The Girl
She has dirty blond hair, a seductive smile, and the most engaging set of hazel green eyes he has ever seen. It’s the kind of engaging he can’t ignore… the kind that makes him want to engage too. Because she’s mysterious. And he’s curious. And he needs to know more.
Yet, he does his best to avoid making eye contact. So he stares down at the pool table and pretends to study his opponent’s next move. But only long enough for her to look the other way, so he can once again catch a glimpse of magnificence.
He does this, not because she intimidates him, but because he thinks she may be the girl Chad met last night. A wild night that, he said, “involved two bottles of port wine, chocolate cake, and sweaty bed sheets.”
Then, just as her eyes unexpectedly met his, his opponent groans, “It’s been your turn for like five minutes. Ya planning on going sometime today?” And she walks gracefully away.
So he continues to wonder… “Is she the port wine and chocolate cake girl? Gosh, she doesn’t look like that kind of girl.” But he doesn’t wonder too long because Chad enters the room and says, “Marc, there’s someone I want you to meet.” So he follows him into the kitchen and they bump right into her. “Oh, Angel,” Chad says. “This is my buddy, Marc.”
And He smiles ear to ear and chuckles…
Because she’s not the port wine and chocolate cake girl. But also because he spent the last twenty minutes thinking about the port wine, and the chocolate cake, and the sweaty bed sheets.
The Dance
Hours later, the party begins winding down. But the band is still playing, the two painters who have been painting a wall mural all evening are still painting, and they are still dancing.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“No,” Angel says. “Dancing is my outlet. When I dance, I transcend myself and the doubts that sometimes prevent me from being me. This evening has been enchanting, just dancing with you and being me.”
So he twirls her around. And the drummer keeps drumming. The guitarist keeps strumming. The singer keeps singing. The painters keep painting. And now they are the only ones dancing.
As they continue to dance, she says, “I feel as if we’re naked. And not just you and me, but the drummer, the guitarist, the singer, and the painters too. Everyone left in this room is naked… naked and free.”
He smiles and tells her that He agrees. “We are naked. We are free.”
As he knows they don’t have to take their clothes off to be naked. Because moments of passion flow into them like port wine flows into chocolate cake. And if they let them, these moments can expose them completely, and continuously. And create climaxes that don’t even require sex.
Because a true climax has little to do with orgasm, and everything to do with passion, love, and devotion. In the same way, nakedness has little to do with how much clothing one wears, and everything to do with one’s awareness in a given moment of time… An unfettered awareness that frees their mind and allows them to truly live the moment for all it’s worth.
The Climax
After a few more songs, Angel asks if he would like to join her out on the front porch where it’s quieter. “Just so we can talk about life,” she says.
He gives her a little wink. “I love life in this crazy world! It is crazy, isn’t it?”
She smiles. “Yeah, a world in which we can be naked with our clothes on and experience continuous climax without intercourse.”
“Because instead we can achieve both with music, or paint, or dance, or any form of avid self-expression,” he adds.
“You got it. Even the sincerity in this conversation is beginning to work for me,” she says as they step out the front door and into the moonlight.
