All characters and events in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, not unlike miracles of God.

He matched with her on a dating app. This particular one featured many prompts, detailed ones. The guy was in a phase of discovering his love for writing and for good questions that prompted self-reflection. For most of his life he had lived oriented outward, toward the external world. He possessed great perceptive skills, yet for most of that time he did not realize those skills could be turned inward. He simply did not know! So he studied and pursued the world until he reached a breaking point. That breaking point arrived as his first marriage collapsed. Depression arose from neglect. His inner space had been so neglected that he sank deep into depression. Sleep paralysis (he didn’t have a label for it). Persistent melancholy. The world became sad. So he began tuning inward. Each morning he would sit with his breath for fifteen minutes. The impact of this simple act amazed him.

This was long before he realized that breath is a gift from God—the essential atom of life breathed into every human as He weaves them in the womb.

He had grown up in a religious culture that had lost all sense of the Living God. Powerful entities had deified themselves and even appointed one of their own as the “creator god,” mocking him endlessly in their stories. These deities were in rebellion against their Father. In that rebellion, they discovered a rich land filled with diverse humans. They built a complex hierarchy of rituals and kept those humans enslaved—chanting their names, feeding their egos.

It was theater, a performance of divine deceit. One was named “creator,” though he was weak. The lies were almost too blatant to miss. In the stories told to the enslaved humans, they even revealed that this so-called creator was born from the navel of the operator. Yet none of the humans questioned the absurdity. The operator was the true mafia boss, with a lieutenant—a close second—who called himself the destroyer. Together, they mocked the creator without end, giving him four heads and cutting one off for sport. They told the humans it was because he lusted after one of his own creation (a deer), but the creator himself came from the operator and the operator also took wives. Yet again, no one question the absurdity. The blatancy of the deception gave them great delight.

He would later realize that the myths he inherited weren’t just about gods—they were about him too.

It was marvelous, then, to feel his breath. It was shallow at the time, and his mind raced constantly. He enjoyed tasting this gift from God. It was a real taste. That drew him inward. He turned his gifted intellect inward and discovered an entire world of experiences to explore. He retrieved himself from a marriage where he could not figure out how to have penetrative sex with his wife. All the while, he was obsessively focused on spilling his seed with her and with women he never met or touched. He was in complete disarray and didn’t even know it, because according to his LinkedIn bio, he was quite successful. That is the power of illusion and delusion: most wrapped in it do not recognize the disarray of their lives. Yet their Father loves them. He clues them in, somehow, to the gift of life. Breath was that clue for him.

As he tuned inward, he noticed he had desire. Then began an exploration of Desire. He allowed himself to follow desire wherever it led, tasting uninhibited freedom for the first time. Back then he didn’t know that good containment leads to greater freedom. Freedom, for him, meant a lack of inhibitions. Containment felt inhibitive.

He happened to be in the City of Desires. Shame began losing its shackles, making way for Temptation to step in instead.

Satan smiled.

“Oh look, here goes another fool thinking he is freeing himself!”

He met someone on Tinder and slept with her after three dates. You had to pretend you are not into it for 3 dates, is what he had learnt. She invited him in to her tiny apartment. He sat on her bed, talking awkwardly about the books on her bookshelf while she waited for him to make a move. Wisdom dawned. They may both have been lying down by then. The poor woman had to lie herself down beside him while he babbled on about books. Intellectual babble was his safe place. But wisdom arrived. He reached across her for a glass of water, pretending, until their faces passed close enough. They kissed. When the time is ripe, it doesn’t really matter what excuse you use to make a move. No one remembers it.

They undressed. They had sex. That was his first time, or so he believed. He was jubilant. She had no idea. He was too ashamed to tell her that it was his first time. What if he failed? He was jubilant anyway. He does not recall how long he lasted, but he worked on her. He had spent months of his life time watching people have sex, imagining himself and spilling his creative force with great abandon. What a great time to be alive, he’d think then, where you could watch so many different types of people naked and having sex, so easily!

He applied those techniques. He thought himself a champion. So delusional. It was the first time he was having penetrative sex, yet he already saw himself as skilled from video training. He already knew the hook technique: hook two fingers, press up against the bulbous spot up and inside the pussy, keep pressing until she squirts. She did squirt. He was shocked, in awe of his own mastery, or so he thought. He never asked what it was like for her. He cannot recall if he was gentle enough.

Having grown up amid hierarchies of deities and people, then working in hierarchical corporate culture, his mind knew nothing but hierarchy.

“Freedom”, then, was just hopping up the hierarchy.

“Making a woman squirt” sat at the pinnacle of sexual hierarchy.

Something in that act, about taking a woman to the edge of chaos, to that uncontrollable drop, stoked his ego. He had always wanted to experience a woman was insatiably desirous of him. He did not know then that he had experienced uncontrollable lust from men toward his body. He wanted that mirrored from a woman. And he brought that energy to her body.

The woman, he matched with, was emerging from a long period of celibacy after a relationship with a heart-centered man, one of the most beautifully heart-opened men that ever existed.

Naturally, she was thirsty for unbridled desire.

There is something about men who dwell too much in the heart. Heart and cock form a beautiful partnership; the heart is the source of the cock’s energy. When a man cultivates his heart, something softens. The energy has places to go. Heart energy is beautiful, open, receptive, multi-directional. But there is potency in a man bringing the soft openness of his heart—where God lives, where source lives, where all energy originates—and channeling that glowing sun into his cock. He enters a woman with all that heart energy and penetrates for eons, no end in sight. The heart-cock connection charges the spine. The cock is no longer separate; it becomes an extension of the spine, merges with it. What enters the woman is the entirety of his spine. They ride into bliss, connection, merger—flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, merging back.

Some heart-centered men disconnect from the animalistic origins of their cock.

The cock carries raw animalistic urge. It is the tail come forward. As humans lost the animal tail, its energy migrated to the cock. There is something animalistic about the raw connection to the cock, as nature originally intended before God suffused man with His image. I wonder if a godly man can fuck like an animal. Is that possible, or is it paradoxical? I have wondered. If you watched National Geographic as a horny kid, enthralled by any depiction of sex, you noticed some animals pendulate with multiple entries and exits, implying pleasure sensors on their phallus like men. Others mount once in heat, inseminate, finish. I have wondered what sex fully aligned with God’s will would be: a procreative mount-and-done, or the oscillating pleasure piston.

Many men do follow a mount-and-done procedure. They have no other choice but to be done quickly. Chasing uninhibited freedom, they have made containment their enemy. To the point that when their lustful erection meets a pussy, they spill right away. Zero containment.

If a woman’s pussy isn’t tight, they can’t get hard. A roaring, wet, ready pussy shrivels their member.

Their cocks have been numbed by their iron grips. The iron grip of all the silent, secretive masturbation. Busting one out before someone walks in on you. Not making any sound.

What a tragedy it is to not make sound during sex! What joy instead to roar like a beast!

In his culture, people lived stacked close, hiding their sexuality. Homes held many. People had sex but pretended like no one had sex, and yet celebrated when the nation overtook the other one in population. Some were having sex in situations they absolutely should not be, with people who did not know what sex even was. He would learn that later.

Silence reigned because sounds would be heard. Oh the shame!

Stifle the glorious grunts during fornication, and you stifle your own daily expression. The body tightens over time. Throw porn into this mixture, and you have a cultural catastrophe brewing. When he began, it was not even porn—just rape scenes in movies, permitted by the censor board as plot devices for heroic revenge, reminiscent of the mythical stories fed to the enslaved peoples by the Deific Mafia. Love-making scenes were not essential, so they were banned. Rape scenes were essential. Twisted. Really twisted.

What does sex look like when fully aligned with God’s Will, where both the man and woman have developed a connection to God and a connection to their own body as the Temple that God wants to reside in?, I wonder. How does it differ from lustful encounters?

His heart was waking up, slowly, with major blocks. He did not penetrate with a charged spine yet because his heart was seized in spots, hiding pain and grief. For his mind had repressed memories of his young body lustfully taken by men, their own hearts seized in spots, hiding pain and grief. And so on.

In the three years before he matched with her, he had finally found proper expression for his cock inside a woman’s pussy, and not just the death grip of his hand. The death grip of his hand was still there, but the expression of his cock had expanded. It was much nicer to be inside a woman’s pussy. When a man tells a woman, he has “sexual needs” or he needs to have sex before marriage to test “sexual compatibility”, he is basically saying that it is nicer to release his lust demons in her pussy than with his death grip in front of a computer screen.

In the three years before he matched with her, he practiced the art of escalation. From meeting a woman to getting into her pants. They met at an intriguing concert event, another oddity on the City of Desires’ buffet. She picked it. She was hooked by everything he wrote on the dating app. She had spent months trying to convince a soft-cocked, soft-hearted friend to sleep with her; he refused. She was thirsty. She liked his profile but was not seeking relationship. He had no idea. Women hide sexual appetite well; it is not on the nose like men’s. They yearn deeply for sex yet they are often attuned to the whole body. Sex is not as hyper-focused on genital stimulation. He did not know any of this back then.

The event featured classical music, which he sometimes liked though he was not cultured in it. He couldn’t tell a Mozart from a Chopin.

He can barely do so now.

They entered. She told him she was thirsty.

Back then, he was living a very “frugal, minimalist” lifestyle. Yes, of course, he was also “bio-hacking”. He dreamed to FIRE one day — to have his stock portfolio generate enough revenue so that he could do whatever he wanted every day without having to work for anyone. Oh glorious, glorious Capitalism!

She went and bought a bottle of water for herself, a detail she remembered throughout their time together, for good reason.

Years later he heard a social-media influencer from a similar but different culture (they both use beans), now married to a classic hot White woman, exhort men: “What are you doing with your lives if you cannot buy a coffee for a woman on a first date?”

It hit home. But this was before that. He was clueless. Instead of stepping in and buying her water and asking her if she needed anything else when she mentioned she was thirsty; he just said he didn’t want water. In his own mind, he thought single-use plastic was very alien, very not from his culture. His mind was always a safe place to escape into from the unspoken hints that women drop in early attraction.

She went and stood in the line and bought herself a bottle of water.

The event had four sections for listening differently: with ears, while drawing on a long central sheet, and a couple of other ways that he can’t remember now. With disposable income but no clarity, novelty appealed to him. Another thirty bucks to pretend like he was cultured.

At its root, he was quite unsettled really, needing constant novelty through events, lust, consumption. To keep him distracted from what his gently opening heart was threatening to reveal. Scary stuff. One of the scariest experiences as an adult is realizing that what you thought was “normal” as a kid, was absolutely horrific.

One of the listening zones suited movement. He knew moving spaces give you opportunities to pull away, to draw close; and in that dance, lay chances for lips to meet. Getting to the first kiss was crucial.

Once lips met in thrall of lust, hands followed and it all went downhill from there.

They entered that section. He danced with her. He had just rediscovered dance after a sedentary life. He liked it as a kid but rarely danced as an adult. Dance jiggles inner demons; they quieten briefly, finding expression, and sometimes even release—the Sufi way, though he understood none of that. He just liked it. Nay, he loved it. Always put a wide smile on his face.

Good music started; he danced. His free dancing expression drew her close. Very close.

He cannot recall if he said the line then or later on the mic when the host invited reflections.

She loved his bold humor. She thought he was very funny, but did not like all his jokes. A paradox that’d trip him up for a bit.

He framed their make-out as “listening with our lips together”.

“Shall we see what it’s like to listen to the music together, with our lips?”

A gentle dig at the absurdity of that event crafted with the different prompts for how to listen. Delivered in a deadpan style with a grin on his face. Humor landing slow as people caught on, moments later. That was his preferred style of humor.

She matched his wit as no woman had before. It shattered something in him.

To beautiful, intelligent women reading this, it may sound ridiculous, but he had lived believing a woman could not be both.

He did not know back then that this unconscious belief stemmed from low self-worth: he felt undeserving of his mind and his lust satiated together in relationship. So he assumed it impossible.

She shattered it completely. She was beautiful but she had done a lot of work to drop all the masks and conditionings women use to present beauty. To the point that, her appearance on the first date and the photos on the app had underwhelmed him, because he liked dressing up.

But he had loved the energy of her opener. He wasn’t very attuned to the fact that you can read the energy of a person with the text they send across a digital medium, but he liked her energy still.

The City of Desires inspired him to dress well; that and the disposable income. And the chase for novel experiences to fill the God-shaped hole in his heart. Fast-fashion from Zara worked a few months at a time. It became a minor point of contention between them. He was too used to masked beauty, the ride exhilarating as masks fell. One evening, at his persistent request, she donned the conditioned mask. He thought - wow, was she a smokeshow, in the most conditioned sense of the term. She still hates that she had to do it for him.

She matched his wit and courage.

As realization dawned upon her as to what he was sharing on the mic in front of an audience about their experience together, laughing, she grabbed the mic from him and announced: “this is our first date!”

The crowd roared.

A moment he still remembers quite fondly.