Primal, Wild, Sexual Energy

Many years ago a friend shared with me that one of the things she hated the most was when her husband crawled into bed at night, and cuddled up behind her. She told me that all she wanted him to do in those moments was to get that thing out of her back.

Of course this was disclosed to me in a nonchalant, raucous manner, and in our uncomfortableness, we quickly chased down her confession with a burst of laughter, and a swallow of libations.

I tried, but could not imagine ever feeling that way. I just couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t want “that thing” pressing into your back, communicating it’s beckoning desire towards you? Why wouldn't you welcome the turgid, rhythmic pulses, of your lover’s manhood into your yearning flesh?

My ripe maiden body could not fathom this scenario. Nor could my maiden mind.

Primal energy was abundant in me. Unharnessed. Wild.

This unbridled, sexual creativity, expressed, through me, in many ways. Including erotic letters to my lover…

Basking in sensation.

Bodies, touching, softly.

The skin of other.

Mouths, organs, fluids.



Lips, tongues, delight.

The depictions, in my correspondence, would then evolve from poetic, to what some might describe as immoral, indecent, even pornographic. However, I was honouring my carnal longings. I was declaring my cravings. The juices were flowing, and because fear hadn’t yet caged my playful, sensual expression, I could easily communicate to my beloved that “it is with ease that my body welcomes your glistening swollen cock into the warm depths of my aching pussy.

And then, somewhere along the transitional waters into motherhood, the communication lines - with this carefree, enthusiastic maiden version of me - were severed. My mother mind was now in control. There were no more letters. No more carnal longings. No more hungry plunges.

My maiden was lost. I no longer endorsed “that thing” in my back. My mother mind had finally unraveled the mystery that my maiden mind could not fathom.

My anthropological curiosity eventually bypassed all logical explanations (and excuses) of hormonal changes, of exhaustion, and of my preconceived notions, as to what was appropriate, and not appropriate behaviour for a mother.

Eventually this curiosity stimulated my ability to hear her muffled screams. My maiden was conveying to me her ravenous appetite was still alive and well. She was still stoking the fire, while my moral mind worked overtime at snuffing out the flames.

This moral, philosophical, and controlling energy had domination over me. I sat on the edge of right, and wrong. Showering myself in judgement.

Probably a common response amongst mothers, sisters, daughters, friends, women, and on, and on, and on. Back on down the line. Suppression. Repression. Resistance.

That is what the susurrations of my ancestors reverberate in my marrow. Their voices echoing out through the lines upon on my page…

“I fancy to slip off the canvas, past the pastel, and out of the glassed off, closed in frame of some reality that, sadly, still exists. To be free. Released. Released from the confines of minds that really don’t remember. To be free of this fabric. So tight. So proper. To be free of the way one is supposed to be. So, so ladylike. I just for once want to do what I want to do. Not because that is what I am supposed to do, or be, or say. I fancy for the thirst of my loins to lead the way”…

…these are the voices of my ancestors.

I am informed by their whisperings.

I am informed by the voices of women who are too frozen to speak.

I am informed by the maiden of my loins.

I am informed by the mother in me.

I am informed by the Earth Mama herself.

I dance, I move, I pray, I speak…I verbally ejaculate for her, for you, for me.

May the longing of our loins, merge with the desire of our hearts, aiding us in the amalgamation necessary to surrender into the vulnerability that supports us in embodying the wise woman that resides within so that we may experience the ecstatic honey sweet nectar of being fucked to God.

May she, may you, may I, never again sacrifice identity, or desire, or expression, or value, or divine rapturous pleasure. May it be that no aspect need ever go unsung again.

And so it is.

Angela Thurston