I spent a lot of time taking photos that winter, and I had some interesting surprises. The sexual tension I was creating with my choice to give up even the possibility of sex with women was growing deeper, and was appearing in my artwork interesting ways. When these two photos turned up in sequence on a picture card, it felt deliciously kinky. I had been working in my studio and went out to photograph a party (a midwinter Luau) without clearing the card first. It was a little shocking to be in the venue scrolling through photos and come to the image on the left. When I looked at them together they provided some stark contrast between the sex I wanted and the sex I had available. The closer I came to accepting that this was by choice, the hotter the experience was. Somewhere in that choice was the recognition: maybe these young ladies want me too. And: if they do, I will turn them down, because at this moment I’m not fucking and I’m not sucking pussy or ass.
I’m going down on a mirror and fucking my ass, clasping my feet. I want what you want. I want you to see.
Obviously this was not the pious or pure kind of celibacy. In fact it felt like some of the best sex I’d had in a long time. My erotic senses were tuning up and I was more sensitive to beauty and desire than I had ever been. Years of photos from the Blue project were evermore vividly delicious, and there were a lot of them. I fell in love with the way I depicted women and from each experience of doing so I grew closer to myself and to the photo subject. I remembered all my models and how I felt about them. I was still in touch with some and there were some new ones those months. I corresponded with my intimate female friends around the world. One of my hobbies is hot hot hot email exchanges, and I was having fun.
The mirror altar in my studio had become a kind of shrine to my process of self-awareness, self-acceptance and pleasure. It was set up plainly visible in my studio adorned by my Celibacy Goddess portrait of Iris. Her face was as effective as ever at saying let go.
Meanwhile, this hydrocele thing was going pretty strong. No amount of awareness, psychic clearing, art or acupuncture was helping. The basic physiology was this. The testicle is surrounded in a thin membrane called the tunica vaginalis. That’s vaginalis in the way of sheath, with a bit of irony: this seemed to be all about making peace with my feminine side, though like nearly all of my injuries and medical experiences (right up to dental) this was on my right side (usually given to the masculine side of the psyche).
The tunica vaginalis secretes a fluid from the inside. It’s known as serous fluid, which is a kind of generic term for body cavity fluid. For whatever reason, my body was not reabsorbing whatever amount was secreted. Despite the emotional, spiritual or psychic issues involved, on the physical level I believe that vascular disturbances to my pelvic region created during routine hernia surgery were responsible for why I could not reabsorb the fluid. While I was in Canada the first week or two of having the condition, I had requested my surgical notes and I read the details of the cauterization that was done.
After nearly four years, the hydrocele was growing impressively. For a while the circumference would fit inside a circle made by touching my thumb and forefinger. Now, grabbing hold of the thing, my thumb and forefinger were about half an inch apart. The fluid was filling up so much that it began to move upward into my spermatic cord. That’s the tube that carries a vein, an artery and the vas deferens up from the testicle: the path that sperm take on the way to the prostate and out of the body.
The vas deferens goes up through the inguinal opening on the floor of the male pelvis, which is what gets repaired in inguinal hernia surgery. In my body, from that repair, I had 18 inches of fine steel suture weaving together three layers of muscle and three layers of fascia. Of the kinds of inguinal hernia repair I had researched, that seemed like the best for a variety of reasons, but obviously, not without problems. I was not, for example, thrilled about having metal in there, for reasons addressing my body’s electrical field. However, there was no taking out the wire. Once the hernia healed, it healed around the suture.
The hydrocele didn’t usually hurt, but it was weird and uncomfortable. Also it was a form of disfigurement. It seemed to represent a sudden, permanent change in the landscape of my body, and from the size – about five times larger than it was before – it seemed impossible that it would ever go back to the same size. I happened to have really nice balls so part of the experience was grieving the loss of a feature of my body that I liked a lot. Many women saw it, and nobody ever complained, or said it was ugly. Maybe they were being polite; maybe a big ball, or what looked like big balls, was intriguing.
It seemed just slightly grotesque at times, heavy and burdensome and out of place; I was aware that I would be doing some kind of medical intervention soon. I had chosen my method – to extract the fluid and inject a small amount of a sclerosing agent to stop the secretion of fluid. I had some issues with this method, but far less than I had with the conventional surgical repair, which involved dissecting the whole testicle, flipping the tunica vaginalis inside out, putting the whole thing back together and hoping for the best.
There were several possible sclerosing agents used for this procedure. I had chosen the one I wanted used based on considerable research, a conversation with a compounding chemist who made the stuff and several conversations with my friend Jeff Patterson, a doctor who had used it for decades treating varicose veins. Nobody had heard of an adverse reaction. It seemed to have no noted effect on sperm. And it seemed to work, when it was used properly. As I reckoned it, worst possible outcome unless something went really wrong (always a possibility) was that the treatment didn’t work the first time, or didn’t work entirely.
According to the literature and the secretary of one of the developers of the process, many men needed two or three applications of the procedure, though this still seemed better than scalpel surgery that could leave me off my feet, according to one surgeon, for a month. I’d also had a pretty vivid dream firmly warning me not to use the scalpel method.
One problem was that nobody locally did the extract/sclerose. Everyone did the more dangerous, more expensive ‘hydrocelectomy’. And from what I had read, the outcomes were similar with both procedures: but with less down time and fewer complications using the method I had chosen. However, the Canadian researchers who’d developed this had either retired or did not want to take an American patient (evidently we sue doctors too often here). Fortunately Jeff had a friend who could do the procedure, out of his minor surgery office in Madison, WI. For reasons that were probably astrological, or spiritual – I don’t remember which – I was going to wait a little while longer; but as the thing got bigger, it was a good feeling to know that I had an out. I often wondered why I had waited so long, when most people would’ve had it treated immediately. However, I was fully aware what I had learned, and was learning, along the way.
The condition had set me in an interesting and productive inward path, and I was really into the artwork I was making that winter: most of which photographing the mirrors as they constantly changed. The resulting images were beautiful and deeply personal. In my camera bag I found a macro lens I had purchased in Europe, which allowed me to get right up to the glass with a wide f opening, and I created a series of images of semen decaying on the surface of the mirrors that felt more like fractals or holograms than like normal photographs.
Chapter 25. Needs photo 0442.
This is my favorite piece from my blue period. During masturbation celibacy I spent time studying the mirrors and photographing them as they changed.
This is the Wal Mart one referenced somewhere else, from near when I arrived in ny. I can barely believe I dare say half these words, even though I’ve said some already: I’m driven forward tonight because what I’m describing is so basic to my process in those months of having sex only with myself. And because I want to tell you.
Intrinsic, and the more honest I was with myself about this when I was alone, the deeper I could delve into my pleasure of existence, of experiencing into myself and feeling extantt; freeing my judgment and simply giving myself permission to relax.
I just wrote this to Lady Luau:
“I’ve arrived at this point in blue that I am going to tell the story of ejaculating onto the mirror than licking it down. The squishy part to relate to others is that moment where I cum and then I don’t want myself any more. That’s how I invented the mirror: I would leave it for myself for when I returned on the ascending side of my climax. Then: it’s there. There while I’m getting hot and horny. That’s when I lick and wind myself up even hotter. I go beyond that point of the notion of a disgusting mess and that so hot nothing matters is a deep place to me. Thirsty, thirstier at the thought of the fresh seed about to be spurted there, on the altar of history, in some moment. And I have a choice. I can take it or leave it; and there, it will be. What goes on the plateau comes back into me.
(That’s how I got into the cycle. There are those phases wherein I want to lick myself up every time, and there are those where I just cannot or will not do it. So the mirror’s role is a bridge; somewhere I can allow myself to collect, and relax into not wanting myself when that happens: drop the guilt of this. Relax and, well this particular mirror is someplace I relaxed many times. So it became layered and petinaed and the scene of so much. The space of so many pretty faces.)
One game I played was the eye-contact game. Naked, face down, sprawled on my floor, I would lick and then suddenly notice: I’m not even looking. So the experience each time begame a subtle underwater see and seek: I look for myself, in any gesture, in a clear spot in the mirror, and wash away the past and seek myself seeking in the present moment. Maye eye contact and dare to love. Dare to love that man.
Such a simple meeting. How did it take so long.
There is a dimension of sexuality where it’s all good. Surrender is so deep that it has to be. In this dimension we go past the choreographed ‘act’ of lovemaking and descend into another environment. It is a world made of shadows and reflection, of windowlight and sound. Here, I found my worst fears to loom as vivid holograms of truth, and experienced the simple acceptance of myself as the most profound submission.
Looking in these mirrors, I initiated a conversation with myself about death. I admitted, one at a time, my most urgent wants of pleasure. I looked into my eyes and listened to my voice and made acquaintance with the person inside this entity the world knows as Eric Francis. I watched myself cum a lot of different ways
keeping no secret from myself. Which is a seduction.
I am just figuring out that…well, that will be in another entree.
Noticed tonight my sense that when I am rejected by a woman, the feeling in me is not one of not begin fancied: rather, it comes across as total unworthiness. One woman has a way of speaking for all of them, and to all of me. Perhaps from my distant past.
I’ve burned a lot of energy thinking that women thought my eroticism was disgusting. No matter how friendly and sincere. That’s now, that’s how rejection manifested for me, and deeper, as a sense of shame for wanting, for seeing, for feeling. Shame of being.
In contrast the message I’ve taken so many times from a woman is, ‘I am pristine and I see myself s perfect’. Demure, sardonic, certain.
And: ‘My desire would be pure, if I had any’.
Here is a secret. Rarely in all my service as an astrologer, primarily for women, did one reveal the extent of her misgivings about herself, about existence, about her plight as a woman. Rarely did one betray her doubt, and it may have been my role in that capacity to hold space for her resolve and certainty; I would have no objection to that, either.
It wasn’t until I had women facing herself naked in her mirror that she began to undress the truth behind the scrim: her sense she doesn’t exist, felt as she notices she does. Her lurking self-disgust, that would stalk her from time to time, or day to day.
Her delight of letting go all control: over what she has concealed about what she wants. Facing herself. Her lips spread, eyes bold, her knees up, any colour you like. Having witnessed this, I knew my place was to do the same, before others and before myself. I knew I could find her, because I wanted to. Because I could see her all around me. I undressed a thousand times and met my feminine, my woman, my self. I discovered the sense of abject, self-freeing, that whole glass house falls, and is free; submissive to experience, to being seen, and to seeing myself, and submissive to my thirst.
Autumn turned to winter and the nights became long. I was taking my masturbation celibacy journey in 45-day increments. Somewhere in my travels through the Tantra and sacred sexuality community, I had learned this technique: choose a length of time to be celibate and experiment with this. In the initial experiment I went from just past Sahwain (Halloween) to winter solstice. At that point I would consider what I was doing and go to Imbolc (Feb. 2), another 45 days.
While I was not experiencing a lot of sex and not a lot of satisfying sex any time recently prior to doing this, what choosing celibacy gave me was a sense of honesty that my feelings are my feelings. I gave myself experience permission to explore whatever I needed to feel.
Isolating myself from my own urgent craving to connect with women, both emotionally and to explore the lush scent and nourishment of her cunt, left me free to explore all the nuances of my desire nature, including a shadowy world of self-reflection that I had touched upon but had not delved into fully. I let myself experiment with the notion that all the beauty and desire that I felt for women was a projection of something inside of me, and there were times that the truth of this was like melting into a hot bath.
I discovered that within the feeling of not getting the sex that I want, and of someone I desire not responding to me, is a deeper feeling of shame, that is, of being unworthy of that connection.
This shame, in turn, was connected to the masturbation that I needed to release my tension and fulfill some element of my sexual needs, as best I could. And I now had occasion to reach for ever-deeper experiences of self-honesty about every emotion associated with my self-gratification. This included the shame of having to do this myself, and a surge of freedom and awareness, and of strength, every time I allowed myself to be honest that I was now choosing this; that I was not a victim of anyone who denied me. I was not less than anyone who was getting the kind of sex that I wanted or who was connecting with the women I wanted. I was giving myself what I needed, which was a time of deep reflection and healing.
I was in a position to associate sex exclusively with desire and self-given pleasure. Accompanying me on this journey was the mirror. Once typing this word I spelled it mirrir. For some reason this seemed like a discovery, and I began to use that spelling to describe the mirrors I used for my selflovemaking: the Mirrir. This was the meeting place where I would search for, and get to know, myself. There’s nothing like directly encountering a semen-spattered mirror to create some self-awareness.
I don’t think there’s any man who hasn’t used the word mess to describe what he’s created by ejaculating. Maybe the word doesn’t come up – tissues do first. Or there is a woman to accept his semen into his body and the messy feeling of shame is evaded.
I chose a different luxury, which was to take on and fully embrace the role of the receiver, as the one who accepts whatever feeling is present, and who receives this in the form of accepting semen into her body. This, no matter how messy the feeling. Intuitively, a mantra came to me: I made a mess and now I’m going to clean it up. This was exemplified in the mess on the mirror, and the mess i was about to make on the mirror. I can’t tell you why this felt so good: maybe the simple honesty of the statement, and of the gesture.
I recognized the mess as the emotional mess of my life, of my relationships, of my desire nature, of my seeming complex needs: I recognized it as a feeling of a mess, not pertaining to anything particular. I moments of uncensored honesty, I knew that my mess was the morass of my emotional body, and that an aspect of me could treat this with deep compassion and acceptance.
This aspect, this entity, I discovered was my feminine side. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that I explored the notion that the one doing the receiving was my inner woman. I was learning to give her what she wanted, which was to be fucked, and to allow her the space to explore the feeling of submission. I would pull up my knees and fill her up, and feel her inside me, loving me, wanting me, wanting more.
I no longer needed a woman to submit to me, or to ‘give me what I need’. I was willing, at least, to reach into myself and find this for myself. I began to treat the person in the reflection as the other and as the self: and I recognized this as the paradox of my relationships. I recognized, dimly at first, that I had an opportunity to explore resolving this in a direct way, and that came through seeking a sense of soul contact with the person in the Mirrir, where I had made quite a mess.
Gradually, day after day, as I licked away the layers of my pleasure and shame, and admitted my desire and my willingness to give myself anything I could, I searched for my eyes. When I would find them suddenly, when I would focus and make contact, I was sometimes surprised by the lack of empathy I would see, and from there I would guide myself to relax and love and feel my own presence. And see, and taste and swallow my own presence.
And: there was no need to stop, no point of denial. I could do this as long as I needed, as long as I wanted, as long as it took to reconcile with myself. To take back into my body, through my senses, everything I had cast away.
Not all of my experiences that winter and into the spring were solitary. There were some exquisite experiences of sharing and being shared with.
One in which I had company was a video session. I was exploring Craig’s List in my community under ‘Erotic Services’ and found a male-female couple who were advertising themselves as videographers. They were Melinda and John, and their listing that for a modest fee they would come to your house and tape you having sex, using your own camera, and leave you with the data. In other words, they would not take a copy; you would get the only recording.
That sounded like fun, so I wrote and asked if they taped solo sex. One of them, I’m not sure which, said they would be happy to. So, I told them I was interested and after a few weeks of back and forth, we settled on a date and time, on a Saturday night. I’m a little starved for sexual experiences with men so I thought, this is something different that I need. And it fit my description of sex with myself amongst those having sex with one another.
As the night approached, my fantasies of how it wold feel to do myself in front of a couple started to become vivid, and hot. In the sanctity of my studio, I explored what I might do might feel and wondered how far I could go with them both witnessing me and documenting me. Truthfully I feel more comfortable sharing my erotic journeys with women and the thought that another man would see me felt daring and unbearably beautiful.
The night before the session, Melinda wrote to me and said that John was busy the next night and she would have to come alone. Was that okay? I was disappointed but I was sure I would have fun with her one-on-one. I also felt slightly relieved, as this would be a more familiar experience.
I had never seen her picture and didn’t really have a sense of who she was, except for the fact that she liked to videotape sex. This was of course hot in its own way and I was enjoying the daring sense of having no idea who she really was. I was also aware that I was just one more person she would witness being erotic, which I love. It’s not anonymity but a sense of being one of many that I find appealing.
Saturday night at 8 pm arrived and so did she; I heard her coming up the stairs to my work area, and answered the door to a woman of about 40 years old, earthy and friendly, wearing a wool coat, soft old jeans and clogs. Her hair was long and dark and her eyes held me softly. She looked Taurus/Capricorn. We said hello, and I went downstairs and locked the entrance door, the one leading into a small gallery space at the back of which are the stairs up to my studio area. I came back up and we spoke for a while.
I found her easy to be around. I thought she was warm and beautiful and for a moment I couldn’t believe I was going to be able to strip and make love to myself in front of her just like that, though it was in fact true, and very appealing.
She suggested that we start taping right away to get that part going, and I agreed. I handed her my camera. Now in her role of videographer, she took a step back, and gave me full space to be myself. As she taped, I sat down in front of my altar, smoked some dreamweed and relaxed into the space. I relaxed into the potential of the moment.
I described some of the aspects of my journey. I showed her my altar and told her some of what was there and why. It was interesting doing this in front of a device that recorded sound and moving pictures, but I reached into that sensation, taking it as encouragement to be bold. That’s what this mirror is for. That’s what these marks are. There’s a face depicted, who represents Vesta. She’s actually a model I photographed in Belgium who has taken on the life of an archetype. Her face makes it easy to let go into myself. I think of her as the celibacy goddess.
Gradually I worked up the nerve to undress. She was relaxed and calm and kept her psychic distance, almost at times seeming a delicate shade of disinterested. I knew I was committed to revealing exactly who and what I was. The tape was for me and for whoever I chose to share it with; I wanted an authentic document of my journey at this stage, and to do that I would need to be as open as I could. That turned out to be pretty open. I found that I wanted to talk and describe what I do and something about why, and how it feels.
Some elements of my practice were a little more challenging to reveal to her, though I did anyway: such as, once per session, always naked, I lay on my belly and lick some off from the big altar that’s on the floor, the one over which Iris watches. I did this; I looked for my own eyes and I saw them; it’s preserved in video. That pretty much said to me that I was now entirely naked before her, so I could go anywhere I wanted from there.
I explained about my hydrocele, what it was and what I was doing about it. And, I masturbated, and let that melt into actual lovemaking: as urgent and beautiful and explicit in the mirror as I needed. Then I laid back and fucked myself like a woman. I did this for a long time as she hovered over me with my own video camera, teasing my orgasm endlessly till the end, and with my knees pulled up I finally let go onto the mirror you see to the lower right side of the image, and put it to my face.
One night a strong signal started to come in from my friend Kimberly. I have no idea when I had talked to her last; it had been a while. Kimberly is actually more than a friend; we were lovers beginning in early 1995. We met at a Barbara Hand Clow workshop on Saturn and from there went to Athens, Crete and Egypt together, that is, going all the way down to the basement of the Great Pyramid, and doing ceremony in the King’s Chamber.
A long story of an on and off relationship ensued, but there has always been something consistent about us, including some intense erotic and emotional heat that was not always easy to handle. But my feeling about Kimberly has always been that she’s someone who I love dearly and adore fucking, or at least can burn up with the desire to fuck, and she knows it, and she wants me, and there’s usually some obstruction in the way, though I never let that get in the way of desire.
So one night in the midst of my scalding celibacy Kimberly started to come in, powerful and strong. It was like she was on the room. I was alone, going half mad wanting her, right then, on the spot. She was nowhere around; maybe I had seen her turn up in my AIM list at some point recently but we weren’t in active contact. But I absolutely had to hold her, feel her in my arms, lick her out, fuck her. Oh, and there was an eclipse that night, which serves as a kind of energetic amplifier.
Kimberly is a dark little woman, and I do mean dark and small, with long, shocking dark brown hair that’s bigger than she is. She’s Armenian and rarely weighs more than 100 pounds, though she’s a medley of curves and man her hair gets me off. She is meek and stubborn and extremely intelligent and funny, with an old-fashioned streak. Armenians are nothing if not old-world types and she’s a Taurus with a Capricorn Moon: Miss Tradition, with a bit of Catholic school girl mixed in, born to fuck and with just a bit more than a bit of prude to her. It is difficult for her to let go into any form of sex. She’s often reluctant or scared and exceedingly few men are the right match.
My desire for her was like a seizure, visceral like someone was spraying the room with her scent. I let myself spin into this full-on. I was working a mirror that I kept leaving a mess on. I teased and fucked myself into several shades of oblivion, spilling a gush of my seed onto many layers of old. That settled into a kind of mud and about an hour later I dove into the mirror and licked it down to bare glass and came on it again. Gross indeed and that just sent me spinning with submission to myself and my desire, wanting her more, wanting to surrender to her.
Then I wrote to her and told her what I had done, and soon enough she wrote back to me and this is what she said. She has a male friend who would visit her once a week for a massage and healing session. This had gone on for months. It was ‘not sexual’, just sensual and loving. He was some kind of massage therapist and was helping her work out the tension in deep muscle and allowing her a space to feel safe and open up.
He was there that particular night.
Out of nowhere, she needed to be fucked in her ass, and decided it was time. As she lay with her knees up on the massage table, he licked out her vulva and ass to warm her up.
Then he put her on her belly and (using a condom) penetrated her, gently opening her up and holding her as she did. I know how she feels, how deep and nourishing and emotionally urgent her surrender is, and listening to her description I was in the most delicate, loving agony. He held her and fucked her and as she relaxed deeply he let go into her ass as (in another space but somehow feeling them) I lovingly made love to myself, and gathered all my energy and let it out…and as she surrendered to something she deeply needed, and by the miracle of synchronicity I spent the same night exploring for hours and sucked my muddy cum off of my mirror in honor of my passion and desire for her.
It was all I could do.
My sexual orientation was starting to slip, or dissolve. Something else was, too, as this experience showed me the nature of my perception and how it’s possible to connect yet not be in the same space.
I should have been jealous. Yet the more I wanted that experience with Kimberly, the more I surrendered into the beauty of the flow of events. With that, I went deeper into wanting not the woman herself but holding open the space for her coupling and for their coupling. On one plane of existence I was drawn into contact with myself, exploring every nuance of a mirror. On a parallel plane, I needed to embrace their surrender to one another, and they became my mirror.
What started as the need to be confronted by women making love around me became a space where I could witness the truth my existence. I’m sure you know that space of having a need and a desire that you don’t quite admit to having, or admit with some misgiving. Then some force or influence compels, or maybe simply allows, honesty. Something about this experience gave me the freedom to admit that what I need is to embrace them making love with the full spectrum of my emotions, and then to let that invite me to go fully into myself.
Looking on a symbolic level, to witness a man and a woman making love is to be aware of cosmic balance. I want that balance within myself. I want to embrace both sexes fully, and I was discovering a way to do that. I was discovering that I could admit to wanting this—and perhaps this exclusively.
My sexual orientation was shifting from the desire to merge with other/opposite to allowing that to happen everywhere and with everyone, making it deeply pleasurable to seek completion within myself. My secret pleasure was teasing myself with the idea that I would never fuck again. That I would never fuck her again, or her or her or her, and that I would ease into myself and allow.
Neisha became my witness to this potential.
Deep on a night, the one to acknowledge my admission, to hold my eyes while I said. This is what I want. I give myself this, because I want to; this is what I choose. I went in front of the unconditional mirror with her presence I gave myself permission to be here. That is, I touched the potential of submitting to self-sex not because I had to but because I wanted to, and not out of ‘purity’. Rather, my desire to be my own lover in the awareness of the sex of others, or in the presence of the sex of others, connected me with somethig I deeply desired.
I experienced what it might be like to yield all prior cravings of sexual orientation and submit to the deeper truth of my desire.
It was not that I could say for certain, ‘from now on I’m only going to masturbate because it enhances my profound love of the lovemaking of others, and makes me thirstier for myself’. Rather, I was able to admit the authentic possibility.
Another space we visited was that I would not fuck again until I had licked all the mirrors clean. At times this seemed like never by default, since the cycle went on and on. We agreed that, honoring this intention, she and I would never fuck until she felt I had gained this clarity. I practiced this for a while and experimented with another idea: that I would move forward to the extent that I could meet my eyes and acknowledge my existence in that glass; as I slowly wore away the prior layers of self and gained my clarity.
Another was the potential that I could go so deep into selfsex that I could set myself free to emerge wanting only to suck cock and pull up my knees and be fucked. I developed the capacity to release my prior attachment to my sexual orientation and let go into any potential—and one of those was my blatant need for sex with men. I had certainly made a steady diet of semen and the feeling of having my face seen as I pounded my ass. I tasted the exquisite joy of knowing that, in the perception of the person one comes out to, this is absolutely okay.
Another was the feeling of dropping so deep into myself that I could free my compass needle from the pivot and come out pointing in any direction, as any sexual or emotional orientation, that I wanted: even differently every time.
Another was the awareness of the depth of my desire for women, and the potential I was opening to connect to an authentic lover and drink deeply from that well.
And turning the dial slightly, I said: ‘Sometimes I ask myself if I would be willing to give up sex to have sharing masturbation establish itself on the planet as a widely accepted form of sex. And the answer I get is, probably’.
I finally spent my passion as she looked at me, and felt me. I faced a large mirror naked, and she held a smaller one for me as my receiving altar. I spurted and sang out my feelings deeply and covered the mirror and in the strength of my release, overshot and spilled some. After swallowing everything on the mirror she was holding, she told me to lick myself off the floor.
Which I did, as all remaining shame let go into the sensation of transcendental love that washed through me.
We came out of the dreamtime with she being the keeper of a secret: of a truth that is no longer accessible to my memory.