I met him over breakfast, and didn’t much like him. He was tense in the face, and a little bit cocky, though I didn’t see anything he would have to be cocky about. I had the feeling he thought he knew more than he actually did. Ok, I said to myself, we’ll take this one, one step at a time, and see how he does.

He wanted to learn about his own sexuality, wanted to explore beyond where his wife was comfortable, and she would be furious if she discovered. I had heard it before, but not usually the furious part.

Sure enough, he thought he was better than he was. But I was a tough teacher. Didn’t let him get away with anything that was not really really clear. Like this – he said he liked to ‘give’ and wanted to give better to his wife, among other things. Ok, I said, let’s check out your hands, and we took turns giving each other the touch we’d requested. Short turns, a few minutes each, getting acquainted. Clothes came off only slowly, only by request. I’m running him through a strict education.

Eventually, I’m shirtless, face up on the massage table, asking him to stand at my head and reach down to my waist and stroke up my sides and front, pulling arms above my head and all the way out my arms to my fingers. One long stroke. (try it by the way – feels great!)

Yes, he could handle that, but – when he passed my breasts, I felt the slightest pause and tension. Subtle but unmistakable. He was copping a feel on his way over. Busted! (oops, pardon the pun, didn’t notice it til now).

Wait a minute, I said, I thought this was your turn to give. But you were copping a little feel there, weren’t you? Uh, yeah, I was. Uh, yeah, you were. I thought you said you wanted to give. If you really want to give, you have to keep your attention where you agreed to keep it. You have to give what the other person asks for, or it’s not giving. It’s something else.

We’ll get to the something else, but for now you said give. So that’s what we’re doing here. Try it again. Yeah, that’s right. Feel the difference? Yes, he said, I do, I feel the difference.  And at that moment he became a devout student.

And I do mean devout. This man is a Christian and something of a mystic in that tradition. He has no trouble with the saint and whore dichotomy. He gets it, that they are the same. In fact, over the years, he has helped me get it, too. He has said that sometimes he thinks of me during the day and is reassured that the world is whole, and not half. Like me, sexuality is part of his spiritual path, and I am his touchstone.

He’s changed, too. I don’t see the tension in his face that was once there. He has learned to relax on my table and accept pleasure, which takes him deeper each time. He tells me about trying new things with his wife and asks for suggestions. We have become almost friends, meeting for lunch occasionally to catch up on our kids’ adventures with college and such.

At that first time, I wondered if he would return, since he didn’t get laid. Didn’t even get to show off, and I had kept my thong on the whole time. But he did get what he came for, which was to learn how to give.

A week later he sent me this –

I know a whore
who wears her thong
like a chastity belt.

I know a whore
whose hand on flesh
gives a balm to my soul.

I know a whore
who wraps around
in communion of body.

I know a whore
who gives new life with
her adoring sweat.

I know a whore
who anoints with oil
and declares us for God.

I know a whore
whose presence is real
when I call on her name.

I know a whore
who accepts her life
and surrenders to God.

I know a whore
Who wears her thong
Like a priest wears a stole.

I know a whore who needs a ritual to cleanse herself after a session with the lost.

This entry was posted on Friday, October 26th, 2007 at 3:50 pm and is filed under Poetry, Sessions. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.