A Prayer for the Women I Know
by OneTaste Living Library Jun 29, 2015
Perhaps I should confess. Or rather, more than a confession, what I’m about to share is akin to a prayer. Yes. Sitting across from each woman at my workshop, on the surface, it looks like I’m merely studying each of them—examining a mouth set in determination and studious attention on this one, noticing the shyness of another who is soaking up the environment with a bit of uncertainty and apprehension. I am attentive to each of the women who has found her way to this place. But on the inside, I find myself in a silent, urgent prayer.
Please, God, let it be that she is totally, utterly, completely consumed. By something. Anything. Okay, maybe not sugar or shopping. But let it be that this woman in front of me—this intelligent, perfectly-put-together, gorgeous woman—finds herself on her knees tonight, crawling, reaching, yearning, aching and tormented by something she cannot name and cannot outrun.
Let it be that someone or something reaches up through her pussy, into her heart, into her mind, and yanks mercilessly down. Hard. Let that trigger be a relentless grip in the center of her soul that reorients her, forces her to live every moment in relationship to a force much larger than she has ever known. It’s okay if she resists. Let her flail against it, rage, ignore, withdraw, cry, pray, beg. And let it be that this powerful thing remains unmoved and unmovable, benevolent in its refusal to bow to her fears and tantrums. Something entirely, for once, out of the domain of her control. Let it please take her, trembling, and if necessary, humiliated, into the realm of the involuntary, the unknown.
Yank her out of the room of her suburban good girl persona, humming alone and playing with Barbies, patiently writing the script for her inanimate players. Let her lose her place in the script and find herself forced to improvise.
Let it be that the undertow of this new drama is so unbearably strong that she finds herself totally lost, bat-shit-crazy lost, naked-with-clothes-shredded-and-utterly-shipwrecked lost. And let it be there, breathless and spewing, that she discovers she was not who she thought she was, or better yet, that she doesn’t care about the things she thought she cared about. In fact, the artifice of intelligence and accomplishment, she now realizes, was only cultivated to compensate for the absence of the one thing she really craves. Let sex, the beast, this pleasure to the point of paralysis, flood through the dams of her composure.
Let it be that she cannot pick up the pieces of her old familiar life and put them back together, like she has done for time immemorial. Let it be that she is so nailed that she cannot even put together a coherent thought—that the minute she does, it fractures into a thousand smithereens. And in that gap, let it be that what lies deep within her, at the very core of her being, can finally rise up and ooze out effortlessly into her tissues and sinew, blood and bones. Let it be that she becomes heated and swollen, fat and all woman.
And let it be that her fear enters with all of its marching orders, combat boots, and linear instructions; let it be that it gets absorbed into this molten liquid that she swirls helplessly within.
And please God, most of all, let it be that she has the opportunity in this lifetime to experience the raw sensation of her life balancing on the tip of another’s finger, to feel the power of his stroke, which wrenches her from the conditioned responses she has learned to summon at will when the moment calls for it. Let it be that this stroke, so full and so simple and so electrifying, weans her from the tendency to quell her desires and hold back the tide of who she is.
Let her stingy compulsion to stay small be shattered by the force of that onrush. Let her love too much, be too much, cling too much, want too much. To the point of total consumption, total obliteration.
I say this prayer prior to proclaiming the prognosis, writing out the prescription, even prior to locating the source of her blockage. Prior to sending her there, to the man she believes will destroy her, to the one her pussy throbs for. And I instruct her to prostrate herself before him, to reveal him every thought, every desire, every yearning. To offer herself to what she has perceived as her lowest and basest nature. In asking her to make the burnt offering, to sacrifice the virginal self she has attempted to maintain, untouched and untouchable and altogether numbed to pleasure, I am asking her to surrender to something whose presence she has always intuited without quite acknowledging: the raw, tremendous, creative/destructive power of sex.
And then I wait for the inevitable immune response, the sexy savvy woman’s ubiquitous whiny lamentation, “But I could never…do that!”, cheeks flushing, lips swelling, thoughts churning. Predictably, she tells me that this just doesn’t seem right—and admittedly, all of her friends, cab drivers, and therapists would agree. But as radical as my suggestion may seem, as low and deep and raw and naked as I am asking her to be, her resistance is just a cover. She knows the antidote to her life-long malaise isn’t in the advice that’s been bouncing around in the echo chamber of her mind for years now.
I watch her negotiate with her various censors and guardians. She has to put up the good fight. She half-heartedly replies, like a bratty teen, “Yeah, sure, easy for you to suggest.” To which I respond, “Yes, it is, because were I not so goddamned consumed with getting women on this underground train, I would be getting fucked by the conductor.” Or chasing after some guy who has learned to run like an Olympic athlete all charged up on fear. The possibilities are endless. But no. Today, I am here with her.
She concedes because she wants what I have, or more precisely, wants to rid herself of what I don’t have, which is the pride that would have taken my desires hostage long ago. In any case, many of the women who’ve come through my doors are looking for something more. Not just trite instructions on how to corral a man’s lasting interest or stick up for themselves in the face of an overbearing boss, but a deep and nourishing and connected line straight to their power source. But before a woman can experience her power, she has to get naked, go deep, and let go of everything she had previously believed to define her. She has to surrender.