My Religion of Late

“Quietly go to work on your own self-awareness. If you want to awaken all of humanity, then awaken all of yourself. If you want to eliminate the suffering in the world, then eliminate all that is dark and negative in yourself. Truly, the greatest gift you have to give is that of your own self-transformation.”      – Hua hu Ching: The Unknown Teachings of Lao Tzu

To begin there was nothing but happiness, joy and lightness. No deity, no sin, no reward, no punishment and no regulation. The hue of my mother’s skin and its softness–her perfect dark brown and my father’s rough hands. He would toss me around like I was a little boy–I was always the roughest, always a tomboy as a child. Even now from time to time. Mami told me he didn’t hold us often when we were infants because he thought he would break us. He probably would have; to me he was the strongest human on the planet. I remember being a toddler always with him and his friends. They would treat me like one of the boys. In Panama he and his best friend were so close and similar that I would call them both Papi–never distinguishing between the two. I would climb all over Papi and he would spin me around, pin me in his legs–which to me were like iron bars and hold me there for a long time as I struggled to get out as he watched TV in his bed–each time thinking I was stronger than he was, always growing fast and strong, like he used to say. I could never escape though, I couldn’t escape his love. Mami would sit me down every few days between her legs. She’s the epitome of femininity–like a hairless puppy. (Not like me, so much like my father in how I walk, sit, gesture and hairy everywhere–especially my belly.) No, Mami doesn’t have any hair on her legs or her chin, very little under her arms, skin as smooth as a baby, complexion perfect. Mami would pick out my afro first, grease my scalp, little braids with shiny clips or big plaits with bolitas at the base (Black American girls called them bobos, I used to think that was weird). There was only love between her legs where I used to sit. She made me beautiful–negra linda. She gave me comfort. She seldom lost her temper. She loved me when my actions would have made me unlovable to anyone else. She breathes tenderness and kindness, patience and beauty. As I child their love was my only religion.  Continue reading

Week of Truth: I apologize

It’s been quite some time since I’ve done a week of truth. Not cumming has made me feel a little bit like I’m in a 12-step program. For this “week of truth” I need to make some apologies. Especially since I’m working on my sex energy stuffs. AND I’m going to share some of my dancing, just a tinsy bit.  Even though most of the people I’m apologizing to won’t read or even know I have this blog–sometimes the universe allows for us to find things and so perhaps one or a few will come across this someday. If not, I think it’s still helpful to put it out there as I should’ve apologized a long time ago.

Back in college:
I had a lover for a while in college; we were both madly in love with other people at the time. I cared for him a lot, he’s beautiful, smart and politically on point. I loved fucking him. But sometimes he would want to just spend time with me talking, and I always hated that shit. Continue reading

Week 2 – Tantra

It’s been 15 days since my last ‘peak’ orgasm. This is huge for me—I have never gone more than 4 days without cumming since my adolescence. And if it was that many days I was probably really depressed and suicidal. I can officially be called a tantra practitioner now! There are a few truths that have become apparent for me during this time. I wrote about rigidity, freedom and trauma in a recent post. There’s more than one truth; there’s an infinite number of truths. Sometimes we can only see one, and when it’s time we become aware of others.

I’ve had some time to reflect and become aware of some of the darkness around my insistence and intensity around specific types of sexual pleasure. I knew from the time I was a child that sexual play and arousal would be an important part of my life. When I experienced my first orgasm (I was laying on the couch grinding on my favorite teddy bear when the explosion happened–taking all of the wind out of me and I fell asleep right there), I knew that I would always want to please myself in that way. And even though I didn’t even know what my genitals looked like, I knew I could find pleasure in it–great amounts of pleasure that made me happy and giddy and light and full. Continue reading

Las Palabras Son Semillas

Babaaláwo told me to watch what I say. Before I said anything about who I was he laughed at  me and said, “You march to the beat of your own drummer, don’t you? People call you strange.” When he did my numbers he told me I had a wild and intense sex energy. “Do you write? You need to be,” he said before I could answer. “It is imperative that you write. This isn’t about you.” I told him I’m good at being lazy; that I hate discipline, order. He explained that my fear of being tied-down or caged in or forced into a boring routine is not the same as discipline. That discipline should always create more freedom. I asked him how the hell is that possible? We spent a lot of time together; I thought he was flirting with me; he thought I was flirting with him. He came back two days later with more. “Your ancestors were calling me hard,” I laughed. “Word, tell ’em I said wussup.” There were words spoken that I had had an inkling of–quiet palabras que me llenaba de esperanza, que me llenaba del poder. There were words I had never heard before; something inside of my body is healing itself, that’s why there’s blood. Continue reading

There are certain things I avoid writing about on this here blog. But after 8 days with no orgasm, things come up that you didn’t know was there. This, however, shouldn’t be read as a sad story. For four years I was sexually assaulted by a cousin beginning at age 11. In a really close knit family like mine, with our family get togethers and sleep overs with all the kids, it happened often enough over those years. Continue reading