the sacred prey

To be honest, whenever I hear 'pleasure is sacred' I brace.

I never know what doctrine is about to follow.
I just know that it's a pretty philosophy embraced by the man who exploited me. Specifically, the idea that sex and women were his non-dogmatic ticket to God.

I had to purge him like I'd been poisoned, only to find out just how many others he'd made sick from his "seeking" (and, from what I hear, continues to).

I've found that pleasure is not pure when the ego is giving it a job to do.
It calls itself "fluid" while the water is someone's own spilt blood.

The "sacred union" this man had promised was merely a sanction to manipulate spiritual women.

That's why I want to interject on that narrative.

Pleasure was not my path to awakening.
It was an eventual result of choosing that path—which, itself, has been regularly uncomfortable and often entirely under-stimulating.

Because I've learned there are two kinds of pleasure:
There is a kind that weakens from tolerance.
And a kind that doesn't.
And the latter only sat at the pit of my authenticity.

Reaching that depth didn't require a partner, nor self-touch of any kind.

It required less baggage.

Less mental noise, less egoic attachment, and less energetic dispersion propping up a false idea of independence.

The archetypal "God-seeking" creep is starving inside his own delusion—convinced that an unboundaried sexuality is a feast.

Now, I more strongly stand that a contained Eros is not repressed; it is sovereign.

Sovereignty is what snuffs out the predator—and ignites the body.