Intimacy

"there's nothing more vulgar, more common, more disgusting than ideas..."


Bijou was loosely arranged. In all things a showiness prevailed. To the
eyes her hidden parts were exhibited as casually as an old man farts. It
left her cold to others. Intimacy meant nothing to her. Voyeurism, or
sensuality at a distance, had won out. To call her a slut would be an
affront to truth. She was the greatest prude alive. Nothing touched her.

On the ideal plane Bijou was a fence sitter. Her ideals on sex tyrannized
her experience to the point where intimacy and touch were annulled. The
scent of hair did not make her nostrils flair. Her shoulders never shook
in unison with her lover's as they went through the choreography of
sex. She had no rhythm anyway.

Touch is the wisest sense. Touch cannot lie. Beyond touch lies death.
Philosophers have always, being prudes and in love with death, held that
sight was the most philosophical sense. Perhaps it loves wisdom. But
it loves women less. To love a women is to touch her deeply, with tenderness,
i.e. to touch her the way she wants to be touched. There's no greater wisdom
in the world than to master being touching. Flesh knows and feels so much
more than our ideals could ever dream up. We ignore so much.

Don't pen poetry or place the woman you love in The Mystic Rose. Touch her
deeply and wait for the outpouring of love she'll return tenfold.