the passion that was there was sublimated, went into her work as a real estate agent during the day, and at night was used for the intricate permutations of African dance steps. It was then that she steamed, sweat, juiced, moved as she had with him; primitively yet with a discipline honed by solar rhythms pulsing through hungry cells. She congratulated herself, felt smart and agile. All day I think, plan, exercise my left-brain and at night I am an animal. At that time I move, trance myself into ecstasy and get down. For the first time in three years, she was balanced and happy. Her mind applauded the efforts she made at giving it the right stuff. In fact, on her way to a house that she was looking at to invest in last Tuesday, she had an experience of “MIND AS GOLDEN HONEY,”  something she longed for and hoped would happen after reading about it in the Yoga Correspondence course she started ten years ago. As soon as she saw the description, she yearned for that state of liquidity. It said “Let the honey in the center of the head, which is in the form of a golden egg. Let it break, flowing through the nasal passages and down through the spinal column.”
Since then she had insisted that it happen, had practiced breaking the ball, had poked at it with harsh visualizations. But nothing happened so she forgot about it. Was that the secret: “Don’t push!!!” It seemed strange that she would achieve golden honey mind on the way to wrap up a business deal. It’s probably because it was unseasonably warm that day, and the change in climate activated her inner sun. Or maybe it was because he was off her mind. Maybe that’s why her inner nectar came to life.  The trauma of clarity and seeing a new reality stiffened her body, so going to the Y instead of African dance seemed a logical solution. Intuition hinted that he might be there, but she disregarded the warning. On her way from the car to the women’s locker room, she was devoid of both nervousness and an accelerated heartbeat, devoid of desire, devoid of all the old reactions to the possibility of seeing him. Something had changed. She was no longer a puppy. And so when she did see him in the jacuzzi, it was the meeting of two friends. She was rich now-in her work, in her spiritual nectar, in her freedom, and had moved him from the pedestal erected for lovers and tried stepping on it herself. She felt the switch. Was he treating her differently? Did he have a racing heart now? She had a flash of him kissing her feet, rubbing his head in her crotch and eating her, wanting her that much. Roles had reversed. She was strong now and would never get reduced to giving up her needs again and maybe in doing so, was allowing him to be in touch with his gentle self.
The cool was disturbing. She didn’t lust for at least an hour, and then self-discipline began wearing down. He came out of the pool, raised his arms, and if it hadn’t been for the jockey bathing suit covering his sweet ass, he would have been completely nude, as he had been countless times in her bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. Seeing his flesh and so much of it brought the old gasp back, the old fire. But this time the flame didn’t consume. Instead it warmed the honey inside her head, allowing her to enjoy the viscous, golden glow of everything and everyone, not just him.
Later that night, sitting in his car, after showing him the checks she received from a recent house sale and proving to him that she could take care of herself, she initiated a hug which he interpreted as sex. And then he pushed his young, hard cock into her mouth. Sucking coolly, knowing that she would never need him again for that kind of fast and frantic physicalness, she relaxed and he came. None of that mattered anymore because they were beyond body and mind, and touch and life and death and were now immersed in the eternal time of ecstatic ONE



Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
+++

The Marriage of Padmavati
Ecstatic Writings for the 7th Chakra
Birth into a wealthy Brahmin family was a boon, for her saintly mother was able to recognize the signs of her specialness, counting the seven hidden marks on her body, pointing them out to the family’s guru who visited them on his way to Benares each year. It would not be hard to let her go to the convent or on retreat when she became nine, because her fate was already apparent. She was to be a Tantrika, a practitioner of the art of union and love and eventually a teacher of this formless form. So for those first nine years she was oiled and rubbed twice a day by her mother, who became her devotee even on the night of her conception. Her father also recognized her specialness, noticing golden light emitting from his pregnant wife’s abdomen during the nine months of his daughter’s meditation in the womb. It was there that she began her practice, as a conscious fetus; intensifying the senses, purifying and awakening psychic channels by feeling, seeing, tasting, smelling, touching all. Her mother would hold her own two palms over her pregnant stomach, warming and wishing Padmavati well during her time in utero, and she was wise enough to be always in mantra, equalizing thought waves with sonic, vibrational input, keeping her daughter balanced and attentive with loving sounds. At night her father would open his wife’s mouth chanting to his daughter inside, not yet born, but already destined to greatness. “OM SHAKTI SHIVA OM,” he would sing sometimes forcibly and it became a constant hum, like bees, like waterfalls, like the ocean. Those sounds became Padmavati’s love song, her personal mantra.
By the time she reached 12, she was already an adept. Her sacred marriage to Energy was as natural as breathing itself because she had been training in the deepest recesses of the jungle, alone, for three years. Her bereaved parents left her there on her ninth birthday, at her request, and during her disciplines, her unique way was born because there she found her style and diet and her recipe for living and dying, moment to moment. There she learned how to love by becoming the lover of energy. There she became one with Shiva and Shakti.
The process was often intensely difficult. She needed privacy for sounds, screams, moans, growls, for demon-like energies emitted from her pores, her eyes, from every opening of her body. Even with the special treatment she was given at birth, she still needed purification. She needed to open, balance and to understand samsara and its relation to pure mind. She undertook the disciplines gladly, at first choosing the hard path, the one of denial with little food, no sleep, endurances that tested and taxed her strength.  Insects, rats and spiders shared her cave during those years, and then she was given the message that the way of love was quicker, more effective, sweeter and actually her purpose. This message came one night when she was visited by a dream figure, an old teacher, disguised as a rag picker who told her, “Allow energy to be like the sun and the moon. The moon enters your left hand, travels to your heart where it reaches the sushumna in the spinal column, and there it encounters the sun, which is then manifested in your right hand.” From that moment on she let go of tapas (difficulties), of external hardships, of suffering, of disciplines that robbed her of strength. From that moment on she knew her mission, her calling: to pass on the secret teachings of gentle Tantra.
On her sixteenth birthday she came out of the cave, each chakra shining a golden light seven feet around her body, And she felt pulled, invited psychically to a temple a few miles away. Was it a real priest waiting there for her? Or a dream figure given to her so that she could actualize the marriage that was her birthright? Whoever he was, they were both of equal energy, both able to understand and channel and receive and give. Both were lovers. They knew how to be energy, how to be nature itself. The story that follows illustrates the way that they initiated each other into mutual ecstasy and nirvana.
It was the fifth day after her menstrual flow, She bathed, perfumed her body, and at dusk, went to the temple which was clean and dimly lit. Flowers and a subtle but powerful incense produced an atmosphere of sacred outlook. Padmavati thought “This itself is enough. Do I need more?” On a small table were the ritual foods to be used: meat, fish, rice, cardamom, water, wine.
She and her partner were similarly charged from the baths they took, which purified their electromagnetic energy-fields. And they understood the process: wearing correct clothing, the correct rose-colored robes, the correct musk oil. They also understood stillness and slowness - the time that only eternity and not time is composed of - to become that vibration, helping it along by breathing rhythmically until they were even more elementally one shining protoplasm. Her breasts filled themselves, heavy as the ripest fruit. Her hips swelled with relaxation. His chest expanded, shoulders softened. Then they began to trade blessings. Each touching the chakras (vital points), the organs, pronouncing a mantra or sacred sound for the spot. First she, then he, equalizing, balancing, initiating with two oiled fingers his penis/her nipples, his chest/her throat. Slowly, for two hours, on and on. 
By then they had eaten the food representing earth, air, fire, water and had transformed each other into the deity, their cosmic other half; he was now a god, she a goddess. By then they were ready to join and re-create creation itself, ready to float in each other, beyond time and space, cause and effect. He entered her flame with his, lying motionless for 32 minutes, both visualizing the flow of vibrating energy between them, especially where their genitals met. And because of the elemental force of this fusion, the serpent lying coiled three and one-half times at the base of both of their spines woke and climbed steadily, persistently, non-violently to their crowns with an inner fire that burned hot and cold at the same time, with an orgasm and pranic flow that was inside and not out, with an ejaculation that was without milk, with a rapture that was true. They lay like that for seven hours, vibrating fire.
Padmavati continued the practice, initiating herself daily in this formless form, often alone, visualizing her other half. And it is said that she continued even at 108 years of age, which was never apparent in her physical body, to carry thousands of others to a land of bio-electrical one.


Recipe For Using Sexual Energy (Do this, or have sex and fear aids)
1. Make yourself physically comfortable.
2. Remember your sexual fantasies, issues and events both positive and negative.
3. See and feel everything in a detached non-judgmental way, as if you are watching a movie.
4. When the memory bank is empty, transform sexual feeling into vibration.
5. Let the vibration travel to every cell of the body and mind.
6. Eventually vibration becomes soundless sound and lightless light.
7. Repeat whenever you desire.
8. Your comments:


***
From the book;  http://magcloud.com.browse/issue/1184522