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Sacred Sex

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They say sex is not sacred. Huh. They are all wrong. After all, why would people confuse sex with love so much, and for so many years? Isn’t love itself one of the definitions for God? Idiots. The biggest cliché of all time and nobody will listen. For example: I’m here in bed with this hot brunette, and just listen to her while we have sex: – Oh God! Oh God! Jesus Christ! Ahhhh! My God! How wouldn’t this be sacred?! They might be deaf.

Romance / Erotica
Winter Clark
3.0 1 review
Age Rating:


They say sex is not sacred.


They are all wrong.

After all, why would people confuse sex with love so much, and for so many years?

Isn’t love itself one of the definitions for God?


The biggest cliché of all time and nobody will listen.

For example: I’m here in bed with this hot brunette, and just listen to her while we have sex:

– Oh God! Oh God! Jesus Christ! Ahhhh! My God!

How wouldn’t this be sacred?!

They might be deaf.

That same brunette has just become a saint.

The bed seems to be unscrewing. Snick. Snick. Snick.

– Oh Mother!

This goes to the mother of God. Like a nickname for “Our Lady”. It’s like she went to confession and the priest told her to say every holy name she knew, to be forgiven.

As for those misnames, after a while I quit caring about them in bed.

You get used to this sodomite orgy of names.

Some people dream of having multiple partners at once.

At least they invite them, quite loud.

– Oh Jesus!!!

And then they say he didn’t have any women...

They all cry His holy name.

The wooden floor is starting to get scratched by the foot of the bed. Skrreek. Skrreek. Skrreek.

I wish my mother had named me Jesus.

This misnaming problem would be solved 90% of the time: in bed, on the floor, in the kitchen, in the living room, in the car, in that nightclub restroom... and 100% of the time in the churches too. You take out those women who are not into talking, and less than 10% would miss your name.

I stay quiet.

My eyes are open.

But I can see the brunette’s irises rolling up into her eyelids, in her half-closed eyes.

You must be wondering, “Why ‘brunette’?”

To which I answer: “Mind your own fucking business!”

The truth is I don’t know what the fuck her name is.

Better not to say anything than to shout: “My God! Jesus! Oh, Christ!”

So no appellations.

Anonymous love.

After all, if the two say the same name to each other... it leads me to think.

Isn’t sex with yourself a masturbation? Damn.

And none of those names is ours.

Not Jesus.

Not Christ.

Not God.

Not Maria.

Not Mother.

Not yours.

Not mine.

We haven’t seen those people in a good few hundred years. Some, even millennia. And here we are, shouting their names to the heavens!

And don’t get me started with visions on clouds, coffee grounds or in the fucking smoke of the World Trade Center.

My sweating is dripping. Tluck. Tluck. Tluck.

It’s that kind of sex you agree with by just meeting someone’s eyes at a party.

And they say love at first sight is very good.

Fools... They don’t know what they say.

Sex at first sight... That’s good!

When she stops invoking the heavens, the infernal moans arrive. For someone who hasn’t said anything while fucking, that’s a big exercise on vowels we never use in everyday life.

– Uhm! I-um... Oah... mmmmmm.

Sometimes it seems like I signed up for a shitty yoga class.

– Ah-ah-Ah-ah-Ah-ah-Ah-ah. – She lowers and raises the volume as if she sang in the middle of a Paris-Dakar rally; as if she were singing while receiving Thai massage from an illegal Korean immigrant; as if singing in a bus driver’s last run in the damn São Paulo.

A vowel for life. Another vowel to death.

Other syllables and vowels without phonetic sense.

And, I repeat, they say sex is not sacred.

But she’s already speaking in tongues!

Holy shit! They are VERY wrong!

Well, look. People began to speak in tongues just as God destroyed the great phallus with which they wanted to reach the heavens.

Reach the heavens with a giant stone dick.

There she goes again, as if she sang in the middle of a heart attack.

There you go.

Sex is saint.

But God’s butt is not an usual one and neither is so many people’s to be violated without permission.

Here’s a tip: don’t mess with God’s ass.

It could only have a bad ending.

If you have ever read this shit about vampires, you should know. You gotta have permission to enter people’s houses.

That’s the only lesson you will learn from these terrible stories: education.

And after a brief silence: “You disagree? Who fucking cares?! You bought this fucking book! So you will hear my shit! That’s my fucking story! Sit the fuck down and keep reading in silence.”

But who can blame these sinners (you, those like you and those from Babel)? After all, after the flood, they surely would want to find a haven from the rain of divine destruction, the holy washing machine, the sacred washing basin of dirty and stained garments, which would wash all the dirty clothes of history with blood, drowning and suffocation.

She tells me not to use my dick so much, to focus on the solar plexus chakra.

“Jesus Christ,” I think to myself. “It seems like I have three assholes to have this shit up in my ears now!”

She wants the trinity even in that.

I tell the brunette to shut her mouth with an 180 degrees movement.

She’s on all fours.

I wonder what J.C. would do if he were me.

And you come arguing that... Oh. Wait a second.

– Ah... I came.

Yes. This should be every man’s first and last words in and out of bed.

It could be written on his tombstone: “Worst father, worst son, and worse husband yet, but... he came.”

Look at the trinity showing up again.

Being a husband is the Holy Spirit.

There. Throw the earth.

He died well.

He completed his mission.

Sex is sacred, indeed.

I pull out from the brunette and stare at the ceiling as she hugs me. The heat still contaminates my skin from the inside out. Electric impulses explode in small paced convulsions from the back of my neck to the end of each limb. With her arms still around me, the brunette puts her hand on my chest and kisses my shoulder.

Why so much intimacy after a mere fuck? Hug?! Kiss?! The crazy women I find...

Post-sex sadness strikes, the valley of every ridge is reached, gravity returns to normal, and a cigarette is all I wanted. The heat, the smoke, the fingers filled with something as important as a crucifix. A totem, a power, a refuge. The hormones seem to die off slowly, lose their effect, transmigrate from the dreamlike world of awakened sex, from the south to the north, and suddenly everything is...

Black and white.

Through the window I see a church with a cross above it. I look at my body all wet by semen and the brunette and...

I make the sign of the cross.

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