On the Nexus of Sex, Suffering and Sankhya Philosophy (Part II)

 I saw no balls at the ball,
no sacks, no dicks at all.
I only saw tits, big and small.

* * * * *
Female anatomy is the basis for human anatomy.

* * * * *
She was too busy cumming to eat, so he fed her.

 

Depression fogs up the mind. Why am I still mourning my mother? Why is there so much pain attached? Why does living churn up suffering? A Yogini on social media said that:

“[…] the biggest myth is yoga makes you feel very good [but] yoga, if you’re doing it right […] first makes you feel uncomfortable. Makes you see all sorts of […] dirts that are coming from your subconscious mind. […] So yoga and meditation both are actually meant to make you see that first. It will show you the filth inside you and break you so much that it is going to disintegrate you first. And then you will realize, oh my god, all of this I was carrying inside me. And that’s when the […] desire to rise above these enemies comes. It’s not just one hour of practice you do on the mat. It’s consciousness […] always at work. If your Yoga [practice] is making you your shadow and it is disintegrating it, then know that your [practice] is going the right way.
It is not just about taking a deep breath and feeling good; it is the complete inner purification, for it to happen one has to see the dirt settled in all inner layers.
That is why holistic yoga is the way to rebuild oneself into an evolved human being.”
- Greesha Dhingra @gree_yogabhyasi (on Instagram)

My late Mexican mother’s birthday, November 1^st, fell on a Saturday this year, which was the day of the ball. It is also the Day of the Dead. But I exchanged the sensations of suffering for the pursuit of partying joy.

The annual Halloween Erotic Ball took place at a hotel, where many guests booked rooms as well. Why not party all night? The group chat was full of sexy anticipation. Lover and I discussed whether we were open to other partners and decided we weren’t. Two is a wonderful number. I could read jealousy on his face, and excitement. Mine was suppressed. Not the excitement, that I expressed.

In the chat, all passionate party nudists were reminded of the rules. No private parts showing in the public areas. Wardrobe malfunction while dancing? Oh well! I decided to go free breasted with tassels covering the nipples. Honestly, I felt too down to swing them around, but they were fun in other ways. 

I thought it was unfortunate that private parts had to be covered, as I had fantasized about my lover’s package hanging out from his pants all night. But I saw no balls at the ball, no sacks, no dicks at all. I did see tits, big and small. The only pussy I saw was draped in latex at the petting machine station, where an anonymous woman lay on a table buried in a brown plastic blanket, the air sucked out with a vacuum sucker. Many people were touching her. I massaged her right calf and foot. Thus, I participated in the particularities of the ball that was set up like an adult sensory room.

However, all I really care about at a party are the music and the dance floor. Give me good music so I can lose myself dancing, please!

Thankfully, I got into a playful state of mind despite the depression, maybe also thanks to the effect of fun substances. Certainly, the atmosphere was cheerful, festive and fun thanks to creative, colorful and sexy costumes, decorations, a D.J. with a versatile taste in music and lots of people having a good time.

Two women approached me throughout the night wondering about my costume and I responded in the same way to each.

“Let me give you a hint,” I said and reached between my legs to grab the little red velvet bag that hung from my thin yellow belt. I opened the bag and pulled out a large deck of Tarot cards. “You’re a fortune teller!” each woman exclaimed. “Correct!” I praised and then asked whether she would like a quick reading. Each woman said yes. I was bluffing hard, playing the game of make believe. For, believe me, I’m not a professional fortune teller. But I can pretend to be one. So, I promptly shuffled the cards standing up until something fell out. Then, I uttered whatever my mind spat out of my mouth. Twice surprisingly, each woman said that it was exactly what she needed to hear, almost broke into tears and we embraced intensely as if our lives had been changed forever.

I was also approached by two women who were not wondering about my costume but wanted to play with it. That’s when a woman kissed me. And it would have been rude not to kiss her back. But it was neither hot nor cold. It was an equanimous kiss, that’s all.

 She came up to me on the dance floor and asked:

“Do I have your consent to play with your tassels?”
I said, “You do.”

Then, she played with my tits and asked me to play with hers. So, I did. It would have been rude not to. At the end of our catty titty-play, she kissed me and left with her lover, who had watched the whole thing go down. Unfortunately, my lover was gone at that moment. But he was there for the second woman who came up to me and asked:

“Do I have your consent to fondle your boobs?”
I spread my arms out wide, chest lifting, head tilted back, eyes closed and pronounced theatrically and emphatically: “I consent!”

She grabbed on, buried her face in my bosom, shook it around passionately and finished with gentle slapping and patting. Then, she let me know it was my turn. Her long cleavage was the result of two packed large, soft motherly tits tightly tucked into a push-up corset. I grabbed the outside half-cups and shook with all my might. Thank God for muscle strength! The mature lady breasts jiggled with horsepower. It was such a delight! Except, I felt indifferent. Then, I kissed her left breast, presumably her heart, goodbye. It would have been rude not to. My lover laughed gleefully.

“It was the diplomatic thing to do,” I explained to him. Why reject perfectly formulated breast-requests?  

My mother had been a great Ambassador and taught me good diplomacy. Now, I’m not a career diplomat but I can practice party diplomacy when a kind woman kindly offers sensual attention and asks for kind sensual attention in return. I was able to give the two tit-happy women, lovers in tow, my diplomatic validation. Whereas the two single men who approached me had experienced my diplomatic rejection. The women felt like an extension of myself, whereas the men felt foreign.

* * * * *

When my mother was the Mexican Consul General in Salt Lake City, she oversaw the Mexican population of the states of Utah, Idaho, Montana and Wyoming. She advocated for undocumented migrants and fought for them to receive, at least, an identification card, since they pay taxes and work hard. Taxes that fund politicians and police. Mother negotiated, communicated and cooperated with local politicians and law enforcement. It’s what good diplomats do to represent their people in foreign lands with dignity. And she succeeded. I travelled with her and the consular staff to Idaho to set up a temporary weekend office to give Mexicans their IDs. This happened back in the late nineteen-nineties and the early two-thousands. The Mexican people called her Mother Consul, Mamá Cónsul.

Now, one morning on the way to yoga class, several police cars were blocking half the road. From afar it looked like maybe there had been an accident. But there was only one stopped car. I read “Sonora” on the license plate, the name of a Mexican State, and knew the driver was a landsman of mine. Suddenly, I was filled with anxiety as the current political climate is full of xenophobia targeting Latinos. I wondered what my mom would say about the situation, she who had fought for human rights and dignity. “There has always been persecution,” I imagined her saying, “and the negative narratives being pushed about certain people and the institutionalization of these narratives make for a dangerous and very unpleasant atmosphere.”

After yoga class, I cried for my mother and for Mexicans and Latinos at large, who I know are experiencing great distress. I cried and then I had to get myself together when I arrived at the store to get the ingredients for the Mexican chicken soup for my sick child.

* * * * *

All I care about at a party is music and dancing. As soon as the last song was over, all I needed to know was “Where is there still music playing?”

Some room numbers were shared. One room had two floors. A lot of people went there. But they were just standing around and the smartphone music was quiet and unmoving. Lover and I left after only a few minutes. Also, my feet were killing me from wearing black high-heeled boots. Pain that subsided while I danced but became almost intolerable otherwise.

On the way to a more private party, we walked past several rooms with open doors. People lay in beds or stood around them, waiting for company. Lover and waived joyfully as we walked by. We had a very private after-party of two to get to. One that went on for a couple of hours. Sure, I attribute at least some of the flow to the fun substances coursing through our bodies.

Exploring and enduring a variety of positions and sensations – is this not yoga? I wondered as I gave myself to the physical flow of the moment. Like when I was dancing lost in music or playing tits with another woman. I became a witness to myself and the moment as I let go and released all resistance. As Lover and I were tossed around by lust. And the moment was chill, peaced-out and full of bliss. A state of mind perhaps enhanced by the subtle numbness from being tired and intoxicated. A state of mind that transcended the moment with presence, nonetheless. Like in Sankhya Philosophy, where Purusha transcends Prakriti. That which lies beyond all nature, transcends nature by merely observing all that is as it unfolds. Naturally, this is a state beyond distress, beyond doubt and happiness.

Thus, I realized that I was able to let go completely in my body and trust the physical process it was under, regardless of sensations. Perhaps, the sensations in a given context can even stimulate the ability to let go. I remembered this ability to let go during asana practice, which also consists of a flow of positions emitting sensations. Not unlike a prolonged sex act that challenges body and mind. Until you let be and just go with the flow, which in turn can relax body and mind, even if it’s a hell of a workout. Also, not unlike pregnancy and giving birth, which severely challenge the female body and mind. I completely surrendered three times to the physical process of creating human life, which carries with it a lot of pain and suffering. Still, I experienced a state of peace and bliss that transcended all capricious procreating nature. A very Samkhyan thing to do, to witness the calm amidst duress, to release tension from stress.

In the context of sex, letting go was possible thanks to the great amount of trust I have with my lover.

On the yoga mat, I can trust myself, and the wisdom of a teacher.

Because this kind of contemplative confidence does not happen magically – though, perhaps, it could? Given that the opportunity to observe as if removed from a situation, that is, the choice for contemplation is always there.

Blissful trust and confidence are built with the consistent care and genuine effort that establish the safe atmosphere required for complete surrender. Safety through discipline and devotion. The discipline to exercise virtues and a devotion to kindness and truth. Virtues like non-harm, honesty, cleanliness, respect, moderation and all them yogic limbs. A devotion to the truth of forces within and beyond oneself, i.e. another person, shared sensations and natural phenomena like lust, ambition, pleasure and doubt. Virtues and devotion that are observed by a witness to it all, which is the inherent ability to be aware within oneself but also beyond.

To be continued…