To Dance Beneath the Diamond Sky
by Aria Taylor
(04/19/06)
He likes to count my orgasms. One, two three...the record so far is twenty-six in a single day. There are
no questions between us -- no "was that good for you too, baby?" guy stuff. We are connected at the soul level, his hand under my skirt or my hands unzipping his pants are both of our hands, always touching, reaching, lifting us up to a higher ground toward
ecstasy.
We live in not one, but six worlds, he tells me, Zen-type guy that he is, and all those realms of existence we create out of our desires and attachments, and he wants to own all of mine through pleasure. It's probably not quite what the Buddhists have in mind when they talk about enlightenment, but just for tonight, when he stands me in front of the big picture window, both of us looking out over the river, it's as close as we may ever get. I can see the water, the trees, the lights; my reflection watching his reflection as he stands behind me, wraps his arms around me, lifts my skirt, and begins. No drinks, no drugs, just our natural high created from his talk and our imagination, his fingers on my clit, my ass pressed up against his rising cock. It's just a story that he'll tell me, a glide into the slipstream of arousal, and a goal, the goal of my pleasure. It is almost unbearable, this kind of happiness.
His story tonight is of the world of the Hungry Ghosts, and how once upon a time a tall man like him decided to shine some light on it, all that desire, all that longing, all those unfulfilled, pleasure-starved women in that world. Every one of them, he whispers to me, became like a little girl under this man's strong hands and tongue and cock, happy, laughing, sexing themselves up, until that entire world was filled with the aroma of lilacs and love and the aura of glowing women dancing beneath the diamond sky.
There are no frigid women, he always says, there are only women who have not been paid enough kindness and attention, women who have been fucked but never honored by touch, women with so much depth in their worlds that a trip into their sexuality requires a multiple destination ticket, and most men don't have any idea how to book it.
Ten thousand orgasms, he tells me after my fourth tonight, that is our goal. Ten thousand, to match the "ten thousand things," the name Chinese philosophers gave to our real world of ups and downs and distractions. With my skirt high and my thighs soaked with my own pleasure, I don't even think to ask if he means ten thousand in our lifetime, or a year, or a week, or maybe even just tonight. We are riding high on a windhorse kind of energy, taking up only the space that we give each other, burying ourselves in our embarrassment of riches, our orgasmic enlightenment, and then I am on my knees before him, almost like a prayer.
©2006 by Aria Taylor
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Aria Taylor is a lover, a dancer, a Soul Patrol member, a Shambhala follower, and endlessly in love.
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