Chapter 1
t was 2016, and my life was spiraling into an abysmal void of mediocrity. I committed to being a sincere Luciferian for nearly a decade by putting knowledge, self-sufficiency, and rational self-interest above my former superstitions, religious co-dependency, and self-sacrifice.
Despite my efforts to be completely rational and “enlightened,” I loved the symbolism of mainstream Christian spirituality and religion. Often, I found myself praying or cussing at heaven for solutions to my unfulfilling life. I valued the idea of Christ and read the Bible for guidance and inspiration.
You may notice the apparent conflict between my Luciferian philosophical leaning and my Christian spiritual practice. But, to me, it made sense. I was making sure that I had all the bases covered, so-to-speak. I mean, if I died and ended up in Hell, I wanted to make sure I had some contacts down there before I arrived.
A mature approach to spirituality recognizes that Light and Dark are bedfellows. Think about how awfully dull life would be if these contrasts. One couldn’t exist without the other.
We humans are new to the game. What looked like a war between good and evil was but a playful squabble between old friends. Light and Dark aren’t fighting. They’re dancing. In our ignorant innocence, we’ve convinced ourselves that we must choose aside.
Despite these alternative views, I was still killing myself trying to please others, trapped in the do-gooder role, and afraid to offend. My life felt gray and dull. I ignored my inner demons. My desires also remain unfulfilled. I chose to neglect my obligations to myself.
These patterns were symptoms of a spiritual illness I contracted as a child. They reflected the mental contagion of unquestioning devotion to conventional Christian. Beliefs about my purpose, my value, myself came from religion. I believed that I was smaller than life, the opinions of others, and God. This belief sabotaged all of my hard work and efforts to get ahead in life. Even if I proclaimed and affirmed that I was good enough, I knew it wasn’t true deep down.
Perhaps, today you also recognize the inner scars from trusting the superstition and airy-fairy nonsense taught to you as a child. It fails to provide the meaning, purpose, and inspiration you need. Superstitions from your upbringing are invisible obstacles that quietly control mental and behavioral patterns without your consent. They automatically block you from creating and enjoying the optimal human experience unique to who you are.
If you’re beginning to see that your mind was violated, you have every right to be furious.
Fortunately, and unfortunately, you’re not alone. This is the chain that holds many people in misery. Your ability to reason and come to sound conclusions was hijacked at an age. It happened when you didn’t have the emotional, mental, intellectual, or spiritual defenses to protect your mind against it.
I know because it happened to me. Despite my efforts to recover from this spiritual illness, it was a persistent dis-ease. I knew that something had to change when I kept finding myself back in the loop of self-criticism, guilt, self-doubt, self-sacrificing for others’ opinions, shame, and people-pleasing.
I wanted out of this spiraling mind-fuck, and I knew there was a better way. I had to cut through all the superstition, however, to find it. I had to go where no one else would go because no one had the answers I needed. It was an awareness that spawned my journey into a more rational, self-interested spiritual approach.
I knew that Christianity’s symbols and underlying message had tremendous value to me, so I held on to them. I cautiously moved away from the Light into the night. My journey into the night began in 2008.
As I crept into the Darkness, I saw a small and narrow path veered toward the Left-hand. As I continued down the path, the journey terrified what was left of my conventional Christian tendencies. However, it felt ancient, familiar, and genuine. I knew it was necessary for me, even if it wasn’t the most authentic path. So, I took it.
In 2016 as I completed my eighth year on the Left-hand path; however, God must have been awake that day and finally seemed to pay attention to that tiny brown dot begging for assistance. God answered my prayer, but it involved sushi, a cat, a dodgy massage parlor, and a very happy ending.
Excruciating back pain is often linked to stress at work. Today, it’s a fact of life for many working adults. I was fortunate enough to wake up every morning with this pleasant affliction along with a trifecta of torment that began in 2010 with burning abdominal pain, chest tightness that produced a stabbing sensation for the first 5 minutes in the morning as I inhaled. When I woke up in the morning, I felt like a vice around my chest.
Over the years, I went to multiple doctors and specialists. During this time, I found that going to a massage therapist or acupuncturist helped my lower back. Although I got a diagnosis in 2016, they could never figure out my abdominal and chest issues.
Eventually, my physician recommended MRIs, CTs, and higher than normally recommended doses of pain meds. In the meantime, I took more than the recommended dose of naproxen every time I had a flare-up. I was willing to risk destroying my liver by the time I was 45 to get relief and return to a sense of what an average body and normal life feels like.
Between flair-ups, I slept in my lawn chair padded with the Virgen de Guadalupe. At least I was sleeping with someone, and besides, we were both basically virgins—apart from the fact that I watched porn as much as 3 times a week. Does masturbating disqualify you from being a virgin? I don’t know.
The cherry atop this shit cake of a morning routine was the mind-numbing lower back pain that paid its visit each month. Sometimes it was accompanied by numbness and tingling in my feet and toes. A few times, I was removed from work and placed on temporary disability. On one occasion in 2011, after visiting my physician, I was put on medical leave from work. He prevented me from returning after he saw my stress condition.
Thanks to this trifecta, in 2011, I stopped sleeping on a bed. I regularly slept in a lawn chair padded by layers of cheap imitation velvet blankets--the kind of blanket you could find at a cheap roadside vendor that sells piñatas, sombreros, and plastic flowers. Honestly, I don’t understand that combination.
It seems oddly specific and yet random at the same time. One of the blankets had the image of La Virgen de Guadalupe on a dark green background. The other had Zebra stripes with a pink background because, of course, pink complements Zebra stripes.
They exemplified the complete skull fuckery that my life had become. We were barely getting by on my salary and living in an old, rundown, inadequate, less than 800 square foot, two-bedroom apartment. The rent was as much as a mortgage on a brand new 3,000 square foot home with a yard in most other reasonable parts of the country.
I was constantly considering the options of leaving existence. After saving myself for marriage and giving my virginity to my wife, I found that I had actually gotten my virginity back. If a sexless marriage is defined as less than 10 times per year.[i]
I guess we get our virginity card back once it dwindles down to less than four times a year, right? I had it two times per year and as much as an excessive four times if my wife and I were in the mood at the same time.
This delightful lifestyle and romantically passionate marriage were further enriched by the monthly meetup with sciatica. This debilitating lower back pain was becoming a close companion every two weeks. It was difficult, if not impossible, to work, sleep, walk, and even breathe at times. I tried exercises and stretching, stress reduction, acupuncture, massage therapy, and physical therapy.
I wanted to end it all and get the hell out. I felt like I was done with existence. But I couldn’t end my life. How would my wife support herself and the children? How would my son cope and grow into a man without a father?
Would he be one of the many millions of adult males searching for manhood in their women, work, and wealth but never finding it? How would my daughter grow into a remarkable woman? How would she transcend the imbalanced views of womanhood, fulfill her highest potential, and connect both her masculine and feminine without her father?
These were the questions that kept me from leaving. They were also the questions that kept me moving toward an expanded vision and version of myself. This was my life from 2008 to that fateful day in the autumn of 2016 when on one Sunday evening in October, I was picking up sushi for dinner with my son and daughter.
The usual back pain was flaring up, and so I thought a massage would ease the issues and make it possible for me to work without discomfort on Monday. Up to this point, the only thing that helped shorten the week or more long flare-ups was a massage and a shit-ton or naproxen.
As we waited for our food, we noticed an orange and white cat and approached her. She was friendly and seemed well-fed. We spent some time admiring, petting, and talking to her. I wondered who her owner was.
We followed her to the end of the complex and saw her go into a shop. I entered the door to the shop to find out more about the cat. I hadn’t noticed this business establishment in the past. I asked the attendant if she owned the cat or if she knew the cat’s owner. In broken English, she informed me that the cat lived in the area and feed her from time to time.
As I looked around, I noticed the smooth jazz pan flute or calm piano renditions of the 80s and 90s pop songs. The kind I had heard playing in elevators, acupuncture clinic waiting rooms, or in the background in cheap Chinese restaurants or in massage parlors. The ambiance and name of the “hop” suggested that it was a massage parlor of some sort.
I thanked the lady for the information and was glad to know the cat seemed healthy, happy, and independent. Before leaving, I asked the receptionist if they had any openings that evening. They did. We went home, ate dinner, and I helped get the kids to bed. I told my wife I would be back and that I was getting a massage.
When I arrived at the parlor that Sunday evening in late October, I was guided to my room, asked to completely disrobe. I was given slippers and taken to a shower in the back. The masseuse, who was attractive by-the-way, followed me to the shower area. I felt lucky.
I was accustomed to going to only two types of massage therapists.
The first were older Chinese men who knew enough English to understand “I have lower back pain and a stiff neck,” but apparently not enough to decipher the agonizing yelps, groans, or contorted facial expressions followed by “that hurts. Ouch! Too much.”
The other kind of massage came from elderly Thai women with genuine and charming smiles and gentle demeanors that dissolved into something more sinister as they kneaded and twisted me up into shapes you would find in a kindergarten coloring book.
They were so sweet, but their smiles took on a sadistic glee the more I became twisted up like a chocolate-covered pretzel. My bulging eyes, abated breath, protruding neck veins, and ever reddening skin (I’m pretty dark brown, by-the-way) betrayed my concealed efforts to endure their torture. But it cut a few days off of the flair-up, so, as long as I drank my gallon of naproxen, I’d be good to work the next day.
My self-sacrificing attempts to be polite during the, well… torment sessions were unnecessary, but years of being a nice guy and enduring torment are hard to break. By this point, I had become such a virtuoso of self-flagellation that having others do it for me was a welcomed new experience.
Back to the dodgy massage parlor with the smooth-jazz flute. The masseuse who took me to the back had me disrobe, and walked me to the shower, gave me soap, and was unusually focused on the part of my anatomy that I secretly fantasized that she would.
I was confused. I showered before I arrived. I was still wet because I rushed out of the shower to make it to the parlor on time. Getting any woman’s attention and focus on this area was unfamiliar but secretly welcomed and wanted.
I was visibly aroused but embarrassed at the same time. I backed away and, with chagrin, chuckled, “I’m good, I’ve got it. Thank you.” I slightly motioned. She kindly insisted and returned to “washing me up” for the massage.
I was a little shocked as I kept wondering, why is she working on my dick and balls? I mean, I LOVE what’s happening right now, but what the fuck is happening right now?
She would get more soap and feign washing other areas, but then she would return. I let her know I could finish up, and I rinsed myself off.
Why hadn’t she paid attention to my lower back, which was the reason for my coming in in the first place? I convinced myself that this is how they do it in this new place. I hadn’t been to this provider before.
All of the other providers gave vigorous, even painful, massages. None of them sent me to a shower except at the Korean sap that offered showers and sauna. I often left in more pain than when I arrived, but I knew it would help get me back on my feet.
We returned to the massage room, and the question kept burning in my mind. “Why isn’t she taking care of my back? Why did she seem so interested in getting me aroused?” By this point, I was embarrassingly awake in the men’s department and apologizing profusely and trying my best to conceal it. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to this. This is new. I haven’t had this kind of massage before. I’m sensitive to human touch.”
Her focus on my manhood continued when we went back to the massage room. I asked her to focus on my lower back. She began dragging the towel across my back and lightly touching my lower back.
I thought she didn’t understand me, her English wasn’t great, so I insisted. “You can press harder, harder” I imitated what I meant by pressing on my lower back as I was lying naked, face down on the massage table with only a towel over my buttocks. She kept lightly touching my back and really not doing any of the deep tissue work the Chinese men or Thai women had done.
She asked me to turn over. I did, less aroused than before and still apologizing. I pulled the towel over myself and grinned awkwardly. “sorry about that, I’m not used to this.” She chuckled and looked at me and motioned with her fist and tongue in cheek for a blowjob.
I finally couldn’t convince myself this was a typical massage. This was one of those massage parlors that we always joked about at work. I knew they existed, but I didn’t realizethey were a real thing!
But if I am candid, ever since the shower, a part of me knew that this was one of those massage parlors. It was pushed deep down into the recesses of my awareness. It was probably the same part of me that noticed the cat and chose to follow the cat to determine if she had an owner. I was moving me in the direction of what I wanted and needed without me even knowing it.
This part of me would have yelled out from the shadows in my mind, “Yes, yes, yes! I’m finally going to get the sexual pleasure I’ve dreamed of and wanted!” It would have led me directly to what I wanted without any hesitation. However, if it had done this, I would have run out of the parlor.
If you think leaving the dodgy massage joint would have happened out of a sense of virtue, righteousness, or moral duty to my marriage, think again. I would have left out of guilt, sexual shame, and fear of the legal ramifications and consequences to my family. We often do the right thing because doing what we really want to do comes at a cost, and weren’t willing to pay the price.
When I realized or admitted to myself that this was a “happy ending spot,” I got up and, with a surprised look on my face, said, “Oh, no, I didn’t come for that kind of massage. I’m married. I didn’t come for that. My back is bothering me. I need a back massage.”
She stopped, and a look of dread came over her face. I reassured her that she didn’t do anything wrong. I laughed as I sat there, holding the towel in place.
She chuckled as a wave of tension dissipated. As we sat in the dim room, me leaning against the massage table as cheap Chinese elevator music versions of 80’s love songs softly played through the speakers. I felt a calm sense of connection between us. We were both confused, relieved, and innocent. The mask had come down. We could drop the roles.
I thought about everything for a few seconds. I thanked her for her time. I reached for my wallet. I paused, looked at her, and said,
“Well, what do you want to do?”
God is not a Man in the sky deciding your fate
Not a sky phantom we fear and venerate
but a process within we must cultivate
to live and express our optimal state.
May you remain on your path to success as you create your own optimal human experience. As you do, maintain serenity and a realistic vision. Trudge through the challenging times on your way to your objective. It’s is easy to walk away, turn back and give up. But, if you keep going to reach it, you will.
THE END
1.[i] “Sexless Marriage or Relationship: What Causes It and How to Fix I,” Healthline, December 20, 2018, https://www.healthline.com/health/healthy-sex/sexless-marriage.
