The real story

There are a heterogeneity of mentalities that must equate sex with religion.

There is the healthy, culturally circumscribed locus of the sexual metaphor, the bride of Christ, etc. Then there are the tribes of tantricists, bachantines, sex magik rites – who find the goddess within all perception, so that to perceive is to make love to her, according to the tribal dialect, the sex laws/scripture inherited.

These are ideals, possibly fantasies – I don’t know if thy truly exist because I can’t speak for others.

Then there’s little old me. For whom the sex drive is intimate with desire for identity, for whom identity is intimate with the genetics of locality, race-as-religion, religion-as-race. And whose tantra is therefore a red herring. I see a woman I want — and distract myself, in order to find myself, by transforming want into wine, exclaiming — “Look over there, it’s God!” or “Trust me, I’m the Logos.”

But it’s not God. Nor is it an excuse. It’s identification with the cultural capital of God, fetishizing his capital power in potential, that religious derivative of my own Lack.

What of love? Is there love? Certainly – this process is what is operating under the hood of my love – and it has inner and outer expression and mystery.


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