Yes Girl

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“Kristi” was a classmate I hooked up with. Recently graduated from college, she was a fellow Lutheran who had an interest in art therapy. Her liberal beliefs were quite different than mine. That didn’t matter. Her long red hair and nice baby-making hips meant more to me.

We met up at an off-campus party. We were reading Lossky’s The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church for class, and I asked her for her thoughts on it. (She wasn’t too impressed by it.) Like most of the others, she had too much to drink. At that moment I intuited that she might be one of those elusive “Yes Girls.”

I had heard about these creatures, but part of me assumed they were mythical, like the Easter Bunny. I heard whispered rumors about “Yes Girls” in college. Unlike the self-professedly “virtuous” girls at my school, “Yes Girls” were coeds at the nearby public university who would pretty much say “Yes” to any sexual proposition. (It turned out that this “virtue” was a facade for many of the girls at my college. They were merely more selective in their sluttiness.)

Was Kristi a “Yes Girl”?

There was only one way to find out.

My roommate was gone for the weekend. I invited her to my place.

“Okay.”

We excused ourselves from the party and got into my car. We said nary a word during the drive. When we arrived at my place, we went straight to my bedroom. She peeled off her jeans right away, then fumbled with my belt. My pants soon came off. Kristi went straight to work sucking my cock. It was obvious she had done this before. Then she lay on her back and spread her legs open. I slipped on a condom and dove in. As I slowly thrust, I bent my head down and licked her puffy nipples. I increased my pace. She met my thrusts. My bed started to squeak. The sweet smell of her shampooed hair mixed with the stench of cheap beer. We weren’t making love. You don’t make love to a “Yes Girl.” Sooner than I wanted, my body shuddered in pleasure.

Without much being said, Kristi fetched her clothes and dressed. It was clear she didn’t want to spend the night. I drove her home. We didn’t even kiss each other goodnight.

We didn’t talk about it afterwards.

Primal Instinct

As my body rocked on top of her’s, I couldn’t hold out much longer.

I had always pulled out before. We tried condoms a couple of times, but she didn’t like how they felt. She wasn’t on the pill. So when the time came, she let me ejaculate on her stomach or her breasts.

But now I had the urge to not pull out. The thought of shooting my cum deep inside her heightened my arousal. The risk of pregnancy produced a thrill of excitement. An internal voice whispered to me, Knock her up. I wanted to plant my seed inside her. I sensed her fertility. I wanted, for a moment, to prove my masculinity in the most decisive way, to give myself over to some primitive and powerful biological process — to procreate. The image of my sperm swimming toward her egg flashed in my mind. I pictured her belly bulging. I felt like a god as I thought about making a baby with her.

Knock her up.

Imagine the scandal. The disgrace. We would be expelled from ministry. And still….

Knock her up.

Besides, I was past the point of no return. It was time to unload. My body shook slightly as orgasm was about to overwhelm me. I lowered my head and positioned my mouth on her ear. I wanted her to hear what I was about to do. I emitted a guttural groan as I felt my semen spurt out of me. A primal instinct had overcome me.

“The supreme moment in the life of a woman, when her original being and elementary pleasure are revealed, is the moment when she feels the male seed running inside her.”
Otto Weininger

Afterwards, I accompanied her to the drug store and purchased the morning-after pill for her.

Spinner

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While on the train as I made my way into the city late this afternoon, I received a text message that “Victoria” was running late. When I arrived at her hotel, she texted me again reiterating that she was running behind. So I went to a nearby Starbucks and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally she texted that she was ready. I knocked on the door to her room and was met by a lithe blonde with a tight body. She appeared distracted. Clad only in panties, a bra and stockings, she looked appetizing.

We sat on the bed and chatted for a little bit. Then my hands started caressing her body. We kissed. Her bra came off, revealing her perky tits. Her hands when down to my thighs. I pulled off my underwear. Her mouth moved from my neck to my chest and then to my cock. Eager to please, she dropped to her knees, grabbing the shaft of my cock with her hand and placing the head into her mouth. I grasped the back of her head and emitted a series of low groans as her mouth worked up and down on my cock. Then it was time to take this spinner for a ride. She climbed on top, gyrating as she rode me cowgirl. Then I flipped her over on her hands and knees. Hands on her hips, I pounded her to the accompaniment of her sweet soft moans. A deep moan signaled my satisfaction.

She excused herself to the bathroom and came back with a washcloth to clean me off. We cuddled on the bed until our hour approached its conclusion. I took a quick shower and got dressed. She gave me a kiss and a hug and bade each other farewell. I hurried to make the next train.

Playpen of the Damned

“Do you watch porn?” Stephanie asked me. Among the titles in the small bookcase at her incall apartment were A History of Pornography and How To Make Love Like a Porn Star.

I admitted that I did.

“I like noise,” she said.

Like many of my generation, porn has become an vital expression of my sexuality. I had little access to pornography growing up. My college filtered our Internet access, so my encounters with sexually explicit material were titillating but sporadic. It was only after college that I was able to absorb the cornucopia of porn available online. In absence of any formal sex education, porn has instructed me. Its unabashed physicality fuels my lust. Its presentation of sex without affection appeals to me. Having watched it only furtively, it feeds into my double life. Its exploration of taboos fertilizes my dirty mind. It offends bluenoses and feminists, feeding into the transgressiveness that characterizes the erotic.

There is no better window through which to view the darkness of eros than porn. Camille Paglia writes, “Far from poisoning the mind, pornography shows the deepest truth about sexuality, stripped of romantic veneer.” I just saw a statistic that 88% of the scenes of the most popular porn depict physical aggression, of which 94% is directed against women. Outside of a few niche sites, intimacy and affection are absent in porn. Men and women fuck with impunity, liberated from the strictures of religion and bourgeois prudishness. Porn is nihilistic. Doing what it takes to produce the “money shot” is the only normative principle.

Some concerned citizens lament a “pornified” culture in which sex is commoditized and reduced to its brute physical components. This is precisely what I find so compelling about porn. Others complain that porn is unrealistic. Yes, it may be unrealistic in its anatomical acrobatics, but it taps into those dark forces that animate sexuality. It penetrates the mysteries of sex. It exposes romance as a chimera. It highlights the aggression that accompanies the sexual act. It reduces sexuality to raw fucking. It exalts personal pleasure over concern for the other. Women are defined, and define themselves, solely by their sexuality and their capacity to satisfy male desire. Orgasm, as evidenced by male ejaculation (the cumshot), lies at the heart of sexuality. It’s addictive qualities demonstrate the coercive power of sex over our own lives. One insider in the porn industry called it “the playpen of the damned.” “Tamed as it may be, sexuality remains one of the demonic forces in human consciousness,” wrote Susan Sontag in “The Pornographic Imagination.” Porn documents the unleashing of those forces with brutal honesty.

Transgression

I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the Lord!” – Psalm 122

Rhonda suggested it as we studied in the library. It was early on a Saturday night, so who was going to be there then? Besides, the risk only made it more intense.

I held Rhonda’s hand as we exited the library and walked to our destination. We said little as the anticipation built. The grounds were deserted. I tightly clasped her hand as we approached the stately facade of the familiar structure. I spied our surroundings to make sure we entered unobserved. Once inside, we were greeted by darkness. The only light was provided by the flashlight on my cell phone. With it I spotted familiar surroundings: the organ, the altar. To minimize the chance of discovery, our furtive encounter would have to be short. Rhonda hurriedly undid her skirt, letting it drop to the floor. Then she pulled down her panties, latched on to the back of the last pew and bent over….

Philosopher Georges Bataille believed that transgression is at the heart of eroticism: “The inner experience of eroticism demands from the subject a sensitiveness to the anguish at the heart of the taboo no less great than the desire which leads him to infringe it.” Or as John Hawken says, “The thrill of the forbidden needs the act of forbidding to produce the thrill.” One sexologist puts it more directly: “Of course, the irony of creating a taboo is that, once something is forbidden, it becomes very exciting, kinky and very, very sexy. Everyone knows that naughty sex is hot sex!… So, if, according to your religion, sex is bad (and it usually is), then ‘bad’ becomes very sexy.”

“More souls have been conceived at Rockefeller Chapel than have been saved there.”
Robert Maynard Hutchins

I entered her from behind, thrusting myself into her with unbridled passion. Her moans and my grunts resonated throughout the chapel. I could hear the sounds of our bodies slapping together. I reached under her Aeropostale sweater, pushed her bra aside, and grabbed her right breast as I continued to pump into her. A feeling of power surged through me. As I pounded her faster and harder, a bizarre image flashed through my mind: it was that of a host of angels blushing as they witness me fucking Rhonda’s brains out. But angels are pure spirit. They know nothing of the lust of the flesh. Or its nonpareil pleasure.

Observers might label our lusty exertions a desecration. Or was our fucking a consecration? As I came inside Rhonda, a deep husky groan signaled my “Amen.” It gently echoed throughout the chapel, the most honest sermon I’ll ever preach.

After we finished, we quickly composed ourselves and exited the chapel.

Yoni

“The Yoni is the seat of absolute divine presence and power.”
Adthi-Para-Shakti

Rhonda spreads her legs open before me. Her smile is almost beatific. I push her thighs further apart, exposing her bare flesh. I knelt between her thighs, bowed my head, and approached her temple. I inhale deeply, taking in the musky scent of her arousal. My fingers caress the soft, dark curls of her pubic hair.

The female vulva was revered as the magical portal of life, possessed of the power of both physical regeneration and spiritual illumination and transformation….the sacred manifestation of creative sexual power.
Riane Eisler, Sacred Pleasure: Sex, Myth, and the Politics of the Body

I lick her labia and lightly suck on each of her lips. She sighs as I tease her. With my fingers, I part her lips. I explore her opening with the tip of my tongue before plunging it in deeply. I taste her. I feel her texture with my tongue. I blow warm breaths on her clitoris. My tongue flickers over it. She begins to writhe; she thrusts her mound closer against my face. I hear her breath and her moans. I kiss her down there. I feel her pulsate and throb. My tongue again glides over her clitoris. Her body quivers. I gently suck. She starts to convulse. She utters a loud cry of sublime pleasure. She comes hard. I taste a trickle of her juices: the nectar of the goddess.

Like her mouth her vulva is sweet, like her vulva her mouth is sweet.
Ancient Sumerian love song, 2000 BC

Yoni is the Sanskrit word for the vulva. In Hinduism, it is the symbol of divine procreative energy. A meditation in an early Hindu text refers to it as a “sacrificial altar.” In Taoist love poetry, “golden lotus,” “gate of paradise,” “precious pearl,” and “treasure” describe the yoni.

And where the beauteous region both divide
Into two milky ways, my lips shall slide
Down those smooth alleys, wearing as they go
A tract for lovers on the printed snow ;
Thence climbing o’er the swelling Apennine,
Retire into thy grove of eglantine,
Where I will all those ravish’d sweets distil
Through Love’s alembic, and with chemic skill
From the mix’d mass one sovereign balm derive,
Then bring that great elixir to thy hive.
Thomas Carew, “The Rapture”

The Moment

When man,
enters woman,
like the surf biting the shore,
again and again,
and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure
and her teeth gleam
like the alphabet,
Logos appears milking a star,
and the man
inside of woman
ties a knot
so that they will
never again be separate
and the woman
climbs into a flower
and swallows its stem
and Logos appears
and unleashes their rivers.

This man,
this woman
with their double hunger,
have tried to reach through
the curtain of God
and briefly they have,
though God
in His perversity
unties the knot.

-Anne Sexton, “When Man Enters Woman”

Rhonda spreads her legs, opening herself to me. It’s a wondrous moment when a woman opens herself up like that. I sense her ache to be filled. She’s granting access to her hidden treasure. I grab onto my cock and direct it towards her womanhood. It is for this moment that I have been yearning. The folds of her lips part as the head enters, followed by the shaft. It is as if I’m being sucked into her. It is as if I have entered another dimension. Her warmth and wetness envelops me as my penis is submerged inside her. I feel her slightly clench her muscles. She lets out a loud cry. I sigh. My body has entered into and opened up hers. I get a bit light-headed upon the realization of what has just happened. It something of a violation: her bodily integrity has been compromised. I have accessed the secret depths of her femininity. I am feeling her from the inside. I have filled her with my masculine essence, for it is at this moment that I most fully feel like a man. But it is ultimately unitive, a merging into the other. Rhonda and I have become “one flesh.”

“The flesh yearns to converse with other flesh.”
Stephen Dobyns, “Desire”

For the moment I refrain from thrusting my pelvis to extend the moment. Our bodies remain in a silent embrace.

“The moment of greatest significance in love-making is not the moment of orgasm. It is rather the moment of entrance, the moment of penetration of the erection of the man into the vagina of the woman. This is the moment that shakes us, that has within it the great wonder, tremendous and tremulous as it may be…. This is the moment when persons’ reactions to the love-making experience are most original, most individual, most truly their own. This and not orgasm, is the moment of union….”
Rollo May

At-One-Ment

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, Jesus! Oh, God!”

Then she stopped.

“Am I offending you?” she asked quietly. She knew I was a church minister and divinity student.

I assured her she wasn’t.

“Oh, good. Sex is like a spiritual experience for me.”

“Sex is the closest that many people ever come to a spiritual experience. It is no accident that even atheists and agnostics will, at the moment of orgasm, routinely cry out, ‘Oh, God!’”
M. Scott Peck

I feel this energy building up within me. My body feels electric. I hear myself grunting and groaning. A grimace comes across my face. I plunge my cock as deep as possible into her. My heart is pounding in my chest. I gasp for breath. My skin quivers. I feel the muscles in my penis contract in anticipation of an imminent, unstoppable explosion. My senses are overwhelmed. It’s as if I’m about to lose consciousness. I surrender, letting go of the boundaries of self. My acute self-consciousness vanishes. I experience an openness, a feeling of existential liberation. I feel as if I’m leaving my body behind — ekstasis, standing outside the self. There is a rupture between the quotidian world I’m usually immersed in and this new dimension. The constraints of time and space have been obliterated. Everything stops. I am both fully immersed in and transported from the present. I taste eternity. In the fleeting euphoria of orgasmic spasm, awe overwhelms me. I experience a oneness with the universe. In its unique way, it is more revelatory than scripture.

“I confess I find more ecstasy in passion than in prayer.”
“Veronica Franco,” Dangerous Beauty

As opposed to Eastern religions or Catholicism, Lutheranism doesn’t have much of a mystical aspect. My religious life is void of mysticism. Except for the rapturous sensation of orgasm. Is it merely the product of my brain being soaked in oxytocin and dopamine? Or is it really something numinous?

At the moment of climax, I experience transcendence. I am whisked away from mundane reality into bliss. I don’t experience it in worship. Nor do I experience it in prayer. I only experience transcendence when I come. Sex is the closest I come to a genuine spiritual experience.

This sounds vaguely blasphemous, but it’s the truth. My religious belief tends to be dry and intellectual. Only in sex do I encounter the transcendent. It is in its own way a meditation.

“The divine in human form is the ecstasy of orgasm.”
Alexander Lowen

Theologian Christine Gudorf claims orgasm can “function as an experience of divine reality.” “The ecstasy of orgasm has frequently been compared with the ecstasy of mystic union with the Creator/unified cosmic reality.” It is “the ultimate experience of human freedom.”

The French description of orgasm is le petit mort. But I never feel more alive than I do in that ecstatic moment when I come.

“The ecstatic climax is a kind of atonement (an ‘at-one-ment’ produced by the analgesic mood alteration of orgasm).”
John Bradshaw

My Professor, the Belly Dancer

One of my favorite professors was “Dr. Sheffield.” Her area of expertise is the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Essenes at Qumran. She’s also tall, blonde, endowed with a lovely figure and has a penchant for wearing “fuck me boots” with her outfits.

By chance, I recently discovered that one of her extracurricular activities is belly dancing. Belly dancing is an inherently sexual art form, and I imagine she does it quite well.

Smiling at Our Copulation

I received a text from Rhonda earlier that day:

last appt w/ client @ 7

8:30?

I quickly responded and confirmed our rendezvous for 8:30 that evening at her office. At the appointed hour, I arrived at the nondescript office building. I called Rhonda, and she came down to let me in. She greeted me with a hug and asked if I wanted a bottle of water. I followed her up the darkened stairway and into her modest office. We were the only ones there.

It wasn’t the first time we made such an arrangement. Because she had a young son, Rhonda had to make arrangements to care for him. (Although she was adept at quickly finding a friend to babysitter at the last minute when she really craved sex. Then there was the time we were having sex at her place after her son had gone to bed. I heard footsteps approaching the bedroom, followed by a cry of “Mommy!” Neither of us wanted the boy to see his mommy getting fucked, so we hurriedly disengaged.) So we occasionally arranged encounters at the office where she worked as a therapist.

That night she seemed especially frisky. Rhonda had an impish smile on her face. Her erotic energy was palpable. Without any words being spoken, she hugged me again and strained her neck to reach up and kiss me. I planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her lips. Burning with desire myself, I unbuttoned Rhonda’s thin sweater, then lifted her tank top off her. I unclasped her bra, which she let fall to the floor. Her nipples were visibly hard. Rhonda didn’t require much foreplay to get “warmed up.” I unzipped her slacks and pulled them down. After she stepped out of them, I tugged on the elastic of her baby blue panties, revealing some of her bush. Then I pulled her panties off. I rubbed her smooth ass, eliciting a “Mmmm” from her. Her hand gently grabbed my crotch through my pants. “What are you going to do with this?” she teased. She could be so slutty. Suddenly she unzipped my pants. I was already standing at attention. Our tongues darted in each other’s mouth. She threw a blanket over the couch. She lay back on the couch, spreading her legs apart, opening that sacred space between her thighs.

“When a girl spreads her legs, her secrets fly away like butterflies.”

Mauvais Sang

I pulled apart her labia and slowly fingered her. She was already sopping wet. She moaned a bit. A faint but unmistakable musky scent entered my nostrils. As my hard-on throbbed, I couldn’t wait any longer. I slid my cock into her warm pussy as she wrapped her legs tightly around me. She whimpered as my manhood filled her, pumping in and out of her. I felt her moisture and her pleasure. I kissed her on the lips as I fucked her. Rivulets of sweat ran down our naked bodies. Her face was contorted, as if she was in beautiful agony. Having reached the threshold of climax, I fucked her with tortuous intensity.

As I enjoyed Rhonda, I spied a small statue of the Buddha on a shelf. He was looking down at us, smiling at our copulation.