The poet is back
The poet is back. Haven’t seen him for awhile. He got here 2 hours early, having mistaken the time, but fortunately I was here and it worked. I was not ready though, and put him to work vacuuming. Told him I’d like to see him in a French maid’s outfit, but he said he would need a couple more years of me before he was ready for that. But he did a fine job of vacuuming anyway.
It’s a strange thing, this elder in the church, how he can fit the sacred whore into his life. Many would feel it’s ‘bad’, but would go ahead anyway because they can’t not. The good and the bad wage a battle, and take turns winning.
Not him. It seems to fit naturally into his head, as it does in mine. I believe it has helped his marriage, having this relationship in which he plays a part there is nowhere else for him to play. It’s like the balance weight, allowing wholeness.
I love to hear him talk about his love life at home, or, as is the case in recent years, the lack of it. I question him about what he is choosing, how they talk about it, what they may decide together, how he presents to her his ideas for how they might rekindle. It fascinates me. I give a little advice. He tells me about his new therapist.
Finally, the floor is clean, I have changed clothes and put up the massage table. I need a couple minutes to be quiet and breathe and stretch and relax and bring my attention to my body and what she is ready for today. She is ready for doing, is ready to move hips and hands, ready to be randy but not tender. Tender is usually easy for me, but not today.
He’s bending over the table, I’m stroking, playing, slapping, humping, rubbing my belly over butt. He’s buried in my breasts, he’s stretched out over my lap, he’s leaning me up against the wall, he’s trying out my flogger, he’s opening his ass. He’s learned how to enjoy himself with me. Today I enjoy myself too.
Today I reflect on how easy this is, and how hard. For most, and for me a couple of decades ago, it’s incomprehensible. But it feels as natural as all human connection, play, exchange. It’s something I am good at and generous with and glad to share. Aside from the play itself, it is the generosity that is the real gift. It’s the open state of my body that teaches his body to open.
Then I notice that what works is that we have a strong container for our play. We know its meaning and its limits, we do not try to make it something it isn’t, we are not in love, but we love. That is what makes the play easy and that is what makes it fit into the church elder’s life.
The container is not a compartment. It doesn’t separate this experience from life, in an attempt to pretend it’s not there. The container keeps this experience in its own special treasured place, in the heart of life, where its fragrance spreads and heals and makes whole.
Besides, he’s got a really nice ass.