Sexual Metaphysics 101 or Fighting the Future.

Van Gag and Annie try to bargain for their freedom by taking the religious bounty hunters who captured them to a tantric sex lounge called Aphrodite and The World Tree.

The Tantric sex lounge was nestled in a little corner that seemed to defy conventional sight. Somehow the architects had designed the building to only be visible from a certain angle, which narrowed down the clientele to those who decided to look at the word in a metaphysical way. Only those who looked beyond the thin veil of typical reality could see the place. The words “Aphrodite and the World Tree” were elegantly scrawled across the top in a strange fusion of bright pink neon and rich oak wood. Upon further inspection, one could see that modern architecture existed in symbiosis with natural earthen architecture that looked like something a Hobbit or a Keebler elf would call home. A hint of Gaelic and surrealist architecture crawled in from the fringes of perception to sensually stroke the senses. It was perhaps the most pleasant place the three bounty hunters and Annie had ever seen; warm and inviting as well as natural but modern. Architectural diversity unlike any that the four had ever seen before. For the first time, the programmed nervous response to “loose sexuality” melted away as they realized that this wasn’t simply irrelevant sexual congress. There was something infinitely more about this place.

            This all happened in the space of about three seconds which seemed to last for an eternity. While the others were having loving optical intercourse with the building, Van Gag was pulling out a couple of Drachmas from a pouch. Rays of cloudshine reflected grey off of gold, creating some kind of freak mutant color that in its queerness was immensely beautiful. An array of color reflections from the coins flashed across the eyes of those transfixed to the tantric sex lounge; jarring them smoothly from their trance. Shaking their heads, half embarrassed they had gotten so transfixed, they walked past Van Gag into the lounge.

            The inside of the lounge was as paradoxical architecturally as the outside had been. Natural wooden walls and great wood-woven ceilings contrasted perfectly with the soft red carpet adorning the floor like luscious bloody lava. Great scarlet couches and beds adorned with gold trim were scattered like sleeping tigers amongst the comfortable space of the lounge. Upon these beds were two or more people having slow, intricate sexual intercourse; bodies firmly pressed together but minds somewhere far away. Only three people in the building besides the new arrivals were not having sex: a voluptuous bartender mixing herbal drinks, a large dark-skinned man who safeguarded those engaging in divine intercourse as he walked neutrally among the rows, and a stocky doorman who, if the golden spear was any indication, doubled as a secondary guardian. The doorman (or woman; it was so very difficult to tell its gender) politely stopped them and asked for ID’s. As the others stood baffled by the scene, Van Gag pulled out a membership pass and handed that as well as the drachmas to it. The doorbeing nodded consent without a sound and gestured for them all to come in and go to the bar.

            They all sat down at the bar with nary a sound. However it seemed the bartender didn’t need sound to hear them, as she spun around from a large rack covered in herbs and flowers of various types. She calmly squeezed what appeared to be dew drops into a large green glass bottle, and then spoke to them. “State your faith and we’ll mix ya a brew to fit your divine desires.”

            “Ever the saleswoman Baba Yaga” chuckled Van Gag, which was followed by a gesture to a large purple bottle very high up.

            “Wait…isn’t Baba Yaga a witch in Slavic mythology that eats children?” nervously asked Annie as she unconsciously backed away ever so slightly.

            “A crock a’ s**t made up by some piss-poor warlocks who were pissed I could do magic better than ‘em. Filthy b******s, the lot of ‘em.”

            Silence pervaded for the briefest of moments until Baba Yaga popped the big question:

            “What’s your faith?”

            No one dared to go first, so Baba lithely grabbed the purple bottle off of the top shelf and handed it to Van Gag. As soon as she pointed towards what appeared to be a long purple couch inhabited by a large transvestite and a small gnome-looking woman, the large Native American man spoke:

            “I follow a religion which branches off but follows the ways of the Iroquois.”

            “Sounds great to me honey” said the witch as she pointed at a silken couch that was at once modern while paying homage to the designs of the Native Americans. Wooden bison’s sprouted from both ends.

            As the Native American man left for the couch, the Irishman meekly stepped forward and told Baba of what he’d always been embarrassed to tell: He believed in the folklore of faeries. Smiling in a good natured way, she pointed him towards a couch that seemed to be weaved out of beautiful flowers adorned in dew drops.

            The Aboriginal man finally stepped forward and confidently proclaimed his beliefs in the Dreamtime and other sacred aboriginal beliefs. Smiling even wider than before at the realization that this man was not meek for approaching last, but patient, Baba pointed at a couch that appeared to be made out of dark rock. As he sat down upon it and stripped naked as the others were, the Aboriginal man felt the lusciously soft silk of the couch caress his skin.

            Annie stood in indecision. She had often been unsure of what she believed. She had been a Deist, a Roman Catholic in her early childhood, an Atheist, and even a Scientologist for one summer in college when she was writing a term paper about them. Now she had no damn idea what to do.

            Noticing, Van Gag smiled kindly over at her and gestured for her to come over to the couch he occupied. At first she was shocked by his sexual advances until she quickly realized that that wasn’t what he was after. It was merely a suspicion that his intentions were not sexual until he said: “It’ll be easier to show you about the Dada than it will be to tell you.”

            Without a second’s hesitation she came to him and nestled down into the couch alongside him, the gnome-woman, and the large transvestite who turned out to be a hermaphrodite with small goat-like horns atop her head.

            Baba came around to all of the couches and offered them a bottle each for them to drink. All of those concerned in this chapter looked at it suspiciously except for Van Gag. With some level of hesitation, they each drank from their respective bottles.

            Quickly but calmly they took off their public skins to reveal themselves as they were. As the Dada couch slowly began to writhe with slow sexual movements for their gods, the bounty hunters watched as at between two and four other people joined them at their respective couches. Flesh swam against flesh, souls against souls, and dreams against dreams. The shoddy veil of reality fell away to beautiful natural landscapes unique to each person. Birdsong intermixed with the sensual gusts of wind that rustled against rock and grass alike. Blue seeped in through the ceiling until it had split it apart like a fragile cracker that had been sentenced to a watery tomb. Some heard the harmonious songs of the gods while others heard the lyrical recitations of faeries. The earth hummed an ancient tune as they all slid further and further into each other’s flesh, and thus their individually unique worlds. Even as they felt lips and fingers and sexual organs upon themselves and others, they lost their sense of the world around. Soon there was no sex, only a platonic intimacy with their gods.

 

The Native American man awoke naked as the light of calm flames sensually stroked his body. He slowly sat up and gazed up at the thunderous sky. Twisting in intricate and unfathomable shapes across the sky were enormous Thunderbirds which cried out in synchronization with the lightning. The furious bolts of light struck down against a grassland overrun with bison migrating endlessly. Curiously, the lightning never struck the bison nor did it ever alight the grass beneath their hooves with fire. This curiosity was not ignored at all by the Native American man, who simultaneously realized that he was on a beautiful rock formation that was common to the eastern United States pre-industrial development. He stood up more fluidly than he had in the seven years since the car accident had lodged a small piece of shrapnel in his hip; the metal gave him a slight limp, but nothing anyone would ever notice unless they scrutinized quite closely. Now it seemed as if the accident had never happened. A deep voice boomed behind him:

“Welcome to the end of our world that never truly ends.”

The Native American man wheeled around in surprise and came face to face with an enormous Bison-man that seemed to be the natural descendent of the Minotaur. In the Bison-man’s grip was a curled staff of wood that was intricately shaped as nature sprouting from the mouth of nature in a continuous style. This chain started from the base of the staff to its curved top.  Across the Bison-Man’s shoulders lay a shawl like blanket that kept the Bison-man’s shoulders and chest warm.

The Native American man stood in wonderment as he gazed across the grasslands and at the Bison-man in front of him. “Where am I?”

The Bison-man laughed humorlessly. “You are at the metaphysical plane of reality that is physical symbolism. This grassland is the world and the bison our dwindling kin who believe in the old gods. The bison roam safe from the lightning of those who try to smite our faith until they die, and then the lightning strikes them, turning them into a funeral pyre that slowly burns away to a shade-memory.”

As soon as the Bison-man mentioned the shade-memories, the Native American man noticed barely visible shades running across the grasslands. They were truly beautiful creatures in life and death.

“The Thunderbirds are those who command the lightning to strike us, and yet they can never strike us down until we are dead, and cannot protest in the physical world.”

The Native American man smiled as a simple memory flashed across his mind. The Bison-man noticed, and asked “Why do you smile?”

“Since I was a child in the United States, I have used the name Bobby Hudson, which was cursed upon me by the nuns at the Catholic “school” we Native American kids were forced to go to on the reservation. I never wanted it, but they violently beat it into me. They beat my identity into paralysis and substituted their s**t in for what I believed. The only way I’ve been able to hang on to my identity was to hold true to the ways of my ancestors.”

He smiled again widely as true happiness illuminated his face. “Being here, in this metaphysical grassland of gods and symbolism, I have remembered my birth name that was beaten from my memories by the hands and sticks of the nuns.

 Bobby Hudson stared up at the sky with a smile as his name-curse fell to its death from his mind at the same time as the Thunderbirds cried in agony. “My name is Bison Never-Struck”.

           

The Irishman awoke naked in a wondrous field of poppies. The forest surrounding the glade of poppies seemed to hum with the joyous songs of the flowers. As the man returned to his feet, a small maiden adorned in a skirt of leaves and nothing else came slyly from behind the trees like a gust of wind birthed from the trees themselves. Laughing sensually, she placed a crown of woven flowers atop his head and stroked the side of his face. He moved his lips towards hers until his lips came into solid contact with a sappy tree. Trying to lick sap off his lips, he stumbled back and uttered a nonsensical curse before dropping on his arse. The faerie maiden sat atop a tree, dangling her leg sensually, and laughed at her harmless mischief. Something about her mischief did not aggravate him, but merely compelled him to climb the tree to reach her; from that moment on, he would always be imprinted on women who “played hard to get”. His fingers dug into the tree as the laughter of the faerie maiden propelled him forward in some strange fusion of passionate love and lust. About halfway up some of the loose bark gave way and he almost fell twenty feet, but he grabbed wildly at a branch which luckily held his weight. Grunting with both the effort of climbing and his intense passion for the maiden above him, he slowly swept his tongue across his lips as if to wipe away the sweat and confirm his lusts. Her foot dangled right below his fingertips, and he quickly worked to remove the little distance between them. She smiled down upon him a sly smile as he felt his fingers trace the arch of her foot. In a poof of light, she disappeared and the man looked at the curve of the imp’s buttocks his fingers were tracing. A mischievous roar of laughter erupted from the imp as the man wiped his hand on his bare chest, for he forgot he was unclothed. The imp continued its laugh before a stern voice called: “Robin! Enough of your ludicrous mischief! Can you not see the poor man you have molested with your trickery is none other than the one who called us here?”

            “Yes sire” respectfully but slightly grudgingly spoke Robin as it bowed and leapt from the tree.

            The man slowly climbed down the tree, as if anything else might upset the obviously powerful being below. Upon touching the ground, he turned his head to address the man below.

            Not only was there a tall, noble lord adorned in the finest plants, but surrounding him was an entourage of forest nymphs, imps, faeries, and small woodland creatures. All who wore mammal-like skin not obscured by hair were of a natural flushed complexion. Only the imps lacked the natural beauty that the rest of the group, especially the lord, did.

            It seemed like the forest, with its profound birdsong, was the only one able to speak for a number of seconds that might as well have been infinity. It was easily discovered that the king was merely being polite and waiting for the man to speak.

            “What is your name, and why have you summoned noble Oberon and his court here?” said the lord with graceful dignity that bordered on snobbery.

            “My name is Gale Henry, and I summoned you through having sexual intercourse with many people.”

            Robin released a great sigh of relief. “Thank the realm of faerie that you’re not some hipster prick who decided to snort those faerie bones into his or her mush of a-!”

            Oberon swiftly grabbed Robin’s tongue and glared with powerful authority into the small imp’s eyes. “Hold your foul words and irreverent tongue, or I shall be forced to cut it out”. Turning back towards Gale, Oberon swiftly apologized. “Despite my jester’s horrid words, I must express that the imp has expressed, irreverently, the truth. It is at once a great thing to receive visitors to the realm of faerie that perform the tantric ceremonies. Such purity of ceremony is not often expressed, and for that I thank you.”

            “My pleasure” naturally flowed from Gale’s mouth as he bowed with the utmost respect. Oberon returned a nod and lithely turned on his heels; gesturing forward for the man to follow him and his faerie entourage into the enchanting depths of the woods. As Gale followed Oberon into the woods, he could vaguely feel himself ejaculate.

            The Aboriginal man sat up with a patient and consistent rate of elevation. The sky was an expansive, blue ocean hovering over the glorious desert of the outback. A song of slithering snakes swam across the surface of the man’s subconscious. Upon scrutinizing the sky more closely, he could see fish-like forms gloriously sailing the skies like ethereal ships. The scales of the fish glistened like tiny stars, as if the sun had grown jealous of the beautiful stars of the night and had demanded stars for itself. Dirt shifted smoothly across his naked form as he left his position of sitting on the earth to stand erect. One glance at his body made him disorientated; his body was made of strong tree bark. Wisps of purple and pink smoke curled along the fringes of his vision and tumbled along the winds like travelers to distant lands. All was beautiful, all was well, and all was a wondrous dream.

            Mixing with the subconscious sound of slithering snakes was the fantastical fluttering of the wooden flute. The two sounds swirled together in an orgy of harmonious sound that both pleased and disturbed the Aboriginal man. Feelings of primal power surged through him while a creeping feeling of being overwhelmed by it touched him from all dimensions of Being. As this slowly built to a harmonious crescendo that lasted forever and milliseconds, a voice spoke from the very fabric of reality itself:

            “Burnu, Tree of Spirituality in the modern world of shut-minds: crucified messiahs twisted and warped, closed-minded intellectuals who deny the infinite power of possibility, and the worshippers of idols crafted of money and gods of technology. Spirituality flourishes in individual pockets on the Earth, but it is, as a whole, dying. As true spirituality dies, so does the earth, as the urban-mutation becomes an urban-parasite.”

            Below him, the evolution of human cities unfolded; thousands of years condensed into a matter of seconds. Primitive huts and shelters sprouted as the caves emptied of its populations. The huts fell away in the place of more advanced huts, and thus the cycle continued for some minutes. Humanity flourished while other organisms were trampled down. Despite this though, life was generally flourishing. Destruction was not common, and when it was the Shamans of the land made sure to honor their deaths. Slowly, the urban-mutation in the cells of the Earth became a parasite which latched itself into the very soul of the Earth. Urbanization synchronized with nature decayed as the urban-parasite used the land as its host; pollutants suffocated the Gods and the birds out of the skies, while dreams became peppered with nightmares from their alchemical fusion with the pollution of the human soul. Trees and the earth eroded in a primal scream which shook the Aboriginal man to his core. The fish in the sky swam towards the infinite vastness of space while the dirt hardened to cold, emotionless steel. Factories churned out products as they used human life as fuel, which in turn spat smoke into the atmosphere. “Work will set you free” drummed at the front of Burnu’s conscious. The Holocaust seemed to be a universal symbol for the history of the world.

            “Inside of the Dreamtime, where everything is Symbol and comprehensible Abstraction, you are the Tree which feeds to soul of the Earth to continue to fight off the urban-parasite. Yet, you are not alone in this endeavor.”

            Trees, too few and sporadic to be called a forest but nonetheless impressive in stature suddenly became visible. He had not been able to see them before, but now they were here. Now, perhaps, the world wouldn’t choke on its spiritual and physical pollution….or, perhaps they would only deny the inevitable. The world beyond the material realms of power and money and crazed industrialism was dying as it was overtaken. He could hear the earth screaming as it was ravaged, raped, pillaged, defiled, and tortured….but maybe, he and the others could be the cure. Or they could be the anesthesia. The man did not know.

            “Now that you have seen the Earth for what it is and has become, you can lend your strength to fighting against it.”

            A thick and somewhat lengthy rod slowly sprouted from the Earth. Despite its thickness, it was nowhere too thick to be unwieldy. Burnu realized it was a didgeridoo as colors began to race across it. It ascended into the hands of Burnu as the colors clamped down upon the instrument and grew into darker, more earthly shades of what they were before.

            “This instrument can damage the artificial spirits of the urban-parasite’s physical forms. Play its tune in their hive and you shall draw them out. Continue playing it and it will slowly decay, though you must be warned that the noise will anger it greatly. It will try to kill you if it is kind, or it will integrate you into a power source if not. Fail, and you will either die a bloody wreckage or you will become a mindless worker drone. Destroy the physical forms of the parasite whenever you can, and destroy the metaphysical eggs it lays. Destroy the very thought of it from this realm, or the world, and then the Dreamtime, shall succumb.”

            The world began to slowly fall away as Burnu returned to the physical world. He could faintly he himself climax as the music and the Dreamtime fell away. Slowly but surely the world of the Dreamtime was replaced by deliciously sweaty bodies and sexual elation coupled with profound spiritual experience. He could even hear the humming of spiritual muzak in the background of the place.

 

            Annie felt an orgasmic sensation as someone caressed her. It had been awhile since she had felt sexual intercourse this intimate. Yet, the whole thing seemed to slip away as the room was replaced with a stark whiteness. It took Annie some seconds to adjust, but once she had the white exploded into colors beyond all sensation.

            Slowly black and white drifted away to nothing….AND COLOR FILLED ALL!

Author's Note

If I have made mistakes concerning the historical religions of the bounty hunter's ethnicities, then I would like to know so I can hopefully fix it. I do not wish to ignorantly represent the historical religious beliefs of people.