The Girl

She has dirty blond hair, a seductive smile, and the most engaging set of hazel green eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s the kind of engaging I can’t ignore… the kind that makes me want to engage too. Because she’s mysterious. And I’m curious. And I need to know more.

Yet, I do my best to avoid making eye contact. So I stare down at the pool table and pretend to study my opponent’s next move. But only long enough for her to look the other way, so I can once again catch a glimpse of magnificence.

I do this, not because she intimidates me, but because I think she may be the girl Chad met last night. A wild night that, he said, “involved two bottles of port wine, chocolate cake, and sweaty bed sheets.”

Then, just as her eyes unexpectedly meet mine, my opponent groans, “It’s been your turn for like five minutes. Ya planning on going sometime today?” And she walks gracefully away.

So I continue to wonder… “Is she the port wine and chocolate cake girl? Gosh, she doesn’t look like that kind of girl.” But I don’t wonder too long because Chad enters the room and says, “Marc, there’s someone I want you to meet.” So I follow him into the kitchen and we bump right into her. “Oh, Angel,” Chad says. “This is my buddy, Marc.”

And I smile ear to ear and chuckle…

Because she’s not the port wine and chocolate cake girl. But also because I spent the last twenty minutes thinking about the port wine, and the chocolate cake, and the sweaty bed sheets.

The Dance

Hours later, the party begins winding down. But the band is still playing, the two painters who have been painting a wall mural all evening are still painting, and Angel and I are still dancing.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“No,” Angel says. “Dancing is my outlet. When I dance, I transcend myself and the doubts that sometimes prevent me from being me. This evening has been enchanting, just dancing with you and being me.”

So I twirl her around. And the drummer keeps drumming. The guitarist keeps strumming. The singer keeps singing. The painters keep painting. And now we’re the only ones dancing.

As we continue to dance, she says, “I feel as if we’re naked. And not just you and me, but the drummer, the guitarist, the singer, and the painters too. Everyone left in this room is naked… naked and free.”

I smile and tell her that I agree. “We are naked. We are free.”

As I know we don’t have to take our clothes off to be naked. Because moments of passion flow into each other like port wine flows into chocolate cake. And if we let them, these moments can expose us completely, and continuously. And create climaxes that don’t even require sex.

Because a true climax has little to do with orgasm, and everything to do with passion, love, and devotion. In the same way, nakedness has little to do with how much clothing one wears, and everything to do with one’s awareness in a given moment of time… An unfettered awareness that frees their mind and allows them to truly live the moment for all it’s worth.

The Climax

After a few more songs, Angel asks if I’d like to join her out on the front porch where it’s quieter. “Just so we can talk about life,” she says.

I give her a little wink. “I love life in this crazy world! It is crazy, isn’t it?”

She smiles. “Yeah, a world in which we can be naked with our clothes on and experience continuous climax without intercourse.”

“Because instead we can achieve both with music, or paint, or dance, or any form of avid self-expression,” I add.

“You got it. Even the sincerity in this conversation is beginning to work for me,” she says as we step out the front door and into the moonlight.