I sat down on the incredibly hard-on-my-butt benches at the restaurant, and blandly commented on how much my ass was going to hurt. My girlfriend smiled, crinkled her nose and said it was going to be the least of my worries that night.
I looked down at my menu, and thought about that. I’m sure she had said it lightly; a precursor to what some would say would be the best sex of my life.
I guess that statement is subjective. What did the best sex of my life mean if I was having the best sex of my life everyday? Probably nothing more than if it weren’t the best sex of my life. I had read about the banality of sin somewhere, and I came to understand what that phrase meant. That’s alright, this whole sex before marriage thing is a perk to a relationship that could be boring otherwise.
Every night with her reminded me of how godless we had become. More godless by the minute, most of our night time fun involved the thrill of doing something we shouldn’t have. Over the centuries, never have the sinful been as enchanting, or the act of sin been as trendy, or the victims of sin been as willing and ready as they are now.
You could call it callous; you could even call it a mad dash toward Perdition, but these statements are subjective too. No one knows what happens after we die. Some of us only believe we do. Our actions belie our beliefs, and our beliefs belie our state of mind.
I blame the belief in a system of punishment and reward for the condition of guilt. The concept was genius, for there is nothing more frightening than the unknown. The field is terribly understudied. The world before Christ ran on an array of moral commandments, and the only reward for living by these guidelines was the reward of happiness and domestic gratification. The change in belief from that personal pleasure to the threat of vast fields of burning souls and bedlam confuses me. I blame Dante Alighieri and Milton. Heaven and Hell are lies that have seeped into our belief system with Christ, with his seductive and selective love of only those who embraced him in turn! There is nothing unconditional about this love. It feels like we’re paying for Heaven.
Nothing has ever confirmed or denied the existence of a fluffy cloud city, or of a Gatekeeper wearing a long, flowing white robe who reads names off an incredibly short piece of paper; a boarding list of sorts for the fluffy cloud city. The chaste don’t know any better than the philanderers, no matter how certain they are about their archaic and traditional way of life. The philanderers only hope that what they believe is true. Their truths might not be true either! The reward that we seek is no longer the warm and fuzzy feeling of contentment we find within our souls, for how many people do you know in this modern day cockroach and black-boot culture that are in touch with their character and essence anymore?
The only way that we understand who we are anymore is by studying who we identify with, not which Biblical laws we choose to obey and reject. We surround ourselves with the wicked, the corrupt and the familiar and we delight in it. Everybody on this planet is a sinner, and the sinful who berate those with different peccadilloes in their conscience are phony at their very cores, the very false preachers we abhor. We cannot judge anyone else for their sins any longer because our sins do not smell like roses either. The moral strangleholds that kept so many in check for so long are obsolete. We need to think of new beliefs that resonate with who we are now, not who we were two thousand years ago.
Let pleasure be our new religion, for it leads to the same end as that old tourniquet that kept our warm-blooded psyches at bay. If we must worship something, let it be something that we find pleasure in, rather than something that traps us from its very first fallacy. If anything, Religion is merely a schizoid embolism, brewing and bubbling, rearing to bleed us of our infinite possibilities. It means nothing in a world where we treat each other with indifference and hate, in a world where we don’t care about the people we share it with. If we must feel guilty about something, that is the only thing we must feel guilty about.
We finished our meal in peace, bantering, so in love. We left, my better half smiling, clutching at my arm, and me racing behind my eyes.
A few hours later at my house, I exhaled as hard as I could and felt the blood rush to my temples, pulsing like the strobe on tall towers that warn away errant aircraft. And yes, oh yes, the light was there too, intermittently blinding my consciousness, painting the shadows and colors in my bedroom with a radiance that was without hue for its intensity.
My eyes were closed, but my world lay within my mind. In my mind, the lights were real. I was sure that if any wandering night-crawler peered at my windows, it would see a sporadic glow that was glorious at its peaks shriek out of the blinds, gaining strength with every cycle. I felt that if anyone were to drill into my temple at that very moment, the pulses would spurt an amber fountain of blood several feet from my head in the final instant before I fell onto my face, dead. I could barely breathe. My chest hurt like I’d just sucked down an entire pack of cigarettes right after a long swim in cold water.
Gradually, like a crowd trickling from a park, the warmth dissipated and left me shivering in the violent clutches of a thrashing muscle spasm. It hurt, but God, did it feel like Heaven. I waited a few more minutes without a squirm, and as my breathing began to steady itself, I reached over and gasped into her ear, “Jesus.”
And then, opening my eyes slowly to guard against the possibility of some leftover light from the orgasm, I told her that I loved her that fey night. It was the truth, and that made me happy.