CHAPTER 21
Their Coupling went as other Couplings went, but then not. The then not being the presence of The Embrace. For they not only Attended and Intended: two artful fulcrums of the practice: not only one-on-one, and not only the complement, at times the supplement, of the Four-square, but the unknowing.
It was The Embrace unknowing. Boldly positioning itself to encounter, to accept, to be broken and humbled, to be salved and healed, in short, to be embraced by the embracings of these.
Yet, as embracing is, it was all a matter of being swept away by the forces, by The Force or That Force: call it a Swelling or an Emergence or a Throbbing, take whatever name, whatever capital, search the i-archives and take whatever label ... it was the abandonment of The Embrace to its becoming not-Embraced: a Coupling which, as had their Courting, thrilled and chilled with expectation.
"Babies," is how Expectation came disguised to them.
"I want a thousand babies!" A statement which reminded Lillian how drunk Priscilla could get - and how nutso she got when drunk. Amen.
"Sure, sweet girl, and I’ll have a thousand more!"
But it was there. As there as "getting there." Not as located on a specific map; not at least as they might have hoped, especially Mark. He wanted, needed specificity. Despite all the changes, he hadn’t changed. "Who has?" went unasked.
Cilla knows where there is. She knows that it is a moment, not a place. That it is a presence which once made present she might not recognize. She knew that it was a moment of dying.
Not just her own, his.
"The sperm dies as it impregnates the egg."
"Does the egg die?"
The females wait in terrified anticipation; the corpses of the males already discarded.
That they were unFixed was simply metaphor.
An Old Truth still New was that, "Souls choose you, not you, them."
Yet, it was New Truth that there were "souls" and there were "Ascended souls." The former were "first-timers." Absolutely new creatures. Never before alive. Drawn from the maw of oblivion. These could come at anytime, to anyone.
"Ascended souls," however -- and who did not believe themselves such? -- such souls, having the experience of life-already; having an spiritual awareness of the Eternal Play; having savored all that Eros could be; readied themselves for their next Ascension by choosing those who themselves had at least once Ascended.
Babies, then, were "not made, they arrive."
Hmmmmm. Mark strokes his cock: "Delivery chute?" mocks him.
It was a practice to Attend to the Child’s Presence. Here, Cilla has set the night. A fine meal. The Alaskan peppers he so adores. The purple vine of Mongolia which sets his eyes a-burning. The cool, slithering ices from the Yucatan ... these on which she slithers: carrying them in silver bowls, bowls aglow in her hand by candle-light: lights all about spraying the room with luring throbs: she with silver bow around her neck: a bow which worships her neck, is set in slooping splendor to mimic the elegant rise of her flesh, a rise which is snatched by kin silver earrings: this is all she is, nothing else: only flesh, flesh which becomes silver: mutates into this silvery flow, its fluidity, she moves like a wave towards him, bowls slightly cresting as her breasts rise as she floats towards him: all the humors and juices of the eaten meal transform into a single solid tangible teeth-clattering yearning on his part to rise and chomp on her! to stand and take her bowls, these offerings, to raise them and gobble them: with one smash into his chomp: obliterate them, suck all their cold passion and so set fire to his being: for she is just that, a fire to be set, and he, just that, kindling: his arms, his legs, his desire, all at "about to burst" as she, with a final step and stop next to him, comes into him as he inhales: the fragrance of her: almond: the flow of her: icy: the presence of her: hungering ....
How could he or even if he could would he "get a handle on this?"
He hated his need to confess this before Zav. So, he doesn’t.
He had taken her. After all, he had taken her so often now. How long, counts the newly Coupled? Where time is measured in markings of Copulation: measured and marked as one walks about the house: on top the dining room table; endless spots on the floor; out in the garage; under how many Moons in the back-yard, anon, anon .... taken her: he had done it, and he had liked it: that final moment when, Snatch! she’s mine! ... the locating of her onto himself; moving her legs aside and plunging; rotating her around and settling her sumptuous butt down upon his lap -- "Polar delights!" so have the guys laughed; this "taking" so rightly felt as his, as his right, his way, how things should be: for he was the polar point, his was the compass needle, he was the Penetrator, the Warrior, the Adventurer, the one who goes Out and Forward and Up The Hill and Charge! Charge! Charge!
Taken her. And she had never complained. Maybe he felt Zav’s "expectation," but Cilla wasn’t as violent as Lilith "Violent," there was something seductive about that word and the image it re-vives, for he remembers what they have never spoken about, not her nor the Four-square: that last Flow.
But it is Cilla, at this moment, not Lil. For, for the first time, leaving him feeling queer, out of sorts, upside-down: for the first time he hears himself, "You got taken!"
Shit.
In almost exact duplication, as if following in their footsteps through the deep snow, Zav and Lil give birth to little ones every two years, doing so for a set of eight children. All just exactly one year to the month after their "cousins" the Riders.
But the symmetry was an illusion. One which kept The Embrace in suspended expectation.
Lilith had seen that glint in Priscilla’s eyes. Known it the instant she caught it; knew it in the catching. That her sister was pregnant. That -- and of this she was certain -- they had been caught by an Ascended soul. Lilith was quite pleased. She knew that she would have her work cut out for her: "No drinking until the baby comes, agreed?"
It was that glint because, for the first time ever, Cilla laid in her arms. Ah! There are moments of Goddessness which Lilith was willing to die eternally for. At such moments she became full to her Goddess presence. Here, now, because it was so for Priscilla. Possibly the first time ever for Priscilla: "I don’t think I’ve ever Ascended," uttered, but lips closed by Lil’s press.
Without that moment, Lil would not have known. Known about Mark, that is. Known that his was, indeed, a presence she had, herself, to birth. But not now! resonates through her bones and flesh, heart and soul.
What was for Now! was Zav. Somehow Lilith intuiting that hers was to be a step behind, not a lessening step, but one of tempo - behind her sister Cilla.
She had often slain him. Tricked him. Ambushed him. Raised him to mind-boggling and brain-deadening heights of pleasure and then slain him: him so goofy with seminal pleasures that he didn’t even know that he had been so murdered!
But it was okay. Acceptable, in her own thoughts.
At such moments, it also came back to her: Bad.
Here without an specific meaning, just her feeling: that Zav was not as duped, not as tricked, not as dead as she was leading herself to be, to accept.
For he did not die. She did not kill him. Why, then, is it our shared fantasy?
"Play with me!" Not a seduction from her; an invitation from him.
She took him up.
Literally. Physically. Metaphorically. Astrally. It goes on!
During Courting they had been trained in "Adoration." He assembling words and images, he visioning himself with stories to recount as he journeyed across her flesh and through her presence. Coming to discover a richness of treasure: words endless from generations back with which to garland and festoon her sacral self: as he sets forth upon her, as he holds her feet and presses them against his forehead, so he invokes all the movement which has been hers to this moment, begs forth all the strength and tiredness of her walking feet, so as to touch her travelling soul: catching it on its journey, hustling up from behind and saying, "Wait! I’m here," clasping hands, smiling, he image
s the flow of her through her soles into his soul; it is his astral presence opening its arms; and he licks her, kisses her toes and licks at her ankles, becomes a slither of moist-warm adoration, a presence to her, a touch from within himself, letting her know that he is advancing, and it is up her thighs: tongue and fingers as tongues all about, flicking, and tasting, inhaling and massaging, working her like soft-ground after the rain, moving up on the clouds of his breath, misting, becoming her over-cast; blocking out any other suns, Oh, he is jealous, he is secretive, he is paranoid! .... no one else, this is his land, "I claim this land in the name of Zav, God of the Goddess Lilith!" ... laughing inside, knowing that she knows, that her nipples hear him, that they rise and harden, knowing that as he lays his thigh astride hers, as their flesh forms boundary, as the muscles in his thighs tighten that she also tightens, that she is bounce to his thump, here a draw of water running up and she the bank hardening to restrain him, to hold him, and with every image ever known he flocks down upon her, himself a massive falling from the sky, a cloaking, a blanketing, simply, his lips kissing, and his tongue celebrating, and his fingers plunging into the pleasures of her soft belly, the roll and creamy flow of her belly down to her cunny, there with a thousand calls, a thousand invitations, a thousand conjurations: Treasure of My Soul, Garden of My Delights, Sweet Honey-Hive! .... approaching her, imaging her, armed with images: for she is not taken by just one image, not one word, for she is multiple, she is many, this he knows, she is both a Goddess and all goddesses: this her trick, this her deliciousness ... Hot Cunt!, Sweet Piece of Ass, Juicy Pussy! these to tease out her laughter, bawdy laughter, laughter of her Grandmothers, Shade Crones, she becoming as he knows she will, as he has been prepared to encounter, so many ages: soft as a nubile "Babe!"; yielding as a Fading Beauty; cagey as a Huntress: Baby Huntress that she is! ... oh, he unleashes himself: throws himself at her, at her feet, yields his soul through his hands as they fall in worship all over her; simpers into a fluid whine as he is beggar before her cave ... and it works! It is the magic: he is the magic! For from within him explodes in quietness that blending of their bodies: entrance into her as she is Ocean for his rain: that blending which is that presence of this Other, this Thirdness, this What-we-are-not-but-must-become: adoration which is birthing.
"Just say BIG. Anyway you can." They’re already tittering. "Enormous. Or, Gargantuan. They like that one! Or, Massive. Sometimes: You’re so big you’re piercing my ass!" Even she had to pause to control the delightful giggle of one such memory! "Boys are like that. Call them. C’mon, Big Boy! Believe me, you don’t have to say much else!"
And it had worked with Zav. Why wouldn’t it?
But, Lilith also knew that that wouldn’t be all with Zav. Not, as she’s been surmising, it is with Cilla.
Lilith had many memories of cocking during Courting. Had become as expert as any in stopping a boy dead in his tracks. Holding him and delightfully whirling his balls like a master thief twirling the lumen-bolts; she sighs, for it evokes one of her earliest memories of her goddess power, "Sheer magic!" Cilla herself recalled; so laboring from gentle stroke up to hard-stroking, mounting to a moment when all his flesh was rigid, knowing at that moment that his mind was totally zoned, that he was in another dimension, not one she could access but one she could conjure, and conjuration it was: his splattering not just high shots of sperm but evocations from so far down inside himself that it was like a voice from the beyond, normally dressed in simple gear, just a groan: an ethereal, almost ghastly, the nearest to a death-call she’d ever get: "O, God Almighty!" or there abouts.
But that wasn’t Adoration. Not even if others said it was.
That’s what was Bad about Zav. He expects more. Just as she did. Why doesn’t he ever tell me, though? A question not yet asked.
Baby. "Can I remember my own choosing?" Before bed-time, she has meditated on this. The Embrace pauses.
But she never could. "Maybe I dream it? Who knows?"
Yet, she knows she knows about how to prepare.
As he comes: coming in the so many ways he has told me; coming with every sense, him as moisture, him as heat, him as pressure here and there, him as smell, smelling him, and in and through all these images allowing herself to be undone, to be unbounded from bone and flesh, untwined, to be spread out, spread across a piece of bread and eaten by him ... his so many comings: receiving his adoring gaze, laughing at the impishness in his grin, feinting and being playful with his kisses, lying to him as now he knows she lies, and now knows she wants him to lie, "You’re the Biggest!" stated and restated in a thousand ways: but yet the one way, the only way yet to come, what she knows that he doesn’t know yet -- why is not on the table -- she lies there, and after the timelessness of his loving, the immeasureablness of his craving and his satisfaction, as she lies there and soaks in all the ardour of his many passions, so she turns: is turned inside-out as she turns: a turning of will but as if in concert with another, The Great Goddess, The Mother of All, The Thousand Breasted and Thousand Wombed: moves and so moves him: draws him inside her: deeply inside: where he becomes egg, and it is she who surrenders all that she is as she has known her presence to be: it is she who lifts up as Adorational Offering all that is her most individual and lonesome self: lifts up: is lifted up: and in the lifting is she penile, phallic, fully-Cock: and so plunging down, falling so as to die, to splatter, to pierce, to penetrate the egg: as such she becomes Big: Full: Pregnant ... they fall away from each other: bodies now back at interstitial rest: bodies falling away as the petal loosed by beauty escapes, falls away upon the sun’s kiss: fall away, fall apart, fall this way and that way: for the presence of the Third: the Child.
Mark and Cilla have many children, but never became fully pregnant: Big.
Intimates: A Journey Towards Sacred Sexuality Page 29