It's May. I adore May. There was a time in my life when I filled May weekends with barbecues, pool parties, and camping events where my good heretical friends and me would joyfully clamour to the resonant beats of drum and pipe. We would dance the maypole, back in the days when I actually had one, and taunt our partners with love games, sensual oil massages on blankets amid the grass, and share stories around the fire as we passed a skin of mead. It's a wonderful thing when one's sense of the spiritual can so easily and seamlessly blend with one's sense of the sensual.
Walking in the sunshine as I've enjoyed these past few days, my eyes and heart and spirit have soared as I catch glimpses of this city's ocean of alluring women. My chest tightens and my eyes involuntarily close while I deeply breathe in the passing scent of a freshly-showered businesswoman dashing to catch a train. The young sprites in camoflage pants and sleeveless Tshirts, holding hands as they cross the street, deliciously break my heart with their lightness of presence. Even the black woman in dreadlocks with whom I had an argument recently gave me pause when I enjoyed the fire in her eyes.
It's not simply about watching the passing tits, the swaying ass, the runner's leg, although those moments present themselves also with the better weather. It's not about ogling. Somehow to me, May brings out a more sensual, elegant, nuanced appreciation for the feminine form to my eyes, as if each smiling, laughing, proud woman around me is a constant and crowded reminder of the many faces of the divine feminine all.
It's a strange thought, in a way, to be recording here from the across the street from a stripclub. How many of the patrons therein relate the working dancers before them, sauntering sculpted hips just above the laps of their business suits, with the hetaerae of old?
Not many, if any at all, I'll wager.