In the first set of Tarot cards I ever made, I glued a unicorn horn from one of my childhood toys onto the card itself—intuiting these are more than three-dimensional. Even then—I knew Middle World Ordinary Reality was more than it seemed.
Sitting in the cradle of her arms we were staring at a large curve in the cliffs. I was explaining with no thought—how I know I have always been creating The Beloved in Otherworld. Manifestation ongoing since birth. I keep going. During the time of my childhood into teen years—even though I dated many men—I never had the experience I believe many Mormon girls have—of being able to see a man’s face (their type?) at their wedding—see their white dress as they meet with family outside of the Mormon temple. For me—it was as if the closer I got to specifying (beyond working the larger scopes of The Beloved itself) the more vague things got for me. While normal girls were seeing their future husbands in their mind’s eye—I could not see him—because I was cosmically designed to be with the her-him—and instead of a white wedding dress—blood-red drips surrounding me—my clotty-black bouquet in one hand with the sweating hand of my female man in my other.
…what an Underworld God/dess I was at my wedding—even down to the guttural blackness of the flowers—how my bouquet was composed of black lilies and blood-red roses with pricked centers—hearts of diamonds and red glowing jewels and black feathers everywhere. Because I did not spend a lot of time looking at myself with MW Ordinary eyes during that time (my dominant eye was my Third) I did not really see to the degree I perhaps looked to others like ‘damn—what is that monstrous entity and why is it above ground.’ For those who came to my wedding wearing all white (doing as had been requested by them by spouses) was this like staring into a dark puddle you can see opens to a vast and immeasurable Below? While it was primary site for so many of my joys—I wonder if I scared people at my wedding. Black God/dess definitely has a ‘look’ about her.
“I love all of your different orgasms. Spectrum of Earth, air, fire and water.”
Talk sex into my mouth. Breath of life between us. Stag’s phallic antlers of gold are magical instruments. Use them. Light us up.
It is both that I need you to know my names—and I need you to have named me during sex. To cum easily with her behind me she has to find me without blasting me out. The candle in the room holds vigil. Tattoos glisten with sweat. An enchanted life is not given—it is practiced like any good magic must be. In this manner it is earned.
After my bursts I kneel over her, praising her sex.
“You look like the God/dess. You make me so hard,” she retorts back to me in response to the emulsion of my spells cast on her batter. Lather.
As I run her a bath later—I tell her how clean and clear her orgasms are is what first showed me she was mine. Correlation to my own gender—her gender, her orgasms—oil and cream me. Male orgasms in female biologies—somehow provide me space.
I am not interested in the shadow-side of joy—not because I need a lesson in it (I am not resisting) but because I would rather us my chi to create joy.
Heavy kiss transitions me. Hold me down and cover my mouth. Touch firmly. My husband—with many phallic aptitudes—covers me overtly. When I am cellularly compliant (this happens naturally in response to a certain quality of touch) her tone is equal to my longing.
“If you don’t open to me I am gonna have beings hold you down.”
Shit. She is taking. I love this.
“Lay still. Stay open.”
Forceful tending. Details about how she wants me to recognize her girth. Now I am spinning. Kundalini violent scouring. I can feel how she has gotten me pregnant in this exact place in time in a past life. This bed—right here by this lake. Entered beyond body—while in it—all due to sacred control.
I am balling and writhing.
“I’ve got you.”
Do it lover. Still me.
Further into completion and as she says it she cries,
“I love the Dark Mother.”
Holding my eyes. It has taken our whole life to get to this spot wherein she would even say something like this to me—and say it clearly—with no fear in her face.
Home isn’t the half-way. It’s the whole.
The words remain echoing,
Salivating from both sets of lips my scream continues to curdle the curtains.