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Move into the love act so deeply that the actor is no more. While loving, become love; while caressing, become the caress; while kissing, be the kiss. -- Lord Shiva
The Love Trance
Several years ago I had a sexual epiphany.
It was like when you learn to dance. You practice the steps and turns. You wear the right flowing dress. You get good enough to throw in a few hip wiggles and head tosses. You even teach your partner a few things. Then one day, some inner mechanism silently drops into place, Ginger Rogers possesses your body, and your feet don't touch the floor anymore. You're no longer a woman dancing the tango; now you're the tango dancing you.
That's how it was for me when, exhausted and culturally shocked after back-to-back trips to Japan and Egypt, I began a new love affair. In Japan, I had been a professional businesswoman, promoting my new book, 227 Ways to Unleash the Sex Goddess Within. Egypt, on the other hand, had been a personal spiritual pilgrimage. I had gone immediately from the confined spaces, techno-sex-kink, and cool, politely reserved people of the Orient to the vast, hot landscapes, pyramids, and fiery, demonstrative people of the Mideast. Little wonder, then, that on my return, when I found myself in the throes of a new romance, I was ripe for a spectacular fall on the dance floor or serious enlightenment.
Kirk was a sculptor who created huge works of red clay as voluptuous as they were impossible to interpret. As he worked, his long hair was always flying, his arms waving wildly, and his eyes glinting with artistic fire. Obviously, he had great hands.
We had had our first sex in his car, in a public park: under-the-steering-wheel, over-the-top-of-the-seat, the hot animal-lust kind. A few days later he invited me to his studio, where, suave and intense, he slowly removed one of my shoes and began rubbing the arch of my foot. "I never drove with a woman in my lap before," he cooed. "It was sexy the way you totally surrendered, even your safety, to me." Now sliding his sculptor's fingers up to my thigh, he looked me straight in the eye and whispered, "You made love to my whole body, like a virtuoso playing an instrument. A virtuoso with hot flesh." Caress, caress. Hot glance. Soft moan. "You dug your fingernails into my back. I loved the scratch marks I found there the next day." Deep ragged breath. "You stunned me."
I was pretty stunned myself. Intoxicated by the richness of the widely divergent cultures I had recently visited, Kirk's provocative words, and the racy idea of proud scratch marks, I was suddenly transported back to the wildness and abandon of that moment in the car. I could taste Kirk's desire as it mixed with the blood in my veins. And in the grip of some delicious oblivion, I felt myself slide across an invisible border, where I slipped on the role of love priestess like a new silk shirt. Suddenly I had access to a vast and ancient catalog of secret tricks. My bones simply knew what to do. Sex was dancing me.
Without a word, I went to the bed and threw the covers off onto the floor, as if clearing the altar for a sacred and outrageous rite. Undulating to some primal rhythm, I slowly stripped off my clothes, my hot eyes riveted to his. Finally I was left with only the long silk scarf I had been wearing around my neck. After trailing it over my breasts and hips, I passed it between my legs a few times to give it my own personal perfume. Suddenly I pounced on Kirk, ripped his shirt off, and tied his hands to the bed with my aromatic silk scarf. His eyes glowed with anticipation and just a hint of fear.
Possessed by passion, I licked the pale, tight skin on his stomach, his sinewy forearms, the hollow of his elbow. I bit his neck and scratched his chest, knowing he'd treasure those new marks. Then, like some hot and holy harlot, I stood on the bed over him and made him watch me pinch my breasts and massage the hidden well of my sex. He growled with lust. Bending down, I moved his briefs aside just enough so I could lick along the edge, in that sensitive place where inner thigh meets groin. I murmured softly, "You're so hot here." I felt his shaft, all scorching and alive, shiver next to my cheek. Now reeling with fever, I tore a hole in the constraining cotton of his shorts and lowered myself over him.
Afterward, I lay there, breathing in the pungent aroma of our sex, my heart pounding hard against the hot sheets, and smiling. I had surrendered to the rapturous swoon of loving. And like some ancient alchemical formula, that swoon had transmuted my everyday self into a modern-day Aphrodite. My heart and mind were open to the secrets of all the sex goddesses who had come before me and to the very spirit of sex itself. This, I knew, was the natural birthright of every woman. This, I knew, was a state as easy to fall into as an ocean wave, and as emboldening as a new pair of Manolo Blahniks.
All you need are the right triggers.
Whether it's a silk teddy, a succulent mango, or the memory of making love in the foamy surf, a Passion Trigger is something that connects you to your most primal, earthiest instincts. It breaks the seal of your everyday, mundane self and catapults you into delicious and wise abandon. Swept away by erotic impulses, you simply know how and when to apply just the right flick of tongue to an unawakened nipple. Steam radiates off your body, sending electric messages to his divining rod-and you become a true artiste of your own sexuality.
Such a prop or memory can cast its liberating and enlightening spell only if you allow it to. You have to deliberately surrender to its magic, letting texture, aroma, and fantasy work on your body. As it entices you into new worlds and exposes secret impulses, you have to dare to stretch the boundaries of your security zone, and to sink into the delicious dementia that is sex at its finest. In the words of D. H. Lawrence, you must be willing "to risk your body and your blood and your mind, your known self and to become more and more the self you could never have known or expected."
For example, you might pick up a black satin blindfold. You feel its silkiness, admire its soft curves, and sense its aura of mystery and forbidden pleasures. Your eyebrow seems to arch of its own accord, and instead of censoring yourself or succumbing to runaway prudence, you allow your mind to make a natural leap. What would it be like to blindfold your man? Your body remembers how the senses are heightened when sight is deprived, how you feel a little vulnerable, how exciting it is to switch roles. A warm tension begins to flow from your throat to your loins, your heart starts to flutter and your skin to tingle. You are in the grip of sensual, outrageous Aphrodite. Throwing caution to the wind, you sashay into your man's den, twirling the satin blindfold around your finger, a provocative look in your eye. Your erotic electricity crackles across the room, and he notices you, slightly dangerous and completely irresistible. Your work is already done.
Fortunately, almost anything can be the kind of catalyst that sweeps you away into full sex goddess-hood. An ostrich feather, a fantasy, a French maid's costume, steamy language, Tantric art, or your man's pheromones can all be potent aphrodisiacs. As well as bringing heat to your loins and titillation to your imagination, they can invite the mysterious, the numinous, and even the gods and goddesses into your body.
See them, smell them, experience them as if for the first time. Let your boundaries blur and your mind wander over all their wild and rapturous possibilities. Drink them in with all of your senses. Fantasize. Find out what about them makes you feel passionate, mesmerized, carried away by desire. Let the role of Naughty Lolita or Wanton Gypsy inhabit you. Sink into your lush, steamy self as into a hot bubble bath. These evocative Passion Triggers, and the glorious fog of sensuality in which they envelop you, can:
* make you feel sexy, at will
* safely liberate you from the grip of inhibitions, trepidations, and ironhanded Inner Prudes
* uncover hidden parts of yourself-deeper, wilder, more ancient and primal
* encourage you to travel just slightly over the edge of your usual sexual boundaries
* quicken your desire and adoration for your man's body
* inspire you to love your womanly body and become radiantly aware of its mystery and power
* transform simple technique into divinely inspired artistry
Notice there's nothing in this list that promises to give you Cindy Crawford's body, Cleopatra's proficiency, or Madonna's fearless audacity. That's because (and this has been confirmed by thousands of men) those things have so very little to do with being magnetically sexy. In the pages to come, I'll spell out lots of fun techniques and Passion Triggers to give you a jump-start, but it's the fire smoldering within you that will make them deadly.