know what all of you women are thinking, “Another story about a man and his preoccupation with size.” I’ll admit, as I am of ethnic origins, and not one of your men, I had the same ideas. I am half-Jew and half-Mi’kmaq, the product of an illicit relationship by my father, a Jewish doctor who came to our Burnt Church, New Brunswick reservation in 1975 to treat our alcoholic and sick brand of “Canadian Aborigines,” as the officials like to call us up here near the Miramichi Bay. Certainly, our tribe was preoccupied with size: the size of our hangovers, the size of our land (quite diminished, as were other tribes of our ilk), the size of the lobsters in our bay (greatly reduced by oil spills, pollution, other fishermen, and by local game officials)—in fact, I just got off the phone with Charles Circles as a Hawk, who told me two Fisheries Ministry boats rammed his little craft just yesterday and sunk it because they thought he had set some of the illegal lobster traps—he had, but that’s our only freedom left, innet?

Anyway, I’m getting away from my story. You white people have kept pulling my mind into sex and politics, whether I like or not, and this is just another example, innet? While I was living in a run-down trailer with my mother on the “rez” in Burnt Church, my Daddy was feeding antibuse to all the brave souls who no longer had fishing rights to the bay and were spending most of their free time pounding beers at the Deer Creek Inn and discussing when they were going to set-up a casino and say “fuck it all forever to fishing.” Daddy Doc left us after his three-year tour of duty for the Canadian Government was finished (he told my mother, “Your people will never come out of this self-inflicted depression of yours, and I’m not going to be part of your all-consuming war with the white man! My people have enough trouble with the Arabs!”) I guess my mother wasn’t so all consumed, as she did put away enough white Jew man to have me, so for that I am greatly obliged, and I am obligated to her to this day. I make enough money as a bartender here in the Miramichi Bay City Holiday Inn to keep her comfortable in her little house on the reservation. Lola Springs Rabbits is her name. My name? Jonathan “Bear Who Hunts for Fish” (with his prick, as some of my tribal buddies say) Lowenstein, who just happens to have grown the largest penis on record, as far as I have researched, that is.

How large is large? I know, ladies, you really don’t care about size. It’s the movement, it’s the loving attention, it’s the mood, it’s the romance, it’s the whole physical and emotional experience that makes “love” so grand, innet? Well, as far as I know, the largest erect penis measured was the one mentioned in one of your books, by Dr. David Rueben, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, which was supposedly 14 inches while erect, although he never mentioned the man’s name (was it a libidinous desire of his Jewish soul?) nor was it ever verified by any other source, so some might question its veracity. The largest medically verified erect penis on record is 13.5 inches long and 6.25 inches around, documented in the early twentieth century by Dr. Robert L. Dickinson. Other sources (Alfred Kinsey, Masters and Johnson, etc.) mention specimens ranging from 9.5 to 12 inches.

It’s strange, innet, that you white people have developed a love affair for the penis, and you have also created so many names for it! We Aborigines, on the other hand, have never even given it a name, per se, as we refer to it by what it does (we are a people of Nature—of gods, if you will—of action, rather than of names). So, if we’re peeing, we call it (in Mi’Kmaq) “pissing.” And, when we make love? We call it “thrusting.” How innocent, innet? What are some of your quaint names for this appendage of love? Well, here are some I have collected over my years with you white women (who most often tell me the names your husbands/boyfriends/brothers have “told you” they call it):

The One-Eyed Wonder Muscle
Gristle Missile
Boner
Prick
Dick
Protein Pump
Dip Stick
Piss Pump
Meat Wrench
Night crawler
Blue Veined Aristocrat
Love Pump
Richard and the Twins
One Eyed Wonder
Weasel
Johnson
Trouser Snake
Tool
Thrill Drill
Sex Pistol
Stick Shift
Pocket Rocket
Old One Eye
Friction Whistle
The Pink Oboe
Purple Helmeted Warrior
Purple Headed Yogurt Slinger
Trouser Trout
Tube Steak Smothered In Underwear
Turbo Prop
Love Gun
Spike
Lube Tube
Fudge Packer
Muffin Massager
Baby Baster
Gabrielle’s Horn
Pussy Package
Crab Shower
Third Leg
Leaping Lizard
My First Toy
Man’s Best Friend
Pleasure Pole
Cherry Picker
Mr. Missile
Meat Hammer
Moose Juicer
Atomic Turtle
Telescope Of Love
Pussy Probe
Seed Planter
Morning Moose
Paste Pump
Meat Mole
Tongue Depressor

Okay, now for my confession. Do I hear a drum roll (or, should that be a tom-tom)? My “thrusting,” when fully erect or engorged, is 16 inches long, from base to tip, and it is fully seven inches in circumference. And, my size has been fully verified by over 28,685 women (at last count) and 62,568 men, of most nations, races and religions. You see, I have yet to have actual intercourse with a woman, but I have permitted them to come to my masculine “shrine,” so to speak. That’s right. Now I know you are asking yourself, “Did I hear him correctly? Can this be true? The dude has a cock almost as long as a Sidewinder Missile, and he’s never got it on? This is where the mystery comes in, innet? I know many of you women wanted it, some have even begged for it, but I never let you have it because I wanted it to remain a monument to size for my people! Yes! After my white man’s education at Glendon College in Toronto (which has a John Holmes Library—not the pornography movie star, mind you, but the Canadian diplomat and author of The Shaping of Peace)--where I majored in English, and where I decided I was going to be a modern-day Priapus. Priapus, by the way, was the ugly son of Aphrodite, and he was the Greek god of fertility. He was so ugly that the other gods put him and his gigantic genitalia out in the fields to scare off the birds.

Am I ugly? No, I am not ugly—on the outside. Some of you women say I look a lot like the late movie star, Anthony Quinn, who was not a handsome soul, but he did have a physically masculine presence that was quite attractive to many women (he did play Zorba the Greek, after all).

Yes, I have been approached by the usual variety of media and sensationalists. The white man, John Bobbitt, whose wife, Lorena, cut off his prick while he slept, became a successful porn star after doctors sewed it back on. These pornographers have approached me as well. However, they wanted me to become a freak show. They proposed that I fuck a buffalo (a little ethnic humor?), or many other large animals (even an elephant!), and yet they never once proposed that I ream one of their white starlets. Why? They did not want them to become damaged goods. Ah, you white people and your profit motive!

Did you know that the Guinness Book of World Records refused to put me in it? It seems they “draw the line” (read “censor”) at sexual body parts in their collection of bigness. Why can Matthew McGrory (7 ft. 4 in. tall) who has size 28.5 shoes, which cost him $22,745.00, get in there, but my penis, which is longer than this giant’s feet and can do things his feet only dream about, does not get any mention at all? Of course, as an English major, I realize that America and Canada have long been Puritanical when it comes to sexuality and the parts pertaining to this component of our natures. Why is it American and Canadian moviemakers show all kinds of frontal nudity with women, yet they rarely show a man’s dick? Why, because to American and Canadian men, your dicks are the last big secret you have!

Watch men when they congregate at the urinal or in the locker room. They will always be measuring each other, and when I step into the picture their eyes will glance down at my tumescent eel of pleasure, and a tortuous look of pitiable envy will dawn upon their faces, as they look down at their own tiny pricks, then back up at mine, and eventually they will slink off like beaten dogs, to shower together, or to piss at the far end of the stalls.

So, I was left totally alone with my physical deformity. Never once has my dick caused other men to strike-up any kind of congenial conversation. Certainly, I have had gays respond with that “kid in a candy store” look of passion. But, macho men, each and every time, really don’t know how to act in response except by comparing their little penises to mine. That is, until I met the three Montreal brothers, Pierre, Sal and Dante Sherbert.

The Sherbert brothers approached me on a cold day in winter, when the snow outside was freezing everything so much even the Irish and Scots in New Brunswick were feeling it. Usually, they are so full of alcohol that they don’t feel a thing, but this day it was less than 30 degrees below Fahrenheit. These three men came into the bar wearing lumberjack outfits, and I figured they were part of the contingent of migrating workers that come through our parts every year. Pierre was the spokesman, and he was about five foot two, had a dark black beard and a twitch in his left eye. The other brothers weren’t much bigger, none over five foot six, and they all came right up to me at the bar. Pierre brought out a paper he had inside his shirt pocket and spread it out before us.

“Are you Jonathan Lowenstein?” he asked, pointing to the picture of me in one of the photos I had put up on the Internet to prove an Indian could have a monumental size in something other than our lobster catch.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, waiting for the usual attempt at solicitation for a porno movie or other racy adventure.

“We have a business proposition for you, my boy,” said Pierre, in his best entrepreneurial manner. “We all stand to make a nice little profit, if all goes well.”

“Listen, Mister, I’ve heard it all. I don’t think I need your business.”

“Just let me tell you about it. If you decide not to do it, well, that’s your business. You see we have discovered that Nature’s oddities are once again big in the world. You know, they used to be the best way to attract people’s dollars, back in the late 1800s, when Mr. P. T. Barnum had his Museum of Oddities, and Sam Gompertz had his Dreamland at Coney Island. My brothers and I, well, we have our own such modern museum, and we’d like you to become a partner.”

“Museum? I don’t get you. This is just a freak show, innet?”

“No, no. Not freaks in the carnival sense. We have an artistic display of natural wonders, as we like to call them, and you will be alongside some of the most interesting and provocative exhibits ever collected at one location.”

I must admit, my Priapus nature was becoming interested. “What’s in it for me?” I asked, in a moment of insanity.

“You will have star billing along with our other gentleman, Sean Reardon, who happens to possess what doctors call a ‘micropenis,’ for want of a better term. When fully erect, Sean’s penis measures a little over one centimeter, or four-tenths of an inch high.”

The thought of someone with the smallest dick in the world hit me like a sledgehammer. I had never really considered the fact that if there were one of me, then there certainly must be my twin at the other end of the spectrum, a freak in his own right no doubt, and I instantly wanted to know more. “What kind of show is this? How much do I get paid?” I asked.

Sal took up this question. “We have an exhibit which caters to the elite crowd from around the world. Hollywood stars, political pundits, gangland potentates, and multi-billionaires all gather in our halls to feast and to frolic. They all expect the best of everything from us, and not some carnival freak show, monsieur!”

Pierre piped up, “Ours is called the Museum of Erotic Delights, and we are the toast of Montreal. As a featured entertainer, you will be paid the usual rate. Three thousand Euros per week will be your starting wage.”

“Euro? What the hell is a Euro? I don’t work for funny money,” I told them.

“Aren’t you aware of the recent change in European currency?” Sal looked at me as if I were still living on the rez.

“I know about the Euro, but Canada is not one of the twelve countries where it is recognized.”

Pierre laughed, “Quite right! Europeans, French men, finance us. Also, the Canadian government refuses to have anything to do with our enterprise, and they simply turn their backs to us because we have connections in high places. Therefore, we keep our finances in the French banks.”

Dante chimed in finally, “Don’t look the gift horse in the mouth, brother! You’ll have more fun spending your money in France. Canada is such a droll place, don’t you agree?”

“Droll? Yes, I suppose you’re right. I need to get some things in order before I go, okay?” I said, already certain of my decision to be a star in their show.

“All right then! Let’s have a drink to celebrate your new employment,” said Sal.

I poured them all a whisky, and I had a Ginger Ale. I felt my dick fall comfortably against my leg as if it, too, knew what was in its future. We have an old Mi’Kmaq story about a young boy who gets captured by eagles and is told he can fly. He is terrified as he looks down into the vast wilderness of the valley below him, but when the eagles touch him with their beaks, he suddenly grows wings, and he sets out on the wind, soaring smoothly, gazing down on his people in the peaceful tranquility of nature, and he suddenly feels he has outgrown them all, and so he flies up into the clouds to live with the great gods.

other told me I was going to become an important part of our tribe. The money from my new job would help us buy new lobster boats and traps, and the Burnt Church Band wanted to meet me for a farewell Sweat Lodge Presentation.

Charles Circles as a Hawk presented me with an eagle feather inside the Sweat Lodge, as the steaming rocks were speaking to us, as the gods foretold. Charles was our medicine man, and he made me believe I was on a mission for our people, who had converted to Catholicism and were far away from the tribe and its natural customs. He believed that my money could help bring many of them back to the reservation and perhaps even back to the ancient ways. I was not too certain, as I was a half-breed, but when Charles handed me the soft, brown tail feather with the snow-white tip, and read me the poem in Mi’Kmaq, I didn’t have the heart to tell the phony bastard that he had stolen it from Tennyson.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

 

t was early February, and as I had never set foot in Montreal, the beauty of this city was immediately apparent. We drove through the snow-covered island metropolis and into Old Montreal, where we crossed the beautiful Jacques Cartier Bridge onto the islands of Ste-Hélène and Notre-Dame, which formed Parc Jean Drapeau. Besides the Museum of Erotic Delights, this park also contained an amusement park, a casino, other museums, outdoor shows, walking and hiking trails, bicycling, roller blading, a Grand Prix race track, a garden, one pool and an artificial beach, amongst other things. It was enough to make my twenty-seven-year-old reservation head explode with sensual overexposure.

Our museum was located next to the casino on Ile Notre-Dame. It was a large, formal building; reminiscent of the pictures I had seen of the Louvre Art Museum in Paris. “Our exhibit is not open to the public,” said Pierre as we pulled into the underground driveway beneath the huge building. It was all electronically controlled, and I saw Dante put his hand inside some kind of device that blinked “DNA check complete,” in French, and opened the steel door.

We rolled up to the underground entrance and there were several tiny men waiting to open the doors to our Bentley Arnage Red Label. They wore the blue suits with red amulets on their shoulders that doormen wear at exclusive hotels, yet they were none over three feet tall. It was like being greeted in Oz by the Munchkins. Several of them rushed around to the trunk and pulled out our luggage with an ingenious electronic crane device that loaded the cases onto a motorized flatbed. It had an electric engine, and they soon took off with a whining sound toward the back of the hotel. I assumed they already knew where our rooms were.

“We have re-constructed the famous Grand Hotel in Berlin, which was featured in the classic 1932 film starring Greta Garbo, John Barrymore and Wallace Beery. And yet, we have added our personal touches, as you shall soon see!” said Sal, tipping one of the doormen with a five hundred Euro note. The little man responded by doing a back flip and several handsprings, over and over, on the red carpet leading up to the front desk.

I was escorted to my room by one of these miniature men, and it was a huge affair, twice as large as our trailer on the rez, and there was a full bar, two bathrooms, and a sunken living room with the latest digital entertainment center. I had just sat down on the velvet couch when I heard a knock at the door. “Come in!” I yelled, and Dante swaggered inside and looked around, as if he were seeing it all for the first time.

“C’est magnifique! I am always pleased to see that even our smaller rooms are well endowed. We will be dining at seven in the main ballroom. All the staff will be there, and you will learn what will be required of you.”

I was anxious to learn my role in this drama, even though I was tired from the trip. I wanted to be able to call back home and tell my tribe all about this new adventure. “Where is the telephone?” I asked.

Dante looked a bit puzzled. “Telephone? Didn’t my brother tell you? We allow no calls in or out of the hotel. You see, we must maintain a low profile because of our tax status in Montreal,” he said, and he smiled mischievously.

“Oh yes, taxes. We First Nation peoples know all about you and your taxes,” I said, and I also grinned. “I’ll be down for dinner.”

“Bon! très bien!” he said, and he left my suite.

 

t all began innocently enough. There were about seventy-five of us at the long dining table inside the huge grand ballroom of the hotel, and I was amazed at the assortment of sexual oddities seated all around me. Pierre and his brothers were at the head of the table, and Pierre was explaining to us all how everything was going to work at the Museum of Erotic Delights. The little people were hustling in and out serving us steaming platters of steaks, lobsters, clams, vegetables, and salads, and our wine glasses were never empty.

“We have several new people to introduce, but before that, I want to explain what you are all here for. The Museum of Erotic Delights was the dream child of our benefactors in France, and we are here due to their kindness and creative force. This is not a facility for the general public. Indeed, we are not known except to a limited few, and these few are members of an exclusive club. It is world-wide, mind you, but it is still highly exclusive, and you will never know the identity of the guests you shall meet within these walls.”

Classical music began to pour softly over us from speakers all around, and it was a beautiful touch to the meal and to Pierre’s welcome.

“Just as our guests are exclusive members, so you are also exclusive exhibits, collected from the far reaches of the world by me and my brothers. We have spared no expense to gather the most remarkable assemblage of distinctive beings ever brought together under one roof.”

“What’s the gig, then?” asked a short, blond young man at the far end of the table. I was later to discover he was my opposite, the micropenis himself, Sean Reardon.

“We shall instruct each of you as to where you will go and what you shall wear, but first, let me tell you the nature of our establishment. It is good that you have a philosophical overview so you may get into the spirit of the enterprise.”

The little men began to bring out the desserts: mounds of ice cream, platters of cake, tortes, cream puffs, éclairs, and all the sweet tooth could ever hope to enjoy. I took a big cream puff and dipped my spoon down into it. It reminded me of a cloud, but it tasted like a creamy dream.

“We are here to please the senses of our clientele. We have many suites from which to choose, named after famous lovers and sexual raconteurs throughout history. The ‘Romeo and Juliet Suite’ has Shakespearean music, décor and lighting, and the ‘Marquis de Sade Suite’ has a creative assortment of harmless torture devices, a castle-like décor and music from the French Baroque. There is the ‘Antony and Cleopatra Suite,’ and suites modeled after famous Lotharios, Romantic Poets, and even modern movie stars such as Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow.”

The music reached a crescendo, and Pierre rose to the occasion, standing up at his place and addressing us with dynamism. “But you are all here for the most important event in our schedule, the Lupercian Festival and Lottery. We provide the only pagan event of its kind in the world, and it was first established in 10 A. D. as a way to bring together beautiful women with lucky young men. The Christians later replaced the festival with their St. Valentine’s Day, but our holiday is so much more sensuous! Our guests, you see, pay high prices to participate in our lottery and festival, and what they win is a young woman for the year, to do with as they see fit. Bring in the ladies, Dante!”

The doors on both sides of the ballroom opened, and in came the most voluptuous, passionately invigorating assortment of young women I have ever laid eyes upon. They were all topless and wore thongs, and they were of every shape, race and physical description. However, they were also all under thirty, and they were all raving beauties. Parading around us in spiked heels by the hundreds, it seemed like an X-rated version of the Miss Universe Pageant. I felt my own “judge” begin to stir himself between my legs, as I watched their twitching bottoms and bouncing breasts rotate all around me like a feminine wheel of sexy fortune.

As the women left, Pierre began to introduce us, one by one, and told of our unique qualities. “Amira Zuni, the four-breasted woman. Here are the women of the Ubangi River tribe who, from childhood, have had their lips drawn over ten-inch wooden platters to protect them from other tribes’ wanton advances. Ursa the bear girl; Bonita, the Irish fat midget; Fatima, the Nubian woman; Rob Roy, the albino wonder; Amy, the New York fat girl; Captain Copp, a human tattooed art gallery; Baby Alpine, over 615 pounds; Schrief Afendl, a human salamander.” Pierre went all around the table, and finally came to micropenis and me. “And here we have the Yin and Yang of male sexuality, Mister Micropenis, Sean Reardon, and Mi’Kmaq tribal member, Jon Lowenstein, the Pumping Pole of Penile Power!”

Ah, so they had a name for me already. I had to remember to add it to my list.

Pierre continued with the introductions, and there were women from Burma with their necks stretched over four feet by huge rings; women from Borneo who had their labia majoras and minoras extended down so they hung like long snakes; twins joined at the head from birth; men with the skin of alligators; it seemed like an endless procession of freaks, and I wondered how we were all going to serve the clientele with our various deformities. In a way, I felt at home at last, and I wanted to get to know each and every fellow aberration in that room. I believed we all had some kind of strange, spiritual kinship that went far beyond the Museum of Erotic Delights.

Later that night, I heard a tapping at my door. It was Sean Reardon, and his eyes were the bluest I have ever seen on another man. He spoke in a whisper, “Jon, I know you, man. We’re from the same mold, don’t you see? We are the human metaphors for this place. We’re the extremes of a world gone mad with human suicide bombers, terrible brainwashing cults, and mind numbing propaganda. I don’t mind telling you, dude, I’m scared. I don’t think this is going to be a nice gig.”

I touched his shoulder. “Hey, I know, Sean. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. We’ll make it through okay. We just need to stay together, man, that’s all. They can’t beat us if we stay together.”

 

he guests began arriving a week later. They came in Rolls Royces, Cadillacs, Bentleys, and other luxury cars, and they were all wealthy-looking gentlemen with Armani suits and diamond-studded watches and neckties. Some wore turbans of the Far and Middle East, others had bowler caps, and still others wore French berets. They were of all ages and races, and they came in what seemed like an endless procession, filling our hotel with their opulence and their depravity.

They knew why they were there, as it was a celebration of the senses, and they also knew what awaited them at the end of the festival. February 14 would be the day of the lottery, and each and every man there knew he would stand to win one of the beautiful women as a personal slave for the entire year.

Even though the Sherbert brothers had told me this was not a carnival freak show, what they did with us was nothing more than “freaky.” Each of us had his or her own suite, where these men would come to visit and ogle at us with their nasty comments and their drunken jokes. Of course, Sean and I were paired together in “Les Grande et Petite d’Hommes” suite. Sean was placed next to full-sized photos of male infants with larger penises than his, and I had photos of horses and bulls at full erection next to my naked form. It was more inhuman than any experience imaginable. “Look, it’s Needle Dick the Bug Fucker!” they said, or “Is that an Indian or a horse?” At night, back in our rooms, we would bathe for hours, trying to get the smell of tobacco and alcohol off our bodies.

After my third day there, I went to see the brothers. They were hanging out in the hotel offices downstairs. They were laughing and joking when I came into the room. “Ah, Jonathan! Isn’t it a grand festival? We are making thousands every minute, and you will be well compensated,” said Pierre, drawing deeply on his cigar.

“I want to call my family and tell them about this place,” I said, my jaw set in consternation. “I don’t think what you’re doing here is legal.”

Dante pushed a button behind the desk. “Listen, chief, we’re writing to your family. We have duplicated your handwriting, and we have also mimicked your voice. If you want to continue to make money for them, then you’ll remain with the program. If not, then you will regret it.”

“Oui, my boy. This is a celebration of life and love! We are not breaking the law,” said Sal, trying to put an arm around my waist. I pushed it away.

“Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it. I’ve talked to my fellow freaks and they say these guests of yours are getting freer with their hands and their words. They think we’re their personal playthings, not exhibits. You tell them to keep to themselves, or there’ll be hell to pay!” I raised a fist in my best power solute.

Six big men burst into the office and one of them stuck me in the hip with a hypo. The room began to ripple like the water on the Miramichi Bay, and the men in the room began to expand and contract, human contortionists, freaks in their own right. I felt myself falling into a deep, dark sleep. The last words I heard were, “Take him to the Princess.”

 

awoke to sitar music, and it cascaded over me like a waterfall. There was also a droning sound coming from all around, and at first I thought it was a chant from my own people, but as I concentrated on the sound, I believed it was older, a primeval sound from far earlier in history.

Lying on cushions as soft as a fawn’s belly, and as colorful as sunset, I then saw a woman. It is still difficult for me to describe her, as she was the most captivating creature I had ever seen. She was dark, with skin burnished like polished leather, and her eyes were deeply dark and mystifying. She had a red stone gleaming from her forehead, just between her eyes, and her dress was a flowing golden silk, and I could see through it to her bountiful breasts and the patch of wonder between strong legs. She stood above me, over six feet tall, holding a tray filled with fruits of many shapes and varieties. She lowered it down to me, and her breasts seemed to fill my consciousness until the dark areolas became two undulating mandalas of my being. When she spoke, her delicate tone seemed to mix with the chant and the music, lilting just an octave above, with a rhythm all its own. I became transfixed by it until I could not think for myself any longer.

“You must be patient with them, Jonathan. They have not reached the level of your rebirths. In fact, they will not reach your level for many thousands of lifetimes. You are an Enlightened One, and you have been chosen to lead them.”

I took a slice of passion fruit and bit into it. It raised in me a magnificent feeling of calm. Was it this woman, or was it her words? Why was I comforted in her presence, as if time stood still?

“I shall now share with you the secrets of the Lupercian Festival. For many eons, on planets throughout the universe, we lived the sensory experience. We exalted in the depths of the body and the soul, not yet separated, until the lower beings came into birth and so began the pain of time. Your people and my people were one. We played at life with no end, no disease, and no pain, only the world of the senses. Soon, however, the world of illusion took over, and the Gods became bored. They created the sense, which destroyed our paradise, the sense of self, of I, of me, and this created the world we know today. The world of constant suffering gave birth to you.”

She lay down next to me, and I could smell her, the odor of millions of flowers, perfumes beyond description. I couldn’t help myself. I breathed her into my being deeply, with ecstasy. The nose between my legs stirred, as if awakening from a terrible nightmare.

“The chosen know the secret. Paradise is present, just as eternity is at hand, never to disappear. But this comes only to the chosen, and we are cursed because of time, the stealer of dreams. Time is my dark half, who comes to take away innocence, to pose as a seductress, but tempts one to murder for power, for personal wealth, for a cheap imitation of immortality. These seduced people are the guests we have downstairs. They create the world of modern religions, modern science, the Internet of Confusion, the terrorists who masquerade as chosen ones, the countries who lie to their own people. However, we show them what they once lost many thousands of years ago. They have lost the instinct to love and to forget.”

Her words were so vague, yet they swept through me like knives sharpened to razor sharpness, cutting through my rational objections as if I were drugged by the heat from her moving body. She moved closer, touching my member, and it grew, it grew to its spectacular size, and I gazed into those dark eyes and watched those red lips begin to smile.

“They must do what they do so that our world can be destroyed. The senses cannot come back to paradise until the worlds of time and sins are annihilated. It is in every great book of their religions, and these men are just carrying out the dictates of our realm. But when all appears to be gone, there will become born another universe, growing out of the one, which has been contracting from the beginning, just as this other one has been expanding from the beginning. They do not sense what you and I sense, oh Enlightened One! You are the metaphor of the coming birth of paradise! Thus, we shall let the festival begin!”

My wand was at full stance, and as she raised me to my feet, her hands grew until they were huge, lifting me, putting me inside her blouse, between her mammoth breasts. I was small again, inside a womb of flesh, of woman, of circular warmth and eternal rebirth. I did not climax in the usual sense, the physical, manly sense, but the top of my head exploded, and out came a radiance that literally shook the cosmos. It was a light that had sound, it had physical presence. It blended with this woman’s beauty, with the sounds of “aum” and with the rhythm of the universe beyond time.

[END]

© 2003 Jim Musgrave