Now that I’m writing a weekly email, I get more random messages from the public.
One that came in this morning, ‘I’m willing to pay anything to get laid with an Alabaster girl.’ In parenthesis he went on to describe a little her physical attributes: (preferably black).
I love the raw truth and sheer impossibility of this statement. I understand the man completely, yet he’ll never be able to pay for his wish. Money can put him in a corner of the world where his wish is more likely, but he’ll still have to row some from there.
Why? Well, what is the Alabaster quality in a woman? You probably have your own felt definitions, but I’d say it like this: when a woman embodies unconditional love, and directs all of the energy of that love onto you. This is what makes sex a regenerative experience—what makes you want to cry right there in the middle of it, as your cock twitches and groans—you’re caressed, and taken in, by an overwhelming healing force.
This is not your average Instagram ten. It’s not a woman who’s objectively beautiful, nor a women you can objectivise as beautiful, for it is the act of objectivising that kills your perception. It’s not the fixed sum of her body parts. It begins with her movement, her cadence, her tone—her song—and ventures down to the mystical. That’s why no-one can describe an Alabaster girl: we only sigh when we feel her walk past us, and use placeholder terms like Alabaster to describe what we mean.
If you were to pay such a woman to get laid with you (or let you get laid with her?!), she would be instantly dubious: ‘why would he feel he has to pay me for sex… doesn’t he feel worthy as he is? What’s with the transaction, would he be scared of my love if he hung around?’ If she were to take the money and ‘let you get laid with her’ (a dubious-sounding proposition for a woman), she’d probably have to close down her heart, as a reflection of your own self-doubt, and your own fear to accept her love. You’d end up with an objective body, and she’d lose the whole glean of Alabaster: your attitude would be the culprit that closed her spirit down. Unless, of course, she was a tantric escort, who could keep her heart and body open, even to the most fearful soul, even to the killer and the rapist, and take into her womb even the darkest evil, so that darkness too may know love. In my utopian manifesto for this earth, the high-school system provides all sixteen year-old boys with tantric escorts.
This is why men want our kind of mentoring, then. Willing to pay anything for an Alabaster girl. It’s impossible to pay the woman directly for the true, deep qualities that will heal you, unless you’ve a Christmas-movie moment with a prostitute, who you’ll have to touch anyway in order to open her, and touch in the non-physical way we that teach.
What’s worth your money, then, is mastering the very way of being that will touch a woman in such a way that she will freely give you everything she’s got. Learning to open the Alabaster spirit in a woman (perhaps any woman), and learning to drink in this spirit ’til it washes your bones. For we have no idea, as a society, how to stand before Grace. If we don’t shrivel up into a ghoul of our own shame, we bat it away with some lame-ass joke.
Some will believe me here, and some will not: the ‘design’ of men and women is perfect. She’s absolutely willing to give you the thing you most need. And vice versa. It’s in our spiritual DNA. Waking up so that you feel this is the task here…
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Objectivising — seeing who she is, her identity, as a collection of her bodyparts.
Subjectivising — seeing her as a unique mind and heart, shaped by the circumstances she’s been embedded in since birth.
Witnessing — knowing there’s a deeper essence in her still, which comes more to the fore as you behold her.
Ease & Delight — keeping a sense of humour as you do so, because we’re all going to die.
Celebration — seeing how all objects, too, are aspects of God, and will inevitably transform and fade.
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So what if we de-objectivise the man’s statement for a moment, and witness its very essence? I’m willing to pay anything. Imagine the wonder you’d have to feel in order to say this and mean it! Imagine the surrender a man would need to pay anything… you mean millions, billions, for one night pulled into that quality?! This is deep-throated thirst in the existential desert! This is a sentence of praise!
Now if there’s a scrap of desperation in your soul, such a sentiment will too-often collapse into a monetary offer. If you don’t like to part with money for sex, maybe you’ll feel your thirst, then collapse into a connected conversation. ‘Proving yourself’ with clever concepts is a ruse to not open up.
But what if you could capture the essence of that statement—mamma, I’d pay anything!—and you could stand in your wonder with strength? What if you could own, with passion, with unabated shameless abandon, the deep viscerality of your worship? What if you could fall on your knees before her, all boobs and butt, and beam as she jiggles God’s joy?!
‘You don’t need to pay me anything, darling! The worship you’re giving now is payment enough!’
We are all going to die.
Until then, gentlemen, generosity with abandon. It’s all boobs and butt!
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