The Rhythm of Balance
Shoveling snow at my parents yesterday, my efficiency was noticeably rustied by the two past winters of LA living. As the falling 12-inches blanketed time in its absorption of everything. I relinquished, zen-like, to the elements' tempo. Crouching low, legs bent and open, my arms scooped and released as my back and shoulders eased into slightly deviating syncopations with hips and legs. I felt strong, if not nimble.
And, I thought of sex.
No, it wasn’t just the fantastical 12-inches, though I once knew someone 3-inches- shy, and the vision of two 6-inchers playing their snow-balls with me has a certain allure.
( in case anyone has an MFM snow threesome they’ve adventured and would like to submit! www.threesomebook.com )
But it WAS Sunday morning and it HAD BEEN over 2 months since I felt a cock inside of me, and more than a half-year-ago now since the late morning love-ins before-during-after the equally ritualistic viewing of Stephanopoulos and Russert. (Pre-empted this past Sunday by endlessly regurgitated local news' adulation of that same phallicly-inspired snowy foot. NY got an orgiastic 2-and-a-quarter!)
I wasn't having a horny pondering (at least not at that exact moment). It was the sensual omnipresence that all things are union. As I uncovered a few blades of grass by the walkway, they were exposed from their surrender of the snow. And the bushes shook the whiteness off their branches with each exhalation of the wind, like a woman freeing her hair of seduction’s evidence. But it was simpler than that even. It was the interplay of power in nature’s rhythms.
It was the awe of the physicality. That the labor of shoveling, here and now, was more important to the chain of survival than any mental achievement. Like Katrina and the tsunami, this snowfall was reminder of matter. How our sex is seeded in a collective undulation. Sexual freedom, education, and even the pursuit of pleasuring itself, are all for naught(y) unless our bodies feel the balance of the anticipated and indefinite, of surrender and wait.
Breathe in and out and in...again.
My parents' dog jumped blissfully into the drifts, then, as was her usual habit, began her tribal semi-circle-reverse dos-a-dos, her “poop” dance that prepares the ground for her Freudian gift. Duty done. She ran and rolled into more snow, her coat and face covered in mini-icicles. I swear she winked.
I went inside to a hot cup of coffee. Boots and jacket off, I resolved to have reason to wink a lot more.
