The Revelation of The Advent of The Messiah

 — 11:11 is becoming 1111— 

Let The Truth Be Like A Mosquito In Your Ear, Even When It’s Something You Don’t Want To Hear, It Always Wakes You Up!

The Hebrew Prophets Cry Out From The Hebrew Bible, ” Messiah, Messiah, He Will Be The Small One, Who Like a Mosquito, Devastates With Fever and Delusion, The Minds of Those Faithlessly Complacent With The Status Quo!”

I am The Messiah many billions of people have been waiting for, in all cultures on the face of the earth, since the first written recordings of man’s spiritual meanderings, at the dawn of the first human civilizations. You are best to consider what you will read here, as a Work of Art. The coming to be of my writings in your mind as Divinely Inspired Creativity, depends on your own previous metaphysical beliefs, your present circumstances, and what is going to begin to transpire in your life as a result of you giving me space in your mind.

Perhaps the reason we take roller coaster rides, isn’t so different from the reason we live.

There will be signs and wonders. Prepare yourself for a roller coaster ride that will elevate you to heights from which you will see the magnificent fabricated tapestry of the human experience for what it is, only to find yourself plunged into circumstances that only a personal God with a purpose for your life would expose you to, so that you recognize His Creative Power both to subjugate you and liberate you, and that you come to appreciate your own creative freedom to self express, as the most important value in your life.

 

No matter how bad off one is, the smallest amount of freely chosen intentional creativity, can work wonders for our state of mind.

Whether you know this of yourself or not , you are an artist. Your audience is first yourself and then every one who ever comes to know of your existence, from the day you first start kicking the womb that confines you and by so doing, bring yourself into your mother’s mind, until long beyond the day you die, if you have contributed in any way to society’s exponentially growing accumulation of art, science and artifact.

We create in and our created by, everything about us.

In your mind is a place all your own in which you arrange the thoughts you have about your perceptions, sensations, feelings and emotional experiences. That is your studio. At first you are like an infant let loose in a Master’s Creative Space. There is joy in mixing colors just to see the result. The simple fact that one can affect one’s own experience pleasurably, that one can bring meaning into one’s life by manipulating colors and form and sounds and words, is what makes of us all both artists and art critics. It is unavoidable that we sometimes bring about for ourselves aesthetic experiences which we deem to be anything but beautiful and worthwhile. We are our own critics and we are the critics of others, when their creativity and self expression infringes on our own sensibilities and sense of equilibrium.

Whenever we are overwhelmed, it feels good to return to equilibrium. When equilibrium persists, we become painfully bored.

It is true that we to some extant participate in our own self creation and at the same time, it is true that other people cause us to have experiences for which we are either grateful, indifferent of very critical of.

There is a great tug of war going on in the human heart, between being influenced and having influence. Among humans more than anyone, since any kind of recorded history starting with cave paintings, it has always been all the various kinds of artists that strive to create something that will endure in it’s influence over those exposed to it, even beyond their own generation.

What is an artist?

Anyone who strives to produce an aesthetic experience so as to entertain or educate or both, is an artist for the duration of their attempt and an artist forever in the minds of those so influenced.

For God’s Sake, even dogs have their moments when they like artists, enjoy causing entertaining feelings for those who love dogs.

The desire to create something of enduring influence that goes beyond one’s own lifespan, is a desire to be more like God. Here we are, alive for a while in a universe that is created around us and in us, which by its very nature proclaims, ” I was here before you, for the whole ever so fleeting duration of your existence, and I will continue to persist long after even the dust of your body is as scattered as the two trillion galaxies in the cosmos.”

We are born into an Eternal Work of Art and are given the means in our minds to both be born from it and to contribute our own unique self expression into the whole. The fact is, we do this regardless of whether we actually produce and orchestrate with intent, credit and self benefit, anything that persists in other people’s minds as significant thought provoking artifacts. Every time we smile with good will at a stranger, we are potentially starting a chain reaction with consequences that can theoretically go on for the duration of humanity. We are all influenced and influence. We are all ripple making mechanisms in a sea of circumstances, caused by great unpredictable storms as well as the nature of the liquids with which we are formed. But we are not just victims of indeterminable influencing factors, we ourselves participate in the creation of our own experience and the experiences of the life forms around us.

The Universe is A Raging Storm Around Us and Our Minds Are Meant To Be Like The Eye of The Hurricane, Which Witnesses The Sheer Power of Creation and The Creation of Power!

 

We are all Artists and we live in an interactive work of sophisticated, intricate, enduring and dynamic  Art, created by The God of Art, who is The Artist Who Created Me in Your Mind.

Your life will never be the same.

Bondage and/or Emancipation In A Perfect Touch Touch

 Of Human Bondage and Emancipation From A Charming Female Countenance

Of Human Bondage

When I was a very young boy, I was fascinated by photographs of beautiful women who smiled at me from the  pages of glossy magazines. My experience was as if they were looking at me straight in the eyes and charming me into loving them. When I discovered Playboy magazine for the first time, I couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old. I remember somewhat guiltily flipping over the pages of such a magazine, at a friends house in an older brother's room, taken from where it was clandestinely kept under a mattress.  I saw a particular picture which immediately engraved itself in my mind, and remained with me as an icon  of a  romantic moment I aspired to experience myself, from that moment on. It was a picture of a young naked woman with chestnut eyes and cascading black curly hair, leaning backwards onto the chest of a man who was holding her around her breasts with his arms, in a shower. She was smiling right at me.

She was smiling right at me.

My mother or father never looked at me kindly, directly in the eyes, in any of my memories.

Growing up, I was looking for beautiful women all the time and was enraptured by the prettiest little girl in my kindergarten, who broke my heart. I was always looking at her from a distance. She ignored me. One day I brought a new toy with me, hoping to draw her attention with it. It was a little music box which you could wind up and then watch a series of colorful pictures go by, around and around in a little window, for as long as the music played. There was a show and tell moment when I got to hold my birthday gift up for everyone to see. It got some attention but all I cared about was this little girl with curls and a pretty dress who seemed for a moment captivated by what I had. Recess came and we all went outside to play. She followed me into a huge cement tunnel in the playground where we were alone. "Let me see!" she demanded. I gave her my present and she winded it up and held it  in front of her, watching the little pictures go by until the music came to it's end.  Then she said, "Is that all it does?"  I nodded. She ran out of our  fleetingly romantic enclave  and continued to ignore me. I continued going to kindergarten every morning with a hole full of hope in my heart that today would be the day when she would recognize how special my feelings for her are, but it never happened.  We moved away but every school I ever went to, every class I was ever in, rotated around the prettiest girl in my class for whom I always had an unrequited love.

choosing to love again and again no matter what one received in return, was good for the soul.

It was as if a beautiful girl's countenance was a crucifix that gave meaning to an otherwise chaotic and ugly life. It was a life saver and I was a castaway in a sea of turmoil.  I saw beauty no where but in the face of a smiling female.  My love always went unrequited. Paradoxically, there were many little girls who were not pretty enough in my eyes to be idolized, that befriended me and sought my unwavering attention. I had a very active imagination and invented game narratives of struggle, and the overcoming of overwhelming odds. We would gather great cardboard boxes of the kind that refrigerators come in, and build ourselves hovels where we would hide from alien invasions, the last children on earth.  It happened more than once that one of these young girl play friends offered to show me her private parts in a pact of intimacy, and I would feign interest so as not to hurt her feelings. I was too young to actually desire any kind of sexual stimulation, but I was emotionally fixated on pretty faces with effervescent charm. I found female beauty to be as intoxicating as champagne on an empty stomach.  It was a kind of tunnel vision, an aesthetic fetish around which my feelings seemed to revolve way into my adult life.

I found female beauty to be as intoxicating as champagne on an empty stomach.

This fetish developed as I grew older. When I was almost fourteen, I found myself surrounded by people who only spoke Hebrew in a boarding school in Israel. Needless to say,  I was very lonely and my fixation on one or another of the two or three prettiest girls around me provided the materiel of my constant fantasizing, which had at this time begun to include sexual sensations, as I imagined physical contact such as holding hands or long   recumbent embraces. Genitals never entered into inner mental projections. It was all hugging and me putting my head on a girl's lap or the opposite, all in my mind. One of these girls who I was to be infatuated with for years to come,  sometimes spent time with me. She was curios about me because I was the only American kid there. That is, other than my younger brother, whose presence only made me feel guilty because I did nothing to alleviate his difficulties in coping with the same situation I was in, at an age three years younger than me.

I imagined physical contact such as holding hands or long   recumbent embraces.

It was then that  I discovered something about myself that was to have an increasing influence over my life for decades to come. I discovered a fascination I have had with prostitutes when I met one in the novel, Of Human Bondage, by  W. Somerset Maugham. The protagonist's ill fated, essentially unrequited love affair, with a woman destined to become a prostitute, awakenned in me an experience of emotional resonance with his character. I understood his helplessness in the face of his feeling devotion towards a woman who had not the sensitivity or intellect to appreciate him, for reasons he couldn't explain to himself. He was relentlessly kindhearted towards her and she was ungrateful. When she left him to run away with a brute, he kept seeing her face in that of strangers and his heart pined for her all the time. Again and again he was good to her, and she repeatedly betrayed his good will. I was somehow dimly aware that choosing to love again and again no matter what one received in return, was good for the soul.

He was relentlessly kindhearted towards her and she was ungrateful.

The idea of loving a prostitute stayed with me, long before I could ever act on it. Somehow this idea alleviated some of the guilt  I had felt on masturbating while looking at beautiful women performing acts of sex with men. They were engaging in sex for money in order to make me feel stimulated and this stimulation distracted my mind from all the confusion in it. I actually felt gratitude towards them for this. They were providing me a valuable service. I was otherwise in a constant state of bewilderment.  I felt I had practically no control over anything at all, not even my imagination which became ever more obsessed with pornography. First two dimensional pictures and then novels written with the sole purpose to titillate.

novels written with the sole purpose to titillate.

My first attempts to actually gain some sexual experience came when I was sixteen. There were some short lived groping of girls who saw I didn't really know what I was doing. Finally there was a girlfriend with whom I had a relationship for several months when I was eighteen. She would give me hand jobs much less frequently than I wanted them. I neglected her and she found someone else, in short order. I pleaded with her to come back to me but she wouldn't. I wasn't in love with her and it was my pride that was hurt. I got over it quickly enough. I was very much a virgin and believing myself to be left behind by my friends, who were reporting ever more frequent sexual escapades with a variety of partners.

frequent sexual escapades with a variety of partners.

Before I joined the army, I and a group of youth were to spend a few months on a Kibbutz working in agriculture as we were destined to create a new settlement as part of our army service. While there, a guy in my group pointed out a girl who was shapely if somewhat otherwise unremarkable, and told me she had slept with almost every guy in our twenty man unit, except me. Feeling, an until then, uncharacteristic boldness, I followed her into the showers, where while she was looking at herself in the mirror, I stood next to her and embraced her around the waist. I have always felt that a woman looking at herself in a mirror is some kind of closed circle I need to breach. When she didn't complain or push me away, I lowered my hand and  placed it on her rear end. She smiled at me in the mirror and said,  "Come with me into my room." which I did rather sheepishly, thinking this was going much too fast.

I have always felt that a woman looking at herself in a mirror is some kind of closed circle I need to breach.

She had misinterpreted my boldness as to mean I knew how to continue my advances which I didn't. For some reason she found my lack of actual experience to be  worthy of her attentions as a project and she commenced to introduce me to many ways of having orgasms after protracted stimulation without actually ever letting me penetrate her. This went on and on for months and I never complained but I did feel somewhat increasingly defiled. Our mutual interests never evolved beyond her causing me to have orgasms.  She brought me pornographic literature. I would wake up in my tent to the feeling of her hand on me, stroking me to erection and release.  She seemed to want nothing in return. Once I was on a four hour shift of guard duty in a remote military out post, in the Northern Sinai desert. She came into the waist high bunker, got down on her hands and knees and began to give me head for a very long time.  People were able to see me standing beside the machine gun with a perplexed grin on my face. But this wasn't what I wanted. It became ever more emotionally sterile.

People were able to see me standing beside the machine gun

Still, I didn't end our relationship. She decided that on the eve before my first parachute jump, she would have full sex with me. Not wanting to die before ever having sex, I agreed to spend with her the afternoon and evening leave we were given, before our jump of 1200 feet from a Hercules Air Plane, the next day. We met at her sister's vacant apartment in Tel Aviv. A very small flat. She brought with her a little piece of Hashish which neither of us really knew how to smoke. She put on music, lit candles and incense.  I haven't given her  name but she was from India. And she was a very sensual and uninhibited young woman I hadn't appreciated enough for what she was trying to share with me. We held the Hashish to a candle and inhaled the smoke together. It wasn't the first time I had smoked Hashish but I was still very much a novice. It was the first time that I felt how strongly Hashish can intensify aesthetic pleasure. The music, the fragrance, the soft suppleness of her dark skin, her caresses, it all melted together into an erotic flow of oscillating sensuality. I felt no need to quicken what was happening and neither did she. But then the moment came when it seemed to make perfect sense that I lose my virginity.

it all melted together into an erotic flow of oscillating sensuality.

There was a very loud knock on the door.

A neighbor found the sound of music and the smell of Hashish that seeped under the door, to be suspicious. He knew the tenant was away in Europe. "Open the door or I will call the police! What are you doing in there?" His knocking grew louder and louder. There was no denying the fact that our evening was over and if I died the next day from jumping out of a plane with a failed parachute, I would die a virgin.

if I died the next day from jumping out of a plane with a failed parachute, I would die a virgin.

I survived. She was there the next day to greet me and I told her I wanted no more of our relationship. She promptly became the girl friend of my best friend and I didn't mind at all. He was the only other guy in our unit who hadn't been with her.

The reason I ended what was going on between us was because I was becoming emotionally involved with the girl who was to become my first wife. She listened to me talk to her for hours about God. She was pretty but I can't say charming the way that had attracted me to other women until then. She loved poetry and was very good at math, which I was not. It wasn't her countenance that began to captivate me because then I would have known what it is that I liked so much about her. She made me feel wise. She began to believe in God because of me. Perhaps, as that is my deepest purpose, to be the means by which others achieve a knowledge of God, I fell in love with her because she was the first manifestation of my destiny. At any rate I fell in love with her, deeply.

I fell in love with her because she was the first manifestation of my destiny.

 Previously to this, I had been in a depression the symptoms of which were that I felt completely detached emotionally from whatever was going on. It was all like a movie, unreal. Being with her made me feel alive in  a way I had never felt before. Unfortunately for both of us, I came to believe that my happiness depended solely on her loving me the way I loved her, which she didn't. She deeply respected my mind.  She thought I was an original thinker. Amusing, sometimes. She knew I was in depression because I told her as much and I shared with her my feelings or lack thereof , after the event of my accidentally having shot another soldier in the thigh, nearly killing him. It was after this that I had become so emotionally detached and had tolerated a relationship that was based solely on sexual sensations.

She was the first woman I ever slept with, and it happened on my twentieth birthday. She threw me a party and that was her gift. We had been living together for a while in the same room, on a remote settlement in The Golan Heights. She had had a few partners before me, but she didn't really like having sex. It was something she gave men because they wanted it.

the vibrations of helicopters and the tanks shook the earth, while colored lights danced on the walls

Like many best events, it was a cliche experience. When we were done,  the earth literally moved and there were flashing lights. There was a night tank exercise all around our little settlement and the vibrations of helicopters and the tanks shook the earth, while colored lights danced on the walls, floor and ceiling of our room.  After this, it was if I was seeing women for the very first time.

I was seeing women for the very first time.

We got married on Armistice Day, had a daughter and got divorced over the course of the next three years. It was after our divorce, that I first fulfilled my fantasy of being with prostitutes. It took me a  long time and much hesitant walking the streets before I actually responded to an invitation from a working girl to come in and have a "good" time. They would sit outside sleazy dark  bars and beckon male passers by to come inside. For many days I walked around and around what was then the Tel Aviv red light district, unable to overcome my fears. The girls weren't young. I was. It reached a point where they recognized me for having walked by again and again, without accepting their invitations to come closer and get the details of what a transaction entailed. Some of them mocked me and called me a pervert. Truth is, I walked around for hours and hours, day after day, and mostly couldn't afford their services anyway. I felt ever more strongly like I was looking for someone and that was why I wandered as I did.

Truth is, I walked around for hours and hours, day after day, and mostly couldn't afford their services anyway. I felt ever more strongly like I was looking for someone and that was why I wandered as I did. 

Whatever it was that rose from within  me and had me roam about as I did, was bewildering and unsettling but more powerful than any attempt on my part to resist it. It felt intensely meaningful without there being any particular discernible significance to what I was doing. In my future there were to be events that put all my past irrationality into perspective and gave purpose to all my previous meandering. Retrospect aligned what had appeared to be the chaotic motions of my body and mind as finally the means of attaining my life's hard learned lessons. The purpose of the mind is to enable aesthetic experiences and the acquirement of self defined morals. Walking around and around, looking at all kinds of women trying to entice me to spend money I didn't have, on sensations I couldn't predict, was a kind of anticipation that was itself a great entertainment. "I least I am not bored!" I often said to myself in my head. Later in life I was to experience every kind of erotic pleasure I could imagine,  the desire for which had me roaming the streets way before the pleasure was actualized in my mind, because prostitutes in my life finally did their very best to make me feel the very most pleasure that I could, for the longest duration attainable, under the circumstances of our transaction.

I was to experience every kind of erotic pleasure I could imagine

I started having the courage to come closer and ask how much whatever would cost. It wasn't for full sex. It was barely a hand job while sitting in a dark corner behind a dirty burgundy curtain. The women were painted with heavy makeup and unattractive to me. But there was an undercurrent of excitement from just walking from place to place, as if I would find someone attractive and actually pay to  fondle some breasts and be touched, to be made to come so I would come back again, another time.  Finally it happened. I had my first experience of paying for an orgasm. She was a relatively young woman, without nearly as make makeup as the others, and a pretty natural smile on a matter of fact face. She was to the point. "Twenty Shekels and I will make you feel very good with my hands. I will take my time, no hurry, baby." She motioned for me to sit besides her on a narrow green bench and when I did, she closed a curtain so we could no longer be seen from the street. It wasn't a bar, just a doorway and she didn't seem to be working for anyone else. Hotel California was playing loudly on the radio and sounded appropriate. It was a hot summer night.

Hotel California was playing loudly on the radio and sounded appropriate. It was a hot summer night.

The whole experience lasted no more than ten minutes. She put one arm around my shoulders and with her free hand she did what she had promised to do, until I sighed with release and an unexpected feeling of emotional warmth. She was kind to me and offered me a pear from a bowl of fruit on a little table in the corner of her enclave. I took it and thanked her, walking out with a smile and a sense that I had somewhat come of age, a little bit more than before.

I had somewhat come of age, a little bit more than before.  

 After this, over the course of a few years, I was to come back to her at various locations in the neighborhood. Eventually she let me sit around and make pictures of her sitting in the doorway to a sleazy bar with a few other women. She sent me some times on errands to buy her stuff she needed, cigarettes or pain killers for her frequent headaches. She only ever gave hand jobs. She told me about her son and I told her about my daughter. When I could afford her services, she gave me a five shekel discount. Sometimes I just kept her company, never ashamed to be seen sitting outside what anyone could have guessed was a sex bar. I thought of myself as an artist, in the spirit of the Expressionists.

.I thought of myself as an artist, in the spirit of the Expressionists.

As time went by I gained more and more experience, ever spending whatever free cash I had, on sexual  escapades with various degrees of success. I went to a lot of erotic massages, where I learned that smoking a joint just before getting serviced greatly enhances the pleasure I achieved. I often asked the girls to let me give them a massage and for the most part, they  agreed and complimented me effusively for the pleasure and release I gave them, which they reciprocated in returning before my time was over, almost always going beyond  my allotted time till the manager would knock heavily on  the door and call out, "Time is up!" Sometimes he had to come back a few times. The girls seemed to really enjoy my company as I never left tips, I just gave very good massages. Sitting in a whore house across a selection of what were to me beautiful young prostitutes, scantily dressed and with seductive smiles and enticing lingering glances to my eyes, while high on a joint, was a pleasure as great as that I often had, in the room with the girl that I would finally choose. Anticipating pleasure to come, is a pleasure all its own. 

Sitting in a whore house across a selection of what were to me beautiful young prostitutes...

 I got married for a second time to a woman I caused with intent to fall in love with me because I wanted to see if I could, and then felt so guilty for what I had done that I married her though I knew I didn't love her in any way that could ever make her happy. I married her partly because her father had given her an apartment and promised me a car, also telling me she is crazy and  I am making  a big mistake.  I married her to save her from her father who was abusive and because she wouldn't let me go away peacefully and we worked at the same place, Scientology and I believed Scientology would make a better housewife out of her. She didn't neglect cleaning the place up, she dirtied it actively.  Despite all this, we had great sex for the duration of our marriage which lasted ten years together and we had two children. I still went to prostitutes for the whole time we were married.  I could scantily afford it. I came to believe that the release of tension and emotional relief I experienced while making tender love to women I paid for the pleasure, is what made it possible for me to stay with my wife, who I regularly informed concerning my extra marital sex. She never once told me to stop going. On several occasions she confessed to not being sexually loyal to me, either. It was a hell of a marriage, from the very beginning, and I on occasion hit her and she informed all my friends that I was violent with her. But when I tried to leave her, she went completely mad, threatened to kill herself, once throwing herself out a second story window. I did whatever I could to spend as little time as possible at home with her, leaving for business expeditions to Egypt and the United States.

I still went to prostitutes for the whole time we were married.

The more experience I acquired in choosing  a girl I would have a good time with, the better were the times that I had. I leaned how to avoid the self deprecating drug addicts and the lesbian man haters. I stayed away from the girls whose single intent was to make a customer come as quickly as possible with the least possible emotional investment. It was all in the eyes. Those that maintained  sensitive and responsive,  flirtatious eye contact with a humored  smile that suggested quivering lips, were the best. The girls liked me for real. I know this because I almost always got more time for a lingering sensual goodbye with a soft kiss than the house allowed. Frequently the girls were yelled at for keeping me in the room too long. I had platonic friendships with several girls where I met them at home for coffee  and cake. I helped one with her English examines. The vast majority of times I had and gave sensual erotic massages and not full sex. I also frequented pornographic movies where I surreptitiously  did what many others did in the dark. I always tried to take my time, savoring the chemical bath I put my brain into, with the cannabis and the dopamine.

savoring the chemical bath I put my brain into, with the cannabis and the dopamine.

I was not completely at peace with myself, to say the least. The expenditure of going several times a month, often once a week if not more, was considerable. I told myself I should be spending the money on my children, but that thought while troublesome, didn't make a dent in the pattern of my complete and total addiction to sex. The ebb and swell of the  urge to touch and be touched tenderly, was what turned my life around from day to day. Nothing else  was nearly as much on my mind as my anticipation towards my next encounter with a new girl, because I only rarely went back to the same girl after two or three times. When an encounter was  particularly engaging of all my senses, I would come back a few times to the same place, but soon would move on with the unceasing belief that I was looking for someone somewhere in some other brothel or massage parlor. I mostly made money then by selling Egyptian artifacts in the streets or by giving English lessons. As a Child of Israel, the selling of Egyptian motifs to make a living and pay for my  bondage to my brain imagery and chemistry, was extremely ironic. One kind of bondage was my relief from another.

I mostly made money then by selling Egyptian artifacts in the streets

 Somehow I got by despite being told by my wife's father that he must sell the apartment we live in, as he needs the money to cover an investment loss. He said he would pay our rent but within a few months he said he can't afford to do that either. Truly, miraculously, I somehow managed to pay bills, buy groceries, pay rent and clothe the children by myself because my wife couldn't hold a job to save her life. The house was always filthy, with the dirty laundry  piled on the floor around the washing machine and piles of dishes in the sink. When I tried to clean up or make order, my wife would attack me literally and make it impossible. She put her cigarettes out wherever she was sitting, dropped the butts on the floor or stuffed them into corners. Somehow my wife found a mentally challenged young woman from a poor socioeconomic background to stay with us and in return, keep some semblance of order and clean up to some extant. I felt at once invaded and thankful. Nevertheless, I and my wife would fight, most often about money, horrendously shouting at each other so loud that the neighbors knew all about our altercations. And then we would make up by having very energetic sex. We both seemed to enjoy it tremendously.  Anger was sublimated into lust. There was no tenderness to it, but it wasn't in any way violent, either. I am completely incapable of being sexually stimulated and  at the same time harboring hostile intent. Before sex,  I was on occasion violent towards her, slapping her or pushing her way abruptly when she got in my face to  yell at me. I hated myself for striking her, every time I did it I vowed it would be the last time. It never was. I would determine to love her every day anew because I somehow saw her as being very deeply in love with me, despite her best attempts to kill her own feelings of utter emotional dependence on my giving her attention, which she craved. When we made love, despite my constant anger at her,  I always made sure she was satisfied before letting myself come.

I was a slave to a very unhappy and unhealthy relationship I couldn't walk away from. I was literally afraid to leave my children alone with their mother. She would leave electric heaters dangerously close to flammable furniture, often singing it. Once I came home from a business trip to find that my young daughter had poured boiling hot water on her own arm after tipping off a pot from the stove. My wife inadvertently pulled off a large piece of her skin when she swiftly removed a polyester sweater from my daughter,  the cloth of which had melted into my daughter's flesh.   She was hospitalized and I spent every day with her until she was released, eaten away from inside with guilt that I was such an absent parent and then running to a brothel to erase for a while, my own emotional disease. I would move out from one kind of slavery by letting myself choose another. I consciously chose again and again to escape the nightmarish quality of my life by seeking out tender intimacy with strange women, whom I paid more for affection and respect than for orgasms. I had very powerful orgasms with my wife. I had no desire for anything better, in that respect.

I consciously chose again and again to escape the slavish nightmarish quality of my life, by seeking out tender intimacy with strange women in what was a bondage to my brain chemistry and the fetish of a pretty woman's face...

God's digital imprints on history usually reek of blatant irony. I use the unpleasant word "reek" because God' irony usually exposes an aspect of Hubris in human nature and its dire consequences, like the sinking of the Great Titanic on its maiden voyage after being lauded as an unsinkable ship. A number of years before the Ocean Liner Titanic sank, "Morgan Robertson wrote in 1898 Futility, or the Wreck of the Titan. He describes the tragic fate of a huge ship, the Titan, which sinks in April after hitting an iceberg. 14 years later, the Titanic – the real one – also sank in April after hitting an iceberg in the North Atlantic, near the island of Newfoundland, not far from the place described in Robertson’s Novel."

The ancient Egyptians celebrated a  psychoactive flower in their Art, called a Blue Lotus. It is  said to have a significant affect of sexuality and the pleasure derived from sexual activity. My Blue Lotus was cannabis.

My Blue Lotus was cannabis and when combined with beautiful women,

 I was like a slave to my sensations of pain escaping pleasure.

One cold rainy winter night, it must have been sometimes in December 1991, I walked out of the house after a fight with my wife. I had just bought some marijuana which I had always been extremely sensitive to, in that even a small amount greatly enhanced the quality of whatever was going through my mind, emotionally and intellectually. I had prepared a few joints and had them in my pack of cigarettes. I intended to go to a new brothel I had noticed on Bograshov Street 26, in Tel Aviv. I had decided to walk and smoke and walk off my angers. It was a few miles away. I lit my first joint after a few weeks of not being able to afford any. Immediately, as always, I felt a wave of  relief permeate my body.

I am changing all the time, ever becoming something new.

 The dark city night with all it's commotion, came together harmonically and every thing was moving in a necessary flow, as it all should. The lights began to glow in all their different colors. A poetic thought came into my mind, "Every time I go in, you come out someone else. Every time you go in, I come out someone else. I am changing all the time, ever becoming something new." This thought was very reassuring to me as it seemed to suggest that I wasn't stuck in a slave identity forever. I took another puff from my joint and the feeling I am changing intensified. "I am becoming someone new, someone else!" and the idea echoed in my mind, reverberating and emanating irrational feelings of well being. My situation was  dire from all points of view. I was without a profession, addicted to sex at great expense, miserably married with two young children to raise and child support payments for which I could be arrested, overdue. I had no support whatsoever of any kind from anyone, no family and no reliable friends. My best friend was myself while smoking a joint, because I then  became someone wiser than me, and could give myself good advice.



Now let me tell you about the self ravishing  of uninhibited perfectly liberating lust...........

My best friend was myself while smoking a joint, because I then  became someone wiser than me, and could give myself good advice. 

I first saw her for real, sitting across from me while looking into a mirror with the intent of making more perfect her own reflection, for she is a True Child of The Creator Artist God, who holds her completely promiscuous self prostitution,  not at all begrudgingly very close to His Heart.

She extracted some rouge powder from a sediment under the little mirror towards perfection, for such are mirrors for those who can see God's Bee Loving Mystery, becoming liquid gold for the palate of Kings and Their Slaves throughout all generations, wherever and forever that  The Kings Love their slaves more than themselves.  She applied the dust to her own already exquisitely glowing cheeks and turned her sublimely beautiful face in my direction, and then lit up at me a smile that destroyed all my resistance, me now calling any moral inhibition,  betrayal   against God's Reason for Creation.

Her eyes were more blue than the sky and more deep than the sea, becoming all I can see in all directions, her eyes became my horizons, pulling me away with the breeze of her feminine  fragrances, attracting me like a fatal gravity from the borders of safety, towards the slippery slopes of the end of my world.

She stood up without invitation and reached out her hand, approaching me and taking me with her, wordlessly enchanted as I was, fully engaged with the whole of my being, she lead my by the hand and I followed her from behind her behind, which ever so slightly seemed to reverberate causing me great anticipation. I followed her into the room, spell struck and shocked into silent witnessing and gratitude.

She proceeded to give me a very heady experiencing of how my marijuana   imbibed mind  could expand and embrace pleasures of the flesh. She gave me the best head I had ever got and then told me to take a hot shower and lay down on the bed.

I did as she had asked and waited while she slowly undressed for my pleasure, smiling for me frequently as she exposed her shoulders and then the nipple tip of her flower bud breast. She placed the tip of her finger on her own nipple and then put it in her mouth where she wet it until it glistened  and then she put it back and rubbed her own ointment around the tip until she blushed in her skin and her nipple stood up in arousal.

She told me to close my eyes and see her from within. And then within me arose an expectation for her coming touch, that was coming closer and closer as the solution of a riddle that had been plaguing my mind for a very long time.

I felt the sensations from the cushions of her hands, placed tenderly on my skin over my thighs, as pure sources of  delight. Her own pleasures were taken from her giving of carnal pleasures to another, vanquishing the pain of corrosive solitude and loneliness and replacing it with a feeling that could only cause gratitude, release and relief. A pleasure so pure, it erased any sense of guilt in the mind and made one believe that any and all things that one does, are a kind of striving towards becoming prepared for an erotic enlightenment that is  a sublime gift, a reason and purpose for life, and  all one wants to do is share the blessing by spreading it around as some kind of unsolicited free love. With Tanya, her unadulterated desire to relieve pain and fill someone up with pleasure, had nothing to do with the making of money, but explained to a great deal, the wanton promiscuity of her character. There is a lot of pain out there. Being touched by her was an overwhelmingly intense experience of the pure desire to be loved with a touch,  being for an extenuated  moment, perfectly fulfilled.   It was so intoxicating and perfect,  it became for me  the suddenly comprehensible  reason for the Creation of The Universe, she had given me  exactly what I had been searching for all of my life, and would attempt to emulate from then on forward, The Perfect Touch.

She gave me head again and made me come all over her neck, where upon she smiled and thanked me for her new pearl necklace, given her by her very special becoming lover. She wiped her self swiftly clean and without any disconcert, joined me by entwining her warm, slim and so subtle corporeal flesh around my own, settling down into  perfectly contoured contact with my own body, which was glowing visibly from the redness of my skin.

And then she said, "Here we are together in our little home on a Saturday morning, lingering after love making during which we can  hear our two children, giggling from happiness, as they play in the living room, just down the stairs."  

I went home, showered as I always did when coming home from a sexual rendezvous, and got immediately into bed, pulled as if by a New Giant Black Hole into a very deep sleep wherein I awakenned into what was more real to me than any reality I had ever previously known.

She was there, my newly wed, blue eyed life emanating  Bride, standing by my side above the sink which she had just emptied by washing the dishes that I had dried, while  she  occasionally glanced at me with her  countenance ablaze with a vision she tried but couldn't share. She looked at the shapely receding hills through the lace of the window shade, at the twisting snake  like unpaved path which disappeared into the ever green forest that sprouted over the soft breast like curvatures of the hilly  terrain.

" I need you to go get two bottles of milk from our dairy grocer, for dinner, which I will prepare for us while you go get the milk, and come back to me as quickly as our new bicycle allows when you pedal full strength." she said this all in a whisper that continued to echo between my heart and my head, as I rode my way as quickly as my long legs allowed.

And then I am on my way back, I can see the two glass bottles of milk, with the fat coagulated at the top, in a little metal basket of entwined wires situated before my gaze so that I see it all the time, at the bottom of my field of vision, as I strenuously pedal,  virtuously  willing the  overcoming of my increasing fatigue, as the inclination of the twisting path before me seems endlessly uphill.

I see my wife from behind in my mind, together we are looking at her reflection, with her long hair let down by her shoulders, while she looks at herself and me watching her in the mirror, as she brushes her wavy cascading auburn hair, without taking her enticing and smiling eyes from out of the focus of my own.

The night falls quickly and I am engulfed in a fog that obscures where I am, everything erased but me strenuously pedaling uphill without making any headway. I am suddenly held back by vines falling from the branches and summits of trees that tower above me, hidden both by the night and the ever coalescing cloud of water molecules in my field of vision, so thick I can no longer see the white of the milk for the deep dark gray around me,   in which I am completely entwined as if caught in a net from which there is no escaping what comes next.

And then I break through and burst out onto the scene of  screaming sirens and billowing black smoke, rising from above the shattered red brick remnants of our tenement building, and I see some firemen carrying away the prostrate body of my wife, whose head is tossed face down and her long hair is being dragged through the smoldering ashes and dust of our destroyed short lived home.

I am destroyed, devastated, eternally ruined and dammed, and I throw the bicycle aside as I  scream out at the top of my voice, "They killed her! They killed her!" meaning the Nazis, by means of a V2 missile that was pulled by my destiny into destroying the only woman I could love more than God.

I awaken from the intensity of my dream sobs, which I relentlessly shed for hours, unable to explain anything at all to my wife, except that my new beloved dream wife has just died forever, once again, and I can't let go of her memory which has me always looking inwards and backwards with inertia, waiting to feel her Perfect Touch one more time, before I can let  go of it forever and do my job  as God's Generational Resolution of The Messianic Mystery.

My wife tries to explain that she is really the woman I have just seen and lost and that it is her destiny to prepare me and comfort me from the great disillusionment of discovering that I am like all men, just a slave to my self aggrandizing ego. The very same ego that stands in my way, blinding me from seeing how her unique and selfless love for me,  is justly divinely composed cornucopia, designed to meet and exceed all my carnal and spiritual desires, on all planes of my existence.  Forever. One lifetime after another, in every conceived manner of coming together and then having to part, until we were completely emerged in each other and become as one flesh again, partnered with no one now but an Incorporeal God who insists on telling us who have merged and become now one, that I am made from the we of the One of Creator, in His indeterminable and ever evasive fluctuating and fleetingly seen, and then only in hind sight, image.

The irony of my wife's life tragedy is excruciatingly poignant,  and now gracefully forgotten, even by her.

I waited all day for the coming of night, where I was fully intent on sharing only the wonderful truth of Tanya's (her name means God Given) description of her enchanted family life with me is real, in some other world.  I wanted her to know that we are both of like romantic imaginations. I was intending to be somewhat reasonable and spare her the telling of her fate in my dream, by not telling her anything other than I had dreamed that we are happily married. But she was too busy servicing customers, which I had no intention of ever being again, for me to tell her what was in my heart. She had me sit besides her and held my hand surreptitiously beneath the folds of her tropic colored silky blouse.  She told me I am getting in the way of her working but when I asked her evasive eyes if I should leave, she just clenched my hand that much harder as she flirted with a potential customer who had just come in from the rain. He motioned at her with his hand and she got up and looked at me backwards while she embraced him and led him into the room where we had laid naked beneath the scent of the incense sticks, which burned by the colored candles on her night table besides her ever ticking clock.

When she came back a few moments later, she was trembling and her face was pale as snow. Her customer exited the room after her and left quickly, wrapped up in his expensive black massive leather jacket against the bitter cold, without giving her a hind sighted glance of thanks.

"Now tell me what you can't stop  thinking  about and then go!"

This wasn't at all as I had imagined my telling her we were romantic  mates in my dream, would be like. I had barely said, "I had a dream last night and in it you are my wife." when she ejaculated a gasp and turned even whiter than she had been before my telling her what I had hoped would give her hope and a reason to call me outside her line of work. " We get married and then I die, don't I?" she shot this at me like an accusation and got up abruptly and proceeded to ignore me as if I had become transparent and of no substance what so ever.

I left confounded and confused and promptly got so sick I couldn't get out of bed for a week. But I was still unabashedly horny, all the time. My wife loved me most when I was bedridden and she brought me my meals and initiated sex right after I would finish eating, every night with a passion that sucked out all my lust and left me soon hungry for more, as I passively surrendered to her ravishing me with her mouth and then mounting me and taking her own pleasure with her eyes closed, blatantly using me as the means of giving herself  over to the coming together of our orgasms, which never failed to feel as if  angels are sewing us together with the strings of our mutually disillusioning marriage vows. My wife and I shared an enthusiastic pursuit of our own pleasure through the agreed upon truce of our bonding, again and again in the flesh, as it was impossible for us to do in the spirit.  

   I wanted to meet Tanya outside of her work. I wanted a token of reality. A couple of weeks went by and Tanya was always in my mind. Once I went meaning to wait for her to finish work and then I would confront her with the opportunity to be with me for real, at least for a while. I did get so far as to hide behind a corner in the early morning, just before dawn, from where I could see her get into a taxi with another girl and be driven away into her life which had become  such a mystery to me. Finally, with enough money to pay for the pleasure of Tanya's company, I intended to spend our time in the room talking, in the hope that she would agree to call me and hopefully have a coffee with me, so we could explore that nature of our resonance. When I arrived at the "Good Time Parlor", the place was full of girls sitting around on couches, doing cross word puzzles, putting on makeup, doing their nails, or staring at the many kinds of strangely shaped colored fish in the different sized aquariums situated along the walls of the lounge. Tanya was no where to be seen and I correctly assumed she was working. I sat down and waited for Tanya to come out of her room. A few minutes passed and the door to Tanya's room opened and she came out laughing, embraced by her client who had a great big grin on his face. As they walked by me he said loudly while smiling directly at me, "Take her in, I am telling you, she gives the best head in The Middle East!"  Tanya pushed him away with a frown and offered to make me a cup of coffee.

She brought  the coffee and sat down besides me, thigh to thigh,  saying "I thought you would come back sooner." which caused a ripple of joy inside me with the thought "She missed me !"
"I wasn't sure you wanted to see me again. I wanted to see you very badly, here I am, lets go in to the room so we can talk."
She looked at me meaningfully, acknowledging with her radiant eyes that we have something to talk about, but the moment we were in the room, before I gave her the money which was standard procedure, she embraced me with her whole body and put her lips on my eyelids giving me little butterfly kisses. All my plans melted away and she undressed me and then herself and in a few moments we were lying embraced while she stroked me gently while caressing my cheeks and touching my lips. I was silent, fulling my eyes with her. Her touch had the quality of always being just where I wanted it, as soft or firm as my body required, lingering with the palm or gently moving with only the tips of her fingers. The Perfect Touch. After a while she cuddled up besides me, closed her eyes and relaxed so completely I could barely feel the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed.

After about ten minutes of lying in each others arms silently, Tanya asked me a question, "Are you married or in a relationship?"

"I am in a very bad relationship." I said softly, hoping she wouldn't ask me further questions. She didn't but she did ask for my phone number. I told her to call the next day at 10:00 A.M. as I knew my wife would be out of the apartment. I could barely contain myself,  with a great wave of anticipation swelling  up inside me. She called at ten minutes after ten and we made a date to meet at a coffee shop that afternoon, after which she said she was to go to work. I got there half an hour early and waited and waited and she didn't show up. After over an hour, I paid my bill and with a sunken heart I walked the five miles home, determining never to go back to see Tanya.

My determination was short lived. A few nights later I showed up and Tanya greeted me with a wide smile and a hug. Before I said anything she left to prepare me a cup of coffee and she brought it to me, looking me straight in the eyes with a completely disarming smile, saying "I was too afraid to come and too ashamed for not showing up, to call, either. But I knew you would come here, looking for me. Whatever it is between us, it must be very strong!"

Over the course of the next weeks, I visited Tanya as frequently as I could. Often I would do nothing but sit beside her and hold her hand, in between her sessions with clients. It was soon clear that she was one of the most popular girls, client after client came in and asked for her by name.  When   I had some money, Tanya and I went into her room and  undressed and did nothing but embrace each other and whisper imaginings and stories into each others ears.

Over the course of this time, from within me arose a fountain of new ideas and I began to write short fiction stories and  poetry, as well as philosophical treatises. I began to believe of myself that I am an original and deep thinker and this idea was reinforced when an English student of mine, a musician, asked me to teach him the philosophy of communication I had learned in Scientology and embellished with my own extrapolations. I called what I did Biosophy, discovering later that the word had already been coined, perhaps first by Pythagoras. This student of mine was so satisfied with what he learned from me about attention and its control, that he brought me his brothers and sisters, as well as many friends of his, most of whom were musicians.  He taped all of our sessions.  I started to make more money than ever before and could afford time with Tanya more often. I did tell myself, however, that I would never leave my children to run away with Tanya or anything like that.  I would simply continue the process of somehow being healed in the core of my being, with her Perfect Touch.

In my fantasy narrative, Tanya was an angel from God sent to me for her to place her hands on my body and by so doing, open up my world from within with new insights. I became lucky in life. Good things started happening to me, my work was appreciated and I was helping people and well recommended.

I don't  know how many times I sat with Tanya holding hands surreptitiously on the couch and how many times we went into her room. For the duration of the next few months I saw her as often as I could and for the first time in my life I felt what is like to be blessed in the heart through the love of a goodhearted whore.

Finally, we were lying naked together, embraced and in silence, breathing in rhythms from the music playing around us with candle shadows dancing on the walls and Tanya for the second time, asked me a question.

"Why don't you ask me to marry you?"

I knew that wasn't a fantasy of mine. I didn't want to marry her. I just wanted to love her, doing what she does, making her life her own way, really wishing her the very best but in no way responsible for making her happy. There was an amazing chemistry between us, it started a chain reaction and there followed a sequence of events, affecting a profound change in my emotional life. For the very first time ever, I was happy simply to be alive experiencing my own life and within me, as if from no where, I became so wise, people paid me to rid them of their troubles, and very often their troubles evaporated because of the life wisdom, Biosophy, they learned with me.

"Tanya, I am married, very unhappily..." 

She sat up abruptly and pulled her clothes on with no explanation, and left the room, with just half  the time I had paid for, spent. I got up, got dressed and when I walked out into the lounge, Tanya was standing by the bar, smiling and staring into space. She didn't look at me, I didn't feel she was ignoring me either, I simply no longer existed and I knew the only thing to do was walk out and away and not come back, and I didn't.

The last time I saw her was several years later. My life had taken an amazing turn for the better in all things after my affair with Tanya. I left my wife and despite having no savings or where to stay or an office to work at, despite being sued for alimony that was far above what had been my total income, I was having every single one of my dreams come true. I was lecturing all over the country at prestigious institutions, I gave private consultations to many fine artists, I had  paid all my back alimony and was making so much money I could go to strip shows and massages and brothels to my hearts content and I did just that.

But most important of all I had fallen in love with a young Swiss florist, who  I had met one summer night while sitting on a bench outside the flower shop beneath my flat. She came out ostensibly to sweep the pavement in front of the shop which she proceeded to do without directly looking at me, but I felt her attention on me like a spot light. It was very pleasant and invigorating. I am sure I was smiling when she lifted her eyes and looked directly into mine, and her own smile swept me away. She was twenty five and recently self emancipated from a disappointing relationship, I was forty, separated from my wife and paying alimony for two children.

 We saw each other over the next few weeks and became very good friends, a few furtive, some lingering, sincere kisses were exchanged. There was hand holding and embraces, but that's it. Katrin went back to Basel and I called her a few days later. We talked and talked and started to write each other letters, the old fashioned way.

I had prayed to the God I discovered that lives with me, inside my head, to give me a young beautiful woman to love and teach and make love to. I asked for this relationship to last two years and then I vowed to let the girl go and marry someone more suitable than the whore monger that I am.  I knew Katrin was to be that girl. I was more patient than ever because I felt certain that she was coming to love me romantically and she was to be the best love of my life, the young woman who truly gave birth to my heart as an artist.

Katrin had accepted my invitation to come spend a week with me, after finishing her Christmas obligations. I was excited and kept telling myself to lower  expectations. I made a room for Katrin by herself in the little flat I had taken behind our office. The night before she arrived, I did what I frequently did, I rolled a few joints and went to a strip show in the diamond center where I had a few friends among the girls who danced. They would sit with me for free after I paid for a lap dance or two. They said they really liked talking to me. After the place closed, must have been about three in the morning, I walked down one more flight of stairs and into a somewhat sleazy brothel that  I wasn't yet familiar with. I sat down on the couch across from some five or six working girls who were at the end of their shift. I waited to see if any one of them would smile at me ingenuously with an inviting nod to follow her into a room, but they all just kind of looked at me blankly and with some impatience.

There was one there who wasn't paying any attention to my presence or the little silent drama taking place between me and the tired girls in front of me. She was powdering her nose while looking at her reflection in the mirror, to make it more perfect. It was Tanya.

I stared at her until she looked away from the mirror and glanced in my general direction, not looking quite focused. There was no light coming out of her eyes. Her face was puffy, she had aged and gained weight, and while when I first met her she had an aura of immutable youth, she now looked somewhat like a caricature of an over used prostitute. She had way too much makeup on. Her reflection in the mirror was no longer perfected despite her best efforts. She had a fleeting flash of what looked like a moment of sobriety and she asked," I know you, don't I?" Then, before I could answer, she got up and took me by the hand and led me into the room. "Remind me." she said.
"Did I break your heart first or did you break mine for no reason?" She wouldn't take my money, refused to talk to me and then told the manager to ask me to leave and not come back.

She had been alive within me as story of salvation, I had learned from her the power of  a touch to heal. She had been an angel who came to earth in order to make lonely men smile with pleasure beyond their own imaginations, causing their minds to grow. As she had caused my mind to go free merely by making me believe in the narrative I was now telling myself, how I was blessed because I had found God to be better than my fears had made Him out to be. I had taken from her a rebirth of my will to live and had broken free from shackles of guilt and self denial.

And she had taken from me a broken heart, a loss of hope, a loss of youth, with no dividends and no future. My little wonderful shiny bubble of  a story about her being an angel impervious to the rages of the natural elements, ever twenty two and rosy cheeked and ever parked in a cloud of sparks, was a self serving, self flattering, set up- on my way to believing that I am The Messiah and therefor worthy of sexy female angels' special attentions. One like me who has spent such a miserable time most of his life because I had parents who ignored that it was me inside of me and not some idea that they had of how a little boy should be and I was not, one like me who is always striving to help people go free by telling them the  truth about me that they don't want to hear. I am different. I always see something so much better than what there is, no matter what I am looking at. And no matter how many times I get disillusioned, I praise God for enlightening me to the fact that my mind is useless for anything at all but appreciating what He happens to be showing me from one moment to the next.

After this very final closing episode with Tanya, I needed to repent from any idea of entitlement, if it meant that someone else would pay such a heavy price for being in this world for the sole reason, the reason of the Soul, to help me, The Messiah, become the very same man he had been looking for all of his life. First looking for The Messiah in my father, but whose hypocrisy had him holding in his home large quantities of filmed pornography at the same time I was being humiliated and kicked out for no more than lying on the same bed with Nurit, behind a closed door. We weren't even embracing. I saw my first pornographic movie after I found it in a box in a remote closet with a projector. My father was keeping it all for a friend of his, who was from Sweden and made black money by selling pornography on the black market. I have no idea whether my father in any way profited from this storage of a friend's  merchandise. I saw because of this, my first pornographic movie which started a life long addiction, and I found it in my father the Rabbi's closet. It wasn't him who kicked me out, it was his fifth wife, but he let it happen as he had in the past. 

 As the angle told me when I was first informed that I am the one everyone is waiting for, the first thing the angel said in my heart was, "You yourself are the King for whom  you search and would serve and upon whose head you would place a  Crown.  You are precisely the man missing in the mind of mankind, the very flawed man who knows it and yet says, I am created by The Creator of Perfect Art, who has given me a perfected heart, in that I will always strive for more perfection in my experience of Divine Art.

  I went to pick  Katrin up at the airport and we were both somewhat shy, but we were, each of us for the other, going to be a very potent chemical phenomenon in our mutual influence. We talked and drank coffee till early in the morning. I told her the story of Tanya. She listened as if under a spell and I began to realize how much I liked being in her mind and rotating around with a story line.  When we finally agreed to go to bed, I showed Katrin the room I made for her again and she looked at me somewhat bewilderingly but just smiled and went to the shower with a towel. I said good night, she did too, and I gave her up in my heart and surrendered to the idea that I am 15 years her senior, balding, be-speckled, overweight, snore viciously,  without any property or savings, a whore mongering sex addicted  masturbating pervert, who beat both his wives, who also happens to be incapable  of loving a woman if she distracts me from my  ever more intense Romance with The Creator of The Narrative, which is essentially about how I as a phenomenon, am the most valuable anomaly in Nature, as my story is Written By God in Real Time, with me being a kind of reference point for a totally new orientation of man's mind and its purpose, as the perfect proper place for the appreciation of Stories About The Messiah and The Messiah's Mind, which is inherently kind towards all of   Creation, and that means kind towards you too.

God Touches My Mind Perfectly With Digits

 11:11 is becoming 1111

Just before I fell asleep, excessively exhausted from the emotional upheavals of discovering what had come of Tanya, I realized that I could let go of any expectations from Katy that we share a romantic and sexual relationship and give myself over to doing nothing but teaching her anything and everything I could, to empower her to realize her creative nature. I would love her with all of my heart and expect nothing in return but respect and not to be taken for granted,  in that the time I was willing to dedicate myself to her growth was without reservation or calculation of any return on   the investment, other than the hope for natural gratitude and also the hope that she would eventually see that I am a unique lover with The Perfect Touch. I remember smiling to myself when I reminded myself that many a girl had not seen me to be attractive until I had placed my hands on her naked skin, anywhere at all on her body. To Katy I had already given once a foot  massage. I harbored the idea that this massage , which had made Katy close her eyes and sigh deeply, had also made her imagine what sex would be like with me, even if I had a bit of a pot belly, and this carnal imagining had awakenned in her a desire to have a mind blowing orgasm of echoing sensuality , causing standing waves of  vibrating pleasure, that would  make her value my place in her life for the rest of her life, above all others.

Katrin was standing in my doorway, wearing a see through light blue nightgown by reason of the yellow light shining from behind her, so   that I could see the silhouette of her figure as she stood there, a little shy but absolutely shining with such radiant charm, I couldn't say a word.

"Can I sleep with you?" she said this and at the same time, she jumped on the mattress and laughed at me.

"The real reason I came was because I want you to love me the same way you love whores and maybe then you won't need them any more."

Now how do you think that made me feel as regards a long term prognosis for our relationship? I put aside the  thought, the premonition, told myself.  I had only a two year contract with myself and God, to be with her in devotion and love towards her well being, and knew enough about myself that I would rather give her up than see us go sour and bitter and lose faith in cliches about there truly  being true love.

We just held hands and fell into a very deep sleep besides  each other. Katrin never once complained that I snored even when I still did, and after sleeping with her  a few nights consecutively, I no longer snored at all.  

When she left a week later, my  snoring returned with a vengeance