The Friday Sex Blog [The Collazo Sisters]

¡Hola! Everybody...

Seeking work is more work than actual work. Just sayin’…

Summer reruns!

* * *

-=[ Blame The Collazo Sisters ]=-

A woman’s behind -- an altar to be worshiped on one’s knees.

-- Me

Actually, the title is incorrect: we shouldn’t blame all the Collazo sisters, only Nellie Collazo’s big sister, Delilah. But there are all manner of connection in all this...

Nellie Collazo was in my eighth-grade class. She was a Taina princess -- long, straight dark brown hair that brushed the tops of the cheeks of her cute little ass. Her translucent skin was like cinnamon and when she smiled, it was like the sun coming out after days of cloudiness.

I am convinced to this day that Nellie descended from Taino royalty.

All year I entertained fantasies about Nellie, but I was too shy to ever say anything to her. My two friends would tease me about it all the time. Finally, about a month before the junior high school “prom,” I managed to muster up the courage to ask her.

Me: “Would you be my prom date?” Or something to that effect.

She: “No.”

I was heartbroken. I was very shy, a nerd, and girls always made me nervous. I had other options. There was the impossibly and prematurely developed Susana Susana (that was her name!). Susana looked like what I imagined a young (and dark brown) Mae West would like look and her sexuality -- even at 13 -- smoldered. To look at Susanna was to see the smoke-filled rooms and smell the rum I’m sure she ventured later in life. She had the habit of cornering me between classes and trying to cop a feel and kiss me. I hated it.

That summer, I was sent to a special program for gifted students and I would fall in love for the first time, but that’s another story. What happened that summer was that I made a conscious decision to transform myself. I did a fashion and personality make-over. I was too dammed shy and wearing a suit and tie everyday to school (thanks mom!) wasn’t cool. I discovered that I could be funny in an insightful way and that humor was a great way to approach women, so I honed my craft that summer and polished my image.

That September, I entered high school with my new cool make-over: I was known for my long, black cashmere coat, and my favorite ensemble (wardrobe makeover made possible with the financial help and fashion sense of my mother), was a black Italian knit (it had three barely noticeable electric blue stripes on each side of the buttons), and black sharkskin pants. And, of course, a pair black suede and leather “Playboys” (shoes).

You may laugh at this today, but back then, that was the shit. I cut my hair in a modified “Caesar” look all the bad boys wore, and -- voila! -- a new Eddie emerged. I was still intellectually inclined and at fourteen, I was in the process of reading “every great book ever written,” but I was also “cool.” I was also part of “College Bound” a program implemented by the City of New York. It was an effort to identify gifted students, what I would later jokingly call the “talented tenth,” and segregate us from the rest of the unwashed and stupid black, Latin@, and poor white masses. I attended a school that housed close to 3,000 students in a building that was meant to house half that number and the average class size was probably 35-40 students. Students in the College Bound program would attend classes that had, at most, 10-15 students. More often I took classes that had less than ten students. The idea being that smaller classes would allow teachers to give more specialized instruction to the students.

I was on the Dean’s List -- a straight- A student -- but I was also cool, and I became very popular. My school was also a dangerous place. the hallways, bathrooms, locker rooms were all places where the “bad students” the one’s abandoned by the state and the city, would congregate and sell drugs, smoke cigarettes, engage in sex, and extort the more meek. I happened to be friends with some of the riff raff, many of them having grown up with me. So, I began then to travel the different worlds I would travel all of my life. I was as likely to appear on the Dean’s List as well as with the guy who would take your lunch money at the point of a knife.

One of my friends was Michael. Michael was an abandoned child who was raised by numerous different adults, related and not. He was also the one child no mother wanted you to hang out with. Michael was famous for sniffing glue, something popular in those days. He was also the only Puerto Rican I knew that wore his hair in the style of the Partridge Family’s David Cassidy. That was a huge fashion fuax pas in the black and Latin@ ‘hood we grew up in but though he looked nothing like the wildly popular pop star, he managed to carry it off and the girls loved it! LOL

One day we all decided to go to the movies and who was with Michael the Glue-Sniffer? None other than my Taina princess, Nellie Collazo! Not only that, he treated her like crap and she even paid for his entrance and bought him candy!

I was conflicted and Michael, who was in actuality an extremely intelligent young man, just laughed, said, “They’re all ho’s Eddie.”

I was stunned, but I learned an important lesson about the allure of a bad boy that day. More importantly, it was the first time I laid eyes on Nellie’s older sister. They didn’t look like sisters at all. Nellie’s older sister was light-skinned with curly light-brown hair and her eyes -- impossibly large --were a wicked shade of yellow.

It was winter and she had a coat on and Michael, noting my gaze, whispered, “She’s a stuck up bitch, you’ll never get that.”

At that point in time, I considered Michael a sexual genius (which speaks volumes as to how little I knew). After all, he had Nellie, she of the Taino royalty ancestry, smoking his cock in the balcony of the movie we went to that day.

A couple of years passed and I was walking up those notoriously dangerous Bushwick High School stairways in-between classes when I looked up.

And that’s when it happened.

I looked up and what I saw changed my life forever.

Right there, just a few steps above me was the most rounded, most deliciously curved ass I had ever seen in my life. Up until then, I never paid much attention to the female derriere. It was just something you fondled on your way to the flower of a woman’s vagina or the buds of her breasts. But this was no ordinary ass. It was perfection personified. It was rounded, just the right size, and the owner of that ass had the smallest waist I had ever seen on a woman. It seemed that if I tried, I could wrap my hands around her waist and my fingertips would touch. She was curvy, but lean and she moved like a sleek cat -- all stealth, sex, and grace.

I walked up those stairs in rapture.

I guess she sensed something, quickly turned around, demanded, “What are you doing?! Are you staring at my ass?”

Me, “I’m praying.”

She, “Praying? What are you praying about?”

I was debated if this was a good tact to take, decided it would be foolish, but blurted it out anyway, “Your glorious derrière.”

And she laughed -- a strange sound that sounded like a song. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. Her small, pert contemptuous breasts defied gravity. And those eyes! Those wickedly yellowish/ amber, impossibly large eyes framed by exquisitely formed cheekbones that came out to here. But most important, Nellie’s older sister had the Most Beautiful Ass in the World.

“Very funny,” she said, the hint of a smile on like a playful sprite above her coral lips destroying her attempt to affect an indignation she obviously didn’t feel.

Seeing an opportunity, I jumped on my chance, decided I needed to say something, but not knowing what else, I managed, “I’m also a genius.”

At that she laughed. "Really," she asked playfully.

Me, “Can I walk you to class?”

She, “No!”

Me, “You would rather I continue to stare?”

She ignored that last bit and turned around and continued with that divine ass of hers. I watched, and she knew I was watching, but didn’t complain or protest.

As she left to go on to her class, I asked, “Do you come by this way often?”

She, “Everyday! Wow, you are a genius,” and she laughed again. Her eyes were an open invitation I wasn't sure of.

Every day, I would wait for her and follow her up the stairs and everyday she would appear. She wouldn’t engage me in conversation except to inquire if I still prayed.

My answer was always, “Everyday at this time.”

And she would let out that musical laughter that so enraptured me.

One day I didn’t show, I was making out with Cinderella -- well, not that Cinderella, but Cynthia, who I called Cinderella for reasons I can’t get into at this juncture. And little by little, I would stop waiting for Nellie Collazo’s Big Sister's Ascencion. Besides, she had a parade of worshipers, I realized, that walked up the stairs with her. It was like a holy procession. Besides, Cinderella adored me and she would let me taste the fruit of her lips and her wondrously pale, puffy nipples.

One day, totally by accident, I looked up and again saw that wondrous ass and I swear the fuckin' the angels sang.

She turned around and asked, “Where have you been?”

I answered, “I haven’t been praying lately, my goddess refuses to answer my prayers.”

She laughed, the amber in her eyes sparkling, and teased, “And what would your prayer be asking?”

Me, “That I could walk you to your class, then take you out on a date, and someday taste the dew on your bottom lip.”

With that, she turned around without saying anything and looking over her shoulder (to make sure I was praying to her ass, I guess) said, “You can walk me to my class, and I would like to go out with you, but I want to know... ”

to be continued...

Love,

Eddie

Siren Song

¡Hola! Everybody...
Gentlemen: Imagine for a moment that through some random evolutionary adaptation, our penises grew from our foreheads instead of between our legs (after all, it makes more sense from a woman's pleasure perspective). Now, imagine how it would feel if every time you went out in public, women would make untoward remarks about the size (or lack thereof), shape, attractiveness, or unattractiveness of your penis. Complete strangers commenting on something highly personal, something you have mixed feelings about (because ti's either too small or too big, or bent at the head, etc.). Imagine that as soon as you reached puberty (and even before) women would make cruel, oftentimes publicly humiliating remarks about your penis. If you can imagine how this would feel (and let's be real: most of you would die if a woman so much as pointed at your penis and laughed), then you have a very small idea of what it feels like to be a woman and do something as mundane as take a walk.

* * *

-=[ Listening to the Songs of the Sirens ]=-

Excerpted from Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears

By Pema Chodron

Ulysses, the hero of ancient Greek mythology, exemplifies the courage it takes to consciously choose staying receptive and present when the temptation to get swept away is intense.

When he was making the sea voyage home to Greece after the Trojan War, Ulysses knew that his ship would have to pass through a very dangerous area that was inhabited by beautiful maidens known as the sirens. He had been warned that the call of these women was irresistible, and that sailors couldn’t help but steer towards the sirens, crash their boats onto the rocks, and drown.

Nevertheless, Ulysses wanted to hear the song of the sirens. He knew the prophecy that if anyone could hear their voices and not go towards them, the sirens would lose their power forever and wither away. This was the challenge that compelled him.

As his ship neared the sirens’ homeland, Ulysses told his men to put wax plugs in their ears and to tie him tightly to the mast, instructing them that no matter how hard he struggled and gestured, no matter how wrathfully he appeared to be ordering them to cut his ropes, they were not to untie him until the ship reached a familiar point of land well out of earshot of the sirens’ song. This story, as you might expect, has a happy ending. The men followed his instructions and Ulysses made it though.

To a greater or lesser degree we will all have to go through similar discomfort in order not to follow the call of our own personal sirens, in order to step through the open doorway to awakening.

* * *

Love,

Eddie

Surrender

¡Hola! Everybody…
Busy, busy, busy…

* * *

-=[ Stopping the War ]=-

“The only thing I regret about my past is the length of it. If I had to live my life again, I'd make the same mistakes, only sooner.”

-- Tallulah Bankhead (1903–1968), American actress

I sometimes am concerned that people will confuse my story for the message. When conducting a workshop or speaking in front of an audience, I always worry that some people may get stuck on my particular story and miss out on what I feel are underlying universal points.

Equally challenging for me is the possibility of people dismissing my message because they are so far removed from my specific issues, or find it hard to identify with my story. However, the deeper I look at society and the larger issues, I know that there are many who not only can identify with my story, but also know intimately the pain of loneliness and the sense of inner poverty.

Perhaps we can begin by opening up to the possibility that those considered best-adjusted in our society are neither dead or alive, just numb, zombies. When you are alive, you are more likely to question the status quo. When you are fully alive, you are constantly questioning the many insane practices of society: the racism, the polluted environment, the nuclear and biological warfare threat, the fragmented people from extreme political positions who run for office (and often win), drinking unsafe water, and eating carcinogenic or genetically modified foods.

If we can open up to this view (I promise you can go back to your default view later), we begin to understand there is a social investment promoting those things that keep us dull, keep us busy with our fixes, and keep us slightly numbed and zombie-like. In this way, our modern consumer society itself becomes an addict. I remember reading this in author Anne Wilson Schaef's When Society Becomes an Addict, and being struck by what should be a very obvious observation.

In the USA, there are at least 30-40 million drug addicts, millions more addicted to cigarettes, gambling, food, sexuality, unhealthy relationships, or the speed and busyness of work. In a way, we are all part of an “addicted society” and our most pervasive addiction is to speed. Modern society pushes us to increase productivity and the pace of our lives.

Having to live life in a society that demands it lived double-time, speed and addictions numb us to our own reality. Our pereception of reality makes it is almost impossible to settle into our bodies or stay connected with our hearts, let alone connect with one another or even our life-giving ecology. I believe there is a huge hunger for community or regaining a lost sense of connectedness. For example, we rush around all day and that leaves us little time to connect, so we log on to our computers and connect here. I’m not saying there is something wrong about this, I’m just making an observation.

If we’re honest, most of us would admit that sometimes we find ourselves increasingly isolated and lonely, cut off from one another and the natural web of life. You get in your car, drive to work, get back in your car, drive back home... you can actually very easily live your life in almost total seclusion in your climate-controlled existence and not even be aware of it.

I would submit that this is the most pervasive sorrow of our modern lives.

Folks, this is where the depression, the war with food and weight, body image, substance abuse, and exploitive sex practices originate and the only cure for it is becoming fully alive.

But how does someone become fully alive?

I think it starts from within and creating the psychological space for reflection and stillness. Stop long enough and listen to the inner dialogue in your head and you will be amazed at how crazy it all sounds. When I first tried it, I thought I was crazy until I realized that the inner dialogue in my head was not me -- it is merely the conditioned within me floating around undisciplined as a stream of consciousness. The thing is that this inner conversation has a tremendous influence on our behavior if we don't put it in its place.

We cannot change ourselves for the better through an act of will alone. This is like wanting the mind to get rid of itself, or pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps. Remember the studies I quoted on how many people break New Year's resolutions (70-80% quit by the third week)? When we struggle to change ourselves we only reinforce the self-defeating patterns of self-judgment and aggression. We keep the war against ourselves alive. Such acts of will backfire, and in the end often strengthen the addiction or denial we intend to change.

Genuine movement toward the happiness that is our birthright as human beings requires that we learn to

Stop

The

War

This is the first step, but actually, it must be practiced repeatedly until it becomes our very way of being. The inner stillness of the person who truly “is peace” brings peace to the whole interconnected web of life, both inside and out. To stop the war we must begin with ourselves.

The only effective means of change is one that has as its purpose to empower us to stop the war, not by force of will, but organically -- through understanding and gradual training. If we have an ongoing practice, we can cultivate a new way of relating to life in which we let go of our battles.

When we let go -- when we step out of the battle -- we begin to see how each of us creates conflict. We begin to see our constant likes and dislikes, the fight to resist all that frightens us. We begin to see our own prejudice, greed, and possessiveness create our suffering. All of this is certainly hard to look at, but it is there. Look deeper, underneath these ongoing battles, and we begin to see the deep-rooted feelings of incompleteness and fear. We being to see how much our wars with life have kept our hearts closed.

When we let go of our battles and open our hearts to things as they are, then we come to rest in the present moment. This is it -- this is the beginning and end of any true effective means of change or spirituality. Only in the moment can we discover the love that we seek: love in the past is simply a memory, and love in the future is fantasy.

Only in the reality of the present moment can we love, can we awaken, can we find peace and understanding and connection with the world and ourselves. The NY Lottery has a marketing campaign that goes: “You gotta be in it to win it,” and so it is with life. Stopping the war and becoming present are two sides of the same coin. To come into the present means to experience whatever is here and now. Most of us have lived our lives caught up in plans, expectations, and ambitions for the future, in regrets, guilt, or shame about the past. Most of us have an argument with reality. Waking up is partly committing to stopping the argument – even if only for a short moments everyday.

When we come into the present, we begin to feel the life force around us again, but we also encounter whatever we have been avoiding. We must have the courage to face whatever is present -- our pain, our desires, our grief, our loss, our secret hopes, our love -- everything that moves us most deeply. As we stop the war, each of us will find something from which we have been running -- our loneliness, our unworthiness, our boredom, our shame, our unfulfilled desires. We must face these parts of ourselves as well.

We all share a longing to go beyond the prisons of our personal fear or anger or addiction, to connect with something greater than the small ego, what we call “I” (the mini me). We ant to connect to something greater than our small story and our small self. It is possible to stop the war and come into the eternal present -- to touch a great ground of being that contains all things. For me, this is the true purpose and mission of life: to discover peace and connectedness in ourselves and to stop the war in us and around us.

Yours,

Eddie

Lifting the Veil

¡Hola! Everybody...
Not feeling well these past two days...

* * *

-=[ Behind the Curtain ]=-

Information crashes against our eyes at the speed of light, slams onto our eardrums at the speed of sound, and courses through our mind/ body as fast as an electro-chemical signal can flash from one neuron to the next. How do we deal with this sensory onslaught without getting overwhelmed? By blocking out most of it, and putting the brakes on what little is left.

The brain freezes the world into separate mind moments, each containing a barely adequate amount of information, and then processes these one by one in a linear fashion. The result is a world compiled more or less by what’s “out there,” but mostly organized around the limitations of the machine constructing it. It’s as if the brain and its senses quickly take a series of snapshots, and then weave them together into a movie -- our stream of consciousness. The Buddhists have a pretty good way of describing this system: delusion.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, nor does it mean that we are stupid, it means that the mind/ body is designed (in a way) to distill or distort reality in a fundamental way. For one thing, this helped us survive as a species. If we were to take in the totality of reality, we would’ve long ago joined the ranks of extinct life forms.

First, creating this “shorthand” of reality allowed us to make decisions quickly (Do we fight, or do we run? Do we fuck it, or eat it?). Secondly, each mind moment creates an artificial center of stability out of a reality that constantly changing and almost impossible to capture. Like the rapid unfolding of the individual frames of a film, these mind moments give the illusion of movement. As the films plays, we create all kinds of stories about the way things are, filling in the blanks of discarded data with assumptions, projections, and aspirations. Taking this process as real, we go seek gratification and security to a level that the system cannot support. The inevitable disappointment is centered on the idea of “me,” who is both the one who wishes things were different than they are and the one who suffers when they are not. In other words, we are hardwired to misperceive reality by ignoring the impermanence, unsatisfactoriness, and selflessness of it all.

There is another way we filter out information at any given moment. Most of what comes in to the system doesn’t even reach our consciousness but is relegated to our unconscious. This is because the precious resource of conscious awareness is used to carry on the important daily activities of living. Information, for our awareness, is on a need to know basis. Take the experience of learning a new task, such as learning to play a musical instrument. At first we have to “think” about it and consciously try to make our fingers go where they are supposed to go. Eventually, as the right connections are made between the brain and the muscles of the fingers and hand, the patterns disappear into our pre- and subconscious and, after a while, it feels as if we are playing automatically.

This is a very efficient process, and before long, most of what we do in our lives is accomplished without having to be very conscious about it. One would assume that this process would work to free our psychic energy to do some creative things, but this is often not the case. More often, our awareness is spent looking for ways to find pleasurable experiences and getting more of them, or it is used to bitch and moan about unpleasant experiences and finding ways to avoid or destroy them. We use our creative energy -- our conscious mind -- to find new ways of wishing things were different from what they are, and our unconscious mind is relegated to maintaining the habits we have accumulated previously. The Buddhists have a good way of describing this state of mind: suffering.

The best definition of meditation I have encountered is “learning to stop arguing against reality.” We spend much of our lives and mental energy in conflict with reality. Our unconscious has been conditioned by all kinds of unhealthy patterns and these patterns help guide our behavior. We are not aware of most of these and, ironically, the only way we can change what we are not aware of is by changing something else first. We may not be able to see the unconscious conditioning, but we can become aware of the suffering they cause. By training our awareness in a methodical way, we strengthen its ability to open to more of the information available to the senses in the present moment. Mindfulness meditation is the art and practice of being present with whatever is happening here and now: when it is strong, we are not stuck arguing with reality. With less liking and disliking, there is less stress coming from the narrowly defined sense of you that keeps you separate from the rest of the world. As the influence of your terminal uniqueness decreases, suffering deceases also.

We are always working with an imperfect model of reality. What makes the difference, however, is to understand the limitations of our constructed world. To see more clearly how our perception is being used in skillful and unskillful ways, and to use that awareness in the service of creating well-being for ourselves and the well-being of those around us. The Buddhists have a word for that too: they call it wisdom.

Love,

Eddie

Sunday Sermon [The Witness]

¡Hola! Everybody...
Well... am I being too cynical if I express my deeply felt conviction that the real reason Sarah “I’m Proud to be a Dumb Twat” Palin resigned as governor is because a particularly nasty tape of her gargling gallons of Alaskan young male sperm has surfaced?

What? I’m just saying...

I mean, c’mon, was anyone else watching that obscenely awful press conference? The line “She fucked her brains out,” kept coming to kind. You know what’s really tragic? That such a sorry, utterly clueless, intellectually bereft specimen of humanity would be elected to any political office. SMH...

* * *

-=[ Witness ]=-

Today I’m going to try to offer something of practical value. After reading this, you’ll be able to use it (or not) and perhaps effect some change...

Too often external factors have such a huge impact on our lives. Someone steps on your toes, or looks at you in a certain way, or cuts you off on the highway, and that just sends you over the edge. Even something as simple (and beyond our control) as the weather affects our perception and how we feel. It’s all so random, it seems...

... Or is it? Hmmmmm....

Imagine, if you can, that you are mangled in a car accident. Your body is crushed amidst tangled, jagged metal and you are lying in a pool of blood.

Now, imagine sleeping in a large, comfortable bed. Switch back to being mangled in a car accident. The difference you feel is made from the same thoughts that create your personal suffering.

Confused? What does this mean? How do you discover the cause of your suffering and the source of genuine happiness? And, what the fuck does this have to do with being mangled and beds?

LOL! Bear with me and try the following and see if you get any answers:

Go between the two feelings: relaxed, lying in a big comfortable bed/ mangled, lying in a pool of blood. Picture each, feel both, then one and then the other. Mangled body. Soft bed.

Now, pay attention because this is the important part. Feel the “who” that can feel both images, and relax as that “who” now.

You -- the real you -- are this capacity to witness.

The images are merely objects for your attention. The true you is the awareness of being aware. Your genuine self is the feeling-awareness that notices the movement of attention between the images. I call this The Witness, others call it witness consciousness. Different spiritual traditions have different names for this awareness of awareness, but they all point to the same thing, regardless of the terminology.

You are the space where the pictures happen, where attention moves between a mangled body and a soft bed. The imagery changes but the feeling-awareness -- who you are -- always maintains this openness to feel. Awakening to your true self is being able to relax into this capacity to feel, whatever picture is happening now. If you can develop this awareness into a freedom to feel, no matter what is happening, you become free to act as love.

If you forget this openness of feeling even for a second, then you become trapped again. the inconsiderate driver, the discourteous interaction, the real and imagined insults, all will have power over you again. You will go around life renting this precious space to other people -- many who are strangers and insignificant. If you can learn to remember this essential openness, who you are, you begin to discover that love acts spontaneously, unfettered by the present picture of your life.

But don’t take my word for this. Discover what is true for yourself when you do this exercise. See if you change with the picture, or if you are this open awareness where the picture happens, the openness who feels what happens.

Test it now. Mangled body/ soft bed. The images have changed, but in what space does the light of your imagination shine? Is this feeling-awareness any different? Are you aware of your awareness?

Love,

Eddie

Sunday Sermon (Heroes)

¡Hola! Everybody...
I’ve had to work this weekend. Recently, I’ve picked up on my consulting work and my regular job is really hectic. LOL! It’s all good...

Not too long ago, I wrote a blog about white privilege and I was labeled a bigot. More recently, I wrote a blog condemning domestic violence and I was called sexist (among other things). My guess is that because I write a weekly blog on sex, I’m also perverse.

Let me just say this much: if being called a bigot, racist, sexist asshole means that it separates me from the Hordes of Unreason, then I’ll wear those labels proudly.

I’ll risk the obvious and say that if you don’t like my writing -- or if you don’t like me -- then kindly leave and go fuck yourself. It’s not a big thing, your feelings don't affect me much. Just don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

Finally, if you voted for Bush, please don’t tell me! I will lose all respect for your intellect and your capacity for critical thought will be forever in doubt. I mean, like, it’s a free country and all, but personally, choosing stupidity is not a quality I look for when engaging conversation. If you voted for Bush (or, OMFG! Palin), I really don’t need to know that, OK?

* * *

-=[ Heroes ]=-

I got into meditation in a funny way. First, I learned it when I was about 10-11 years-old from my sensei (teacher). Sensei Blair would pick kids up from the street and teach them discipline via the martial arts. He was the first person to introduce me to Eastern practices. Later, one of my favorite comic book heroes was Dr. Strange. Dr, Strange was real cool, he used to meditate a lot and he lived in the Village in a mansion...

and was an astral traveler -- a master of the "black arts." Cool!

Perhaps there are people you consider heroes. Some may be movie stars or sports players. Maybe your hero is a politician or scientist. On the other hand, you might have ordinary heroes like your parents or extraordinary heroes like Mother Teresa, Jesus, Martin Luther King, or the Dalai Lama.

Or, if you’re really fucked up, I might be one of your heroes!

Whatever the case may be, my point is that the reason someone is your hero is because he or she embodies qualities through which goodness, truth, or beauty shines. The pertinent issue in all this is that if these qualities weren’t already alive in you, then you wouldn’t resonate with them in your heroes. In other words, it takes one to know one.

To awaken is to rest as the openness in which all these heroic qualities reside. The qualities that are your nature -- the potential expressions in any given moment. There is a part of you that yearns to grow, to nurture a deeper love, to develop the full potential of your heart’s gifts. Perhaps you feel a need to evolve into a translucent offering to the divine qualities that want to shine through your life.

One way to align with the calling of your heart is to relax as this openness, and imagine yourself to be your hero. Give yourself permission to drop all the tension surrounding your heart and open yourself as awareness in this moment. Actually feel (not think!) and allow yourself to be the openness that is awareness, shining as a light, vibrating like a clear bell through space... Relax as this heart-openness and visualize your hero (Jesus, The Dalai Lama, etc.). Allow the image to come closer until your body and your hero’s body become one. Wear the body of Jesus as if it were your own. Feel what it would be to breathe, sit, walk, or speak as your hero. Be thgis heart-open awareness, shining as a light, and taking the shape of your hero.

When you can feel that your are embodying all the qualities of your hero, allow this visualization to dissolve, while at the same time keeping the sense of the qualities you admire. Relax into that space, continuing to feel the truth, beauty, or goodness of your hero.

You can practice this same exercise with any hero, whether they be movie stars, athletes of world leaders. Wear, feel and express the very qualities of your heroes. This is a skill, and your skill develops, the entire process occurs almost at once. You visualize your hero, feel and merge with the form of your hero, and then dissolve as that form, remaining awake and alive shining the qualities you admire.

Whenever you feel a divine quality in a person, you can relax open as that quality, instantly, through this exercise. Then, as an expression of your life, you can offer these qualities as a gift to others, as you embody them more deeply. Eventually, you will find the visualization becomes unnecessary. Effortlessly, you become an open form of a blessing.

Relax as heart-openness itself and you can instantly offer the gifts of all your heroes.

Love,

Eddie

The Sex Blog [Cunnilingus]

¡Hola! Everybody...
It’s Friday!

The following is the second sex blog I ever wrote. The first was on blow jobs and my women readers demanded a tit for tat (pun intended).

Oh! If you can see this and it offends you, you should reconsider having me on your friends' list. No hard feelings.

Guys? Learn to listen and listen to learn! Enjoy...

* * *

-=[ The Cunning Linguist ]=-

Pussy-Eating Tips by Women for Men (Compiled Over the Years)

OK, there’s this hilarious bit that the comedian Sam Kinnison (sp) used to do that cracked me the fuck up. He would scream: “Ladies if you want me to do something, then LET ME THE-FUCK-KNOW WHAT IT IS!!!! I’M NOT A MIND-FUCKIN’-READERRRRRRR! LET ME KNOWWWWWW!!!

LMAO!

Men get the humor and irony in this, while most women look at me as if I just farted loudly. But I think my man Sam was on to something here: I always try to stay attuned to my lover’s needs, looking for the physical cues, being “connected,” blah blah blah, but each and every woman is different, sometimes I need to ask and sometimes, dear ladies, it’s not so bad if you to give us a...

FUCKIN’ CLUE!!!

Or at least a vowel.

What follows are actual tips from women (with commentary by yours truly)

Whatever you do, Do not use your teeth! Take them out if you have to. Also, try to keep the saliva down to a minimum?

Dang! And here all this time I thought very lightly using my teeth and slobbering the clit with lots of saliva was knocking 'em dead!

On the other hand, saliva, saliva, saliva: I can’t overemphasize the importance of plenty of lubrication.

Ooookaaaaay… lots of saliva but no teeth, ma’fuccas.

The word cunnilingus derives from two Latin words: cunnus (female genitals) and lingere (to lick). The action should include not only the tongue but also the teeth. Tongue: soft yet firm. Teeth: Nibble around down there!

Ho sweat! Wait guys, nibbling is kewl!

I don’t think it’s necessary for a guy to spend much time in any area other than the clitoris. —It’s the Clit

Ahhhh…. dive face first and hit the clit! EASY!

A clit is not a doorbell. Please do not punch it repeatedly with your tongue. And explore the rest of my pussy. It has just as many sensitive nerve endings as my clit.

What the…? Hold on guys, explore the whole pussy!

Lick the alphabet! Start with lowercase and work through the caps. One word of caution: She can’t know what you’re doing! It is disastrous to let her hear you humming the alphabet song. This could imply that you are not sufficiently stimulated by her parts, as was the case with me.

Okaaaay… lick the alphabet, she says, but don’t let her know you’re doing it! Got it!

I dated a guy who used the “alphabet song” to guide him along. Basically, he hummed the “A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . . H, I, J, K, LMNOP… ” song while drawing the letters with his tongue on my clit. He did it at the same pace as the song (long G, quick LMNOP, etc.), and by the time he got to Z, I was shaking. Now every time I hear the alphabet song I get wet! —Alphabet Soup

No, wait!!! Lick the alphabet, but let her know you’re doing it, she’ll wet her knickers every time she hears the song! Dang!

Guys, don't slide your tongues in and out of our vaginas. All that feels like is a small, thin, limp dick. Most women don’t like small, limp dicks, so why simulate one with your tongue?

Oh shit, another no-no by yours truly. I thought that shit was really cool!

A French guy once stuck his tongue in and swirled it around, pushing it really hard against the walls of my vagina. It was amazing. The first time, I said, “Where’d you learn to do that?” He said, “You have never had eet?” “Not like that,” I said. The American guys I’ve slept with tend to lap politely.

Sheeesh! Hold on guys, stick your tongue into their pussies! Ready, set, go!

So many guys are obsessed with penetration that they can’t eat pussy without sticking their fingers in. Fellas, please, just lick me—it’s a nice change -- lick it don’t stick it!

Boys, it ain’t a dike (pun unintended), keep those dirty lil fingers away!

Men need to know that the G-spot is located behind the ridge of the pubis bone, up and inside her vagina. Take your hand palm up, insert middle and pointer fingers, curl your fingers toward you as if you’re saying, “Come here.” Do this while you lick, and she’ll come right then and there.

Jesus H. Cherrrrrrist! Ok, boys and gals, lick and stick!

OK, you see all the conflicting advice up there? ^^^^ Ladies, maybe you need to tell us what you like and want? Novel idea, right? And guys, the moral of the story is that not all women enjoy the same things when it comes to oral sex, you’ll have to ask ‘em what they like. Be forewarned, however, she might prefer death (or a life without orgasms) before she’ll tell you!

Kidding!

Ladies: tell us how you like it!

Smooches (on the Coochies),

Eddie

The Sex Blog [Blame The Collazo Sisters]

¡Hola! Everybody...
I probably won’t finish the following to day... I have a lot of work and a few meetings to attend to today -- I’ll be scarce...

* * *

-=[ Blame The Collazo Sisters ]=-

“A woman’s behind -- an altar to be worshiped on one’s knees.”

Actually, the title is incorrect: we shouldn’t blame all the Collazo sisters, only Nellie Collazo’s big sister. But there are all manner of connection in all this...

Nellie Collazo was in my eighth-grade class. She was a Taina princess -- long, straight dark brown hair that brushed the tops of the cheeks of her cute little ass. Her skin was like cinnamon and when she smiled, it was like the sun coming out after days of cloudiness.

I am convinced to this day that Nellie descended from Taino royalty.

All year I entertained fantasies about Nellie, but I was too shy to ever say anything to her. My two friends would tease me about it all the time. Finally, about a month before the “prom,” I managed to muster up the courage to ask her.

Me,

“Would you be my prom date?” Or something to that effect.

She,

“No.”

I was heartbroken and humiliated. I was very shy, a nerd, and girls always made me nervous. I had other options. There was the impossibly and prematurely curved Susana Susana (that was her name!). Susana looked like what I imagined a young (and dark brown) Mae West would like look and her sexuality -- even at 13 -- smoldered. To look at Susanna was to see the smoke-filled rooms and smell the rum I’m sure she ventured later in life. She had the habit of cornering me between classes and trying to cop a feel and kiss me. I hated it.

That summer, I was sent to a special program for gifted students and I would fall in love with Milva, but that’s another story. What happened that summer was that I changed everything. I did a fashion and personality make-over. I was too dammed shy and wearing a suit and tie everyday to school wasn’t cool. I discovered that I could be funny in an insightful way that humor was a great way to approach women, so I honed my craft that summer and polished my image.

That September, I entered high school with my new cool make-over: I was known for my long, black cashmere coat, and my favorite ensemble (a wardrobe makeover with the financial help and fashion sense of my mother), was a black Italian knit (it had three barely noticeable electric blue stripes on each side of the buttons), and black sharkskin pants. And, of course, a pair black suede and leather “Playboy” shoes.

You may laugh at this today, but back then, the girls thought is was hot. I cut my hair in a modified “Caesar” look all the bad boys wore, and -- voila! -- a new Eddie emerged. I was still intellectually inclined and at fourteen, I was in the process of reading “every great book ever written,” but I was also “cool.” I was also part of a program implemented by the City of New York. It was an effort to identify gifted students, what I would later jokingly call the “talented tenth,” and segregate us from the rest of the unwashed and stupid black, Latino, and poor white masses. It was called the “College-Bound” program. I went to a school that housed close to 3,000 students in a building that was meant to house half that number and the average class size was probably 35-40 students. Students in the College Bound program would attend classes that had, at most, 10-15 students. The idea being that smaller classes would allow teachers to give more specialized instruction to the students.

I was on the Dean’s List -- a straight- A student -- but I was also cool, and I became very popular. My school was also a dangerous place. the hallways, bathrooms, locker rooms were all places where the “bad students” the one’s abandoned by the state and the city, would congregate and sell drugs, smoke cigarettes, fuck and extort the more meek. I happened to be friends with many of the riff raff, many of them having grown up with me. So, I began then to travel the different worlds I would travel all of my life. I was as likely to appear on the Dean’s List as well as with the guy who would take your lunch money at the point of a knife.

One of my friends was Michael. Michael was an abandoned child who was raised by numerous different adults, related and not. He was also the one child no mother wanted you to hang out with. Michael was famous for sniffing glue, something popular in those days. He was also the only Puerto Rican I knew that wore his hair in the style of the Partridge Family’s David Cassidy. That was a huge fashion fuax pas in the black and Latino ‘hood we grew up in but he managed to carry it off and the girls loved it! LOL

One day, we all decided to go to the movies and who was with Michael the glue-sniffer? None other than my Taina princess, Nellie Collazo! Not only that, he treated her like crap and she paid for his entrance and bought him candy! I was conflicted and Michael, who was in actuality an extremely intelligent young man, just laughed, said,

“They’re all ho’s Eddie.”

I was stunned, but I learned an important lesson about the allure of a bad boy that day. More importantly, it was the first time I laid eyes on Nellie’s older sister. They didn’t look like sisters at all. Nellie’s older sister was light-skinned with curly light-brown hair and her eyes -- impossibly large --were a wicked shade of yellow. It was winter and she had a coat on and Michael, seeing my gaze, whispered,

“She’s a stuck up bitch, you’ll never get that.”

At that point in time, I considered Michael a sexual genius. After all, he had Nellie, she of the Taino royalty ancestry, smoking his cock in the balcony of the movie we went to that day.

A couple of years passed and I was walking up those dangerous stairways in between classes when I looked up.

And that’s when it happened.

I looked up and what I saw changed my life forever.

Right there, just a few steps above me was the most rounded, most deliciously curved ass I had ever seen in my life. Up until then, I never paid much attention to the female derriere. It was just something you fondled on your way to the flower of a woman’s vagina. But this was no ordinary ass. I t was perfect. It was rounded, just the right size, and the owner of that ass had the smallest waist I had ever seen on a woman. I t seemed that if I tried, I could wrap my hands around her waist and my fingertips would touch. She was curvy, but lean and she moved like a puma -- all stealth, sex, and grace.

I walked up those stairs in rapture.

I guess she sensed something, quickly turned around, demanded,

“What are you doing?!!”

Me,

“I’m praying.”

She,

“Praying? What are you praying about?”

I was wondering if this was a good tact to take, decided it would be foolish, but said anyway,

“Your glorious derrière.”

And she laughed. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. Her small pert breasts were contemptuous of gravity, her impossibly large eyes frame by exquisitely formed cheekbones. And those eyes. Those wickedly yellowish/ amber eyes. But most important, Nellie’s older sister had the most beautiful ass in the world.

“Very funny,” she said, not knowing what else to say. I jumped on my chance, decided I needed to say something, but not knowing what else, I managed,

“I’m also a genius.”

At that she laughed.

Me,

“Can I walk you to class?”

She,

“No!”

And with that she turned around and continued with that divine ass of hers. I watched, and she knew I was watching, but didn’t say anything.

As she left to go on to her class, I asked,

“Do you come by this way often?”

She,

“Everyday!” And she laughed again.

Everyday, I would wait for her and follow her up the stairs and everyday she would appear. She wouldn’t engage me in conversation except to inquire if I still prayed. My answer was always,

“Everyday at this time.”

And she would laugh.

One day, I didn’t show, I was making out with Cinderella -- well, not the Cinderella, but Cynthia, who I called Cinderella for reasons I can’t get into at this juncture. And little by little, I would stop waiting for Nellie Collazo’s big sister's ascent. Besides, she had a parade of worshipers, I realized, that walk up the stairs with her. In addition, Cinderella adored me and she would let me taste the fruit of her pale, puffy nipples.

One day, totally by accident, I looked up and saw that wondrous ass once again and the angels sang. She tuned around and asked,

“Where have you been?”

I answered,

“I haven’t been praying lately, my goddess refuses to answer them.”

She laughed, and said,

“And what would your prayer be asking?”

Me,

“That I could walk you to your class, then take you out on a date, then someday taste your lips.”

With that, she turned around without saying anything and looked over her shoulder to make sure I was praying to her ass, I guess, said,

“You can walk me to my class, and I would like to go out with you, but I want to know...

to be continued

Sunday Sermon (Awareness)

¡Hola! Everybody... How is everyone. don’t forget (as I did) that there’s a natural let down right after the hectic craziness of the holidays. Also, for those endeavoring to stick to resolutions, please know that the vast majority of people who create successful and lasting change, don’t do it the first time. What separates those who effect change from those that don’t is that they don’t see relapses as failures. You get back up, and do it again.

Why not?

You’ve been doing it that way when it comes to sex (for those who still do it).

* * *

-=[ Awareness ]=-

“Problems cannot be solved at the same level of awareness that created them.”

-- Albert Einstein (1879–1955)

Imma go out on a limb and make a generalization right about now. I will submit that typically the human experience is that awareness is in here

::points to head::

and space is out there

::points outward::

But this won’t be your actual experience this moment. Feel it: Where is awareness located?

Show me...

You may have a sensation in your head or your heart, but where is the awareness that is aware of that sensation?

Ha! You overly analytical muthafuckas! LOL! Still with me?

Feeling it this moment, feel awareness as it were spread evenly throughout the open field of experience. Check it out: space is awareness.

What happens when you relax awareness, so it isn’t fixated (stuck) on one particular thought or thing? What happens when you allow yourself to feel space without trying to grasp it in any way?

What happens when you place pure awareness -- awareness not fixated on some thing and you allow your awareness to spread evenly through space?

Try doing this for as long as it lasts. Think of striking a bell once, so that it rings, sustaining a sound in space for a while.

Eventually, awareness retracts or fixates (clings to) something (usually on some story involving what you perceive as you). When that happens, strike the bell again, gently placing free-floating awareness in supportless space, and let it sustain wide open effortlessly, until awareness fixates on something: a thought, a memory, an emotion. Again, allow relaxed awareness to be placed in supportless space, like the peal of a bell openly pervading the air.

Awareness isn’t to be felt inside, while space is assumed to be out there. Rather, awareness permeates space -- space is alive and full as awareness.

Living fully is like that: awareness ringing open as space.

Love,

Eddie

The Friday Sex Blog [Talkin' 'Bout Sex]

¡Hola! Everybody...

I'd like to wish my dear friend, Dana, a very happy birthday. Dana and I have been connected for some time now and I love her creativity and her humor. Happy birthday sweetie!

I’m at an all-day strategic planning meeting, so I may not be able to finish today’s blog...

Today’s blog photo is courtesy of our very own Latina. Put simply, Latina is one of the most beautiful women I have ever looked at. Period. She’s what is euphemistically known as “raging beauty.” she also has a great sense of humor, which serves to make all the beauty seem so much more accessible and she comports herself with class. Dang!

* * *

-=[ Talking Fuckin’ ]=-

“There under the covers of the blankets, in the half dark with air as still as held breath, I felt more connected to her, more alive. Her body was aglow with dampness, her eyes were gleams. I kneeled between her legs, bent lower and tasted her. Tasted her, exploring the folds of her cunt, lapping at her, imagining honey smearing my mouth. She began to move and I could tell how much she wanted this, how gloried it made her feel. My cock strained... ”

People really don’t enjoy talking about sex. Most find it clichéd, offensive, insensitive. I will say that I’m somewhat sympathetic though I spend a lot of time doing just that -- talking and writing about sex. But I have to say there problems with sex talk: the vocabulary is inept and the sex is, well, not so clear.

If you want to know the state of any issue, all you have to do is look at its nomenclature -- a fancy word that describes the language used to discuss something. When it comes to sex, we have a lousy vocabulary. We have a small set of words that offend somebody or other, even though they’re as old as the English language itself and actually convey important meanings. We have a sort of Jim Crow-era style mentality when it comes to certain sex words -- a linguistic segregation. We have the ones we can say in front of children. one for the “ladies,” others for the old geezers, the ones for the upper classes, the ones for criminals -- god forbid if I were to try to be sensitive in my sex blog! Our language, nomenclature, for sex -- the medicalized, the four lettered, and the romanticized -- is indicative of our anxieties about sex.

Take a good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon word like fuck, as an example. In our current movie ratings system, if you use fuck to mean actually having sex, then the film isn’t deemed fit for younger viewers and must be rated for mature audiences. However, If you use fuck as a swear word to express anger or outrage, you can still advertise the film to minors. It’s the hypocrisy of middle class values that they are more concerned with appearances, and fucking isn’t an “appearance,” it’s the dirty deed. We’re conditioned to use sex words for hostility but anxious to use them for warmth or sex.

Fuck got a new lease on linguistic life in the counter culture of the sixties, along with the rest of the underground language for the body. Fuck embraced free love and snubbed its nose at the Vietnam War all at the same time. Sociologists like to describe the so-called sexual revolution in terms of The Pill, but it was just as much a revolt of language -- sexual language. Artists of the time wanted to speak their minds with an entire public language at their disposal. Some, like Lenny Bruce, were censored. But in the end, the state lost. The words were emancipated -- at least for men. Blacks had been on the forefront of sexual language for decades, with artists like Redd Foxx and those before him, exploring and pushing the sexual language envelope, but that was underneath the radar. Later black comics, Like Richard Pryor, did all kinds of shit to let loose all kinds of words.

Eventually, feminism -- the cutting-edge side anyway -- emancipated women to use all the “unladylike” words, reclaiming bold language like dyke and pussy and claim them as women’s turf, not merely men’s labels.

People are sometimes afraid to use sex words because they fear they will be perceived as sexual. If we keep our lips sealed (or zipped *grin*), we can maintain the illusion that we are not sexual creatures. Fuck became a word that so-called “well-bred” women could use and it also defined a generation gap. Popular music turned it into a lyric. But saying the word stills says more about your political stance than about your sexuality.

Think about it: words describing other controversial or painful aspects of our life don’t get people so upset. No one ever says, “I can’t stand the word war,” or no one goes off on a rant that “the word torture is too cruel to use,” or screams, “I won’t allow anyone to say taxes in my home!” We manage to discuss all kinds of horrible and psychologically conflicted issues privately and publicly without choking up. Even words the insult and stereotype, like spic and nigger get more public debate and defense than George Carlin’s “seven words you can’t say on television.” Sex is the only topic where we blame language for holding us back. We suffer from a collective sexual tongue-tiedness. Almost any sexual expression we come up with bothers someone either because it isn’t sensitive enough, or it’s too Disneyfied.

I had a woman friend who hated the word cunt. I happen to like it because it’s -- I don’t know -- to me the word cunt crosses certain boundaries. It’s subversive, profane. I have met people who can’t even bring themselves to say cunt. The point is that perhaps we do need more words that are sexual. As a Spanish/ English bilingual, I can tell you English misses the mark totally, when it comes to matters of sex. But we’re afraid of the words we do have at our disposal. In a way, we’re afraid that if we let the dangerous words out, sex will be more dangerous, life will be uglier, we won’t know what to expect.

I personally believe we need that surprise. There’s nothing uglier than silence and denial. We’re choking on our own sex words, drawing a line between this word and that. I have a cock, and I have balls, intelligence, and an active imagination and sometimes I have a range of experiences that begs for as many names as I can conceive.

Love,

Eddie