If we are the expression of Love’s longing to meet itself, then is it through feeling and expressing our longing that we come to meet the Love that we are? That we attract and/or are drawn to our most loving reflection? Or are able to shift our perceptions of those we have fallen out of love with, so that we might meet them again?

I notice in my pleasure practice, not only am I expanding my field of receiving, I am also cultivating my capacity for longing.

Longing is another one of those feminine qualities that is often passed over by the western world because we do not like to be reminded of our ultimate aloneness and helplessness, and our despair because of it.  But to the contrary, to sit in our longing, which is to sit in the gap between our vision of what can be and our perception of what is, is to reclaim our seat of feminine power and our queendom of possibilities.

All creation comes from and is sustained by the void of longing.

My hope through this blog is to inspire women everywhere to feel and express our longing, through self pleasuring, dance, poetry, art, singing. And maybe this weekend I have inspired the Mother of Life herself, who after a long dry spell, cried out in ecstatic abandon, painting the whole west coast green with her tears.

I ran out naked to be with her as soon as I woke up, dancing in her downpour, spreading her wet sweetness with my hands all over my body, lying in the grass as she gushed on my face and skin.

I’ve always wanted a woman to cum all over me, to be drenched in her orgasmic juices, to surrender completely to her feminine power, to look up into her vast, gray weeping eyes and allow her to penetrate me with her insatiable longing.

It is a much more delicate experience to be opened by feminine versus masculine presence,

to be kissed lightly everywhere, and teased with soft cool drops, to be opened slowly, so as to feel each subtle nuance, until every part of me begs for more.

When I have pleasured myself in the past I usually see my hands and fingers as extensions of my inner masculine.  But today it is my inner woman who reaches across and down to cup my heart and pubic bone.  And my inner woman who curls her finger around to enter my sacred temple. It is my inner woman who takes me to my goddess spot, who knows just what to do to make me cry out like the rain.

And my inner woman who remembers a time when women knew our bodies were sacred, when we would gather together for pleasure rituals like this to nourish the earth and the elemental forces.

In the spirit of these ancient ones, I make this practical magical suggestion to all women:

If we want it to rain more in California, we have to looooooooooog more.

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