On Spirituality and Jesus Dildos

It had been a long time since anyone in the abbey had seen an outsider; they were a self-sustaining order that swore to do away with all comforts found on the outside; the youngest member of the order was in his mid-forties. There had been a discussion amongst them that they needed to find a few faithful younger men who would leave behind all of the comforts of the modern world to serve the Lord, but no one brought forth a plan to fellowship the next generation of the abbey’s inhabitants.
Henry the VIII had ordered the abbey destroyed after he broke away from the Catholic Church. The abbey had been plundered, the monks inside were executed and the stone and wood edifice was left to rot. What the king and all the sovereigns thereafter didn’t know was that somehow a small group of monks survived and found enough followers to sustain what was left of the abbey. The man who was gifted the land had been sympathetic to the monks, unbeknownst to Henry VIII. The land was bequeathed to the abbot who led the small band of monks. There were no more than ten monks inhabiting the ruins at any given time. They had become isolated over the years from the Catholic Church, always fearing the wrath of the current ruler of the land, even though they wouldn’t receive retribution for their religion in the current century. They had come to rely on their Vulgate translations of the Bible as well as their forefathers’ personal revelations as their scripture.
A young woman was exploring this desolate area where the abbey thrived five hundred years before she was born. Brother Thaddeus saw the woman and gasped. Was it possible that the time had come for one of his forefathers’ revelations to come to pass? He would take her to the brethren; only in conference would they know if this woman was the one who would herald the arrival of Christ. How long had it been, Thaddeus wondered, since he had last approached a woman? Surely by now it must have been nearly fifty years. He didn’t bother to try to think of what to say; God would supply the words.
“God give you good den, woman,” he greeted her, “Welcome to the humble home of the Ymarian monks.” The woman was puzzled. She hadn’t expected to see anyone in such a remote area. Seeing that the woman wasn’t prepared to speak, Thaddeus continued, “Please come with me. There is a matter of the greatest importance to be discussed.” The woman permitted herself to be escorted deeper into the ruins where the monks quietly thrived. Thaddeus stopped before the door leading to the common area where the monks broke their fasts and spoke freely to one another. “If you have anything to say, woman, speak now. Once you pass through these doors you must remain silent.” It was clear the woman was awestruck, sensing that she was being allowed into an inner sanctum rarely seen or heard of by outsiders. She was enthralled by ancient carvings on the thresholds and walls.
Brother Matthias and Brother Nathaniel were in the common room preparing the table for the evening meal. Thaddeus didn’t need to introduce the woman to his brethren; they knew of the importance of having her in their company. Without a word, Nathaniel slipped out of the room to summon the five other brethren and he returned with Father Nicholas, Brother Simon, Brother Aaron, Brother Peter as well as a couple of lengths of sturdy rope. He knotted the middle of the smaller length of rope.
Father Nicholas was a learned man who was nearing his eighty-fifth year, but one would mistake him to be no older than Thaddeus or perhaps Peter, twenty-five years his junior. She had to be the one. He nodded and the brethren had the girl’s hands bound above her head and secured to a low beam that the monks often used when it was necessary for one of them to receive a penance of flagellation. She was gagged with the knotted rope the moment she opened her mouth. Nathaniel produced a strip of dark wool and blindfolded her. She tried to protest with her legs, but it was a futile effort.
“I never thought I would see this event come to pass,” Nicholas mused, sitting down at the head of the table. “Oremus,” he said softly. The monks respectfully knelt and began praying in Latin.
The girl listened to the monks’ melodious chants, unsure of her fate. After what seemed like a long time, there was complete silence. After several long minutes, the monks began to speak. The girl couldn’t understand what they were saying because they were speaking in a foreign language she wasn’t familiar with, although since it sounded somewhat like the prayers, she assumed it was Latin. Her arms were tired and she was petrified that she was about to be a sacrifice in a Satanic ritual.
“Did you understand anything we have been saying?” one of the men asked her. She shook her head. He continued, “We will tell you what is going to happen, at least as much as you need to know. It is written that a woman will come to pay for Eve’s transgressions and only then, when the original sin has been absolved will the Lord return to earth. You are the new Eve that has been spoken of.” The girl blushed, both in frustration for not being able to protest and because they thought she was someone important. “We will now begin your absolution.”
The monks reverently cut away the girl’s clothes, well aware of their sacred duty. One by one, each left the room and returned with a scourge each had created long ago. Each scourge would be used by the owner on the girl.
For seven nights, the girl endured the biting scourges followed by her back being bathed in a salt and vinegar solution. At the end of each night’s ritual, she was led to a small cell where a soft bed had been prepared for her. Each day she was given simple meals of bread and wine.
On the eighth day, the girl was taken into the most sacred place in the abbey; right to the very altar where for centuries the monks prayed for such a day to come when the altar would be used to wash away the sins of Eve.
Once again, the monks chanted their prayers and hymns. They hadn’t spoken to the girl since the first day. She was stretched out on the altar spread eagle and bound before the blindfold came off (it was put on the moment she came out of her cell and taken off only when she was inside the cell again, as was the gag). She was naked and felt horribly vulnerable in the ancient, echoing hall where a few of the men were constantly praying and chanting. The remaining monks were around her. She wasn’t certain, but she suspected that she was being baptized when water was sprinkled over her. Another anointed her body with oil. Two more carried an ornate golden crucifix that in spite of its ancient age shone as if it were new. Prayers were said over the crucifix and the foot of the post was anointed with oil. The crucifix was angled towards the girl’s vagina and slowly pushed in. If the gag hadn’t been in place, the room would have echoed the pain the girl felt. The crucifix was pushed in and out again and again until the girl was certain she was bleeding.
Indeed, she was bleeding, as expected. The girl found herself surrendering to what was happening to her and she was feeling light-headed. She was beginning to understand why there was a need for her to become Eve. She embraced the opportunity to feel whole and at last accepted by the god who couldn’t accept a woman because of another woman’s transgression so many millennia ago.
The deed was done. The girl lay limp on the altar, her blood mingled with the holy crucifix. She had indeed given herself up in penance. A place was created for her among the tombs of the men who had led the abbey.

So you may be wondering how it came about that I wrote this story. I admit it’s definitely a rough draft, but in order for me to write what I’m about to write, I thought I’d put a fantasy I had the other night into words. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, for me writing is a form of masturbation….and I suspect it’s a form of masturbation for most writers, even if they’d never admit it.
When I first saw the Jesus dildos, I was disturbed and sickened. It was a sacrilege. But this week I think I’ve had a new insight into the possibilities of it being something that isn’t as profane as it appears. For me, there is something very spiritual in an intense scene—whether there is a sexual release or not. I’ve known ever since the day I met Kim and our first scene together that my sexuality and my spirituality are very much integral to each other and the way I live. I’m starting to think that whether it’s a Jesus or Mary dildo or a Buddha dildo, that it doesn’t really matter so much as the representation of life and uniting the very earthy libido with the spiritual consciousness. It’s really all about balance and perhaps for some a Jesus or Buddha dildo could be the channeling device for some to feel the passion of their spiritual and carnal selves uniting. I think that we as humans in the western world have become too caught up in Puritan ways of thinking that we often think of our carnal bodies as something that should be shed, purified, and/or ignored. And yet, that would completely defeat the purpose of experiencing life. Perhaps more people should be encouraged to get in touch with every aspect of their lives and learn to blend those aspects so they can learn to become at peace with themselves.

On Biting, Blood Sports, and Vampires

I originally created this blog entry a few weeks ago, but Blogspot unfortunately lost it before saving or publishing it. I will now attempt to recreate at least the sense of that lovely lost essay.

I never considered myself to be a person with an oral fixation; I dropped the pacifier and thumb sucking about the time I was potty trained; i.e. under two years of age. My sister, on the other hand, was still contentedly sucking her thumb until she was about six. Of course now I readily admit to having an oral fixation, but before I realized I was kinky, I never gave any thought to oral fixations…or at least, not much thought.

My interest in biting and being bitten came about in a very odd way. I was fourteen and I had control of the TV remote one evening. I was switching through the channels and not finding anything interesting. I turned to the Discovery Channel and they were having the biography of Bela Lugosi. I became instantly hypnotized by his voice and penetrating eyes, even though the pictures were mostly black and white. Before this moment, I had zero interest in vampires, Dracula, old movies, or Bela. That changed in the forty-five minutes I tuned in to this particular show. Over the course of the next year, I read Stoker’s Dracula at least three times and I was fortunate enough to see the 1931 film version with Bela Lugosi that year on American Movie Classics. By the time I was fifteen Dracula was a main character in my fantasies. Other vampires will come and go in these fantasies over the years, but good ol’ Drac is THE ultimate vampire, especially Bela’s Dracula.

You can’t fantasize about vampires without having a biting fantasy. I would lie in my bed in the dark imagining what it would feel like to be bitten and to feel teeth actually puncturing holes in my flesh; the double pinprick of pain and pleasure. Most of my fantasies revolved around being abducted and bitten (of course I was usually bound) or thrown into a coffin a deep, ancient crypt or being chased through a cemetery.

Things evolved into much darker fantasies as I became an adult and a severe depression that lasted until I met Kim, at least an eight year depression. During this time, I wrote my first sonnets, many of which are part of a large group of vampire sonnets. They aren’t perfect, but they improve as my understanding of the poetic form grew. Sometime I’ll find that notebook and work on revising them (there are at least 57 if I remember correctly). There came a point just before I started college in 1996 when I was absolutely certain I was invisible. No one looked at me or seemed to see me except my mom, the person I was taking care of and had devoted my life to. I was isolated and disconnected, not knowing the sensation of being cared for or seen. In order to make certain I really existed, I would occasionally bite myself or scratch or pinch myself, only stopping when I could see deep red indentations or that I had broken the skin. That’s when I discovered how soothing it was to be bitten as well as biting. I suspect now that this was my attempt at gasping for air; I was suffocating and dying and grasping at pain as a life preserver.

Biting still seems to be a life preserver for me. I don’t bite myself nearly as much anymore; almost invariably it happens when I’m stressed at work; confrontation makes me need an instant outlet; besides, biting has the added benefit of acting as a gag so I don’t say something that I’ll later regret.
Kim wasn’t into the biting thing. Other mouth things yes, biting, no. It wasn’t until I met M at UPEX that I realized biting could be a fetish and it could be fun. When C. and I first got together I think I became rather aggressive in telling him I wanted to try some biting. Thankfully, C. is very obliging when it comes to trying most types of play (still working on water sports and enemas though!) that I’m curious about. I really enjoy being bitten, especially on the neck, probably stemming from all those delicious vampire fantasies. Also, because for some reason being marked like that is somewhat of a taboo thing to me probably because of that whole “good girl” notion I grew up with. Some taboos are made to be broken!
Being involved in a leather community makes one aware of all sorts of different play one would not otherwise consider. Take knives and needles for instance. I would never have played with knives if I hadn’t seen M.B. and J. playing with knives and other than the random medical/interrogation/alien fantasy; needle play wasn’t on my list of things I wanted to try. Funny thing is, I’ve tried both of them now and I think I’ve developed a love for knife play and a dislike for needles. I loved the cutting J.C. gave me; to this day it’s one of the greatest scenes I’ve ever had. I loved the feel of the blood dripping and the blade drawing on me, opening me and leaving its mark. I loved the feel of the cutting as it healed into a faint scar (that needs to be reopened). J.C. also did needle play on me and it wasn’t pleasant. For some reason, there was a bad energy and feeling of vulnerability when we did the needle play. I felt like I was losing something I didn’t want to lose. I don’t regret the needle play, but I have wondered for a long time why I don’t have the same love of needles as I do for blades and cuttings. Sometime I’ll have to give needles another chance; undoubtedly, there will be a right time and place for it in the future. Besides, needles leave pretty marks.

I think that about covers my current thoughts on this topic. Since I am rather obsessed by this subject, undoubtedly I’ll be exploring and writing about it more in the future.