Inspired by Hurley, Porizkova

I am only thirty-something, but since Elizabeth Hurley and Paulina Porizkova are baring it online (Instagram) to prove older women can still look great, I thought I'd toss this photo up just for a little exhibitionistic fun.

Tired of Facebook

Here's the photo set for Maya Monday that, I think, got me banned for 24 hours. I didn't think these violated any standards. The theme was "Three for all, free for all." My post was about three teens that I tutor having a slumber party last Saturday night. I believe the photos are a fun tease, but not censorable. I give up.

Amber's "Three"

My friend over on Facebook found this lovely photo to include in a weekly thematic photo event. Facebook would likely censor it, so I'm posting it here.

Hatshepsut

 

Three years ago, I happened to be in Luxor, Egypt on the winter solstice shooting a promotional video for a major tour company. The local guide was a brilliant, energetic Egyptian woman from Luxor who had earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology. She was professional, personable, and possessed a calm demeanor and beauty that was breathtaking. We clicked immediately because we were two spirited women in our 30’s traveling with tourists who were all 65 years old or older. They were a nice group to be sure, but age does matter when finding a travel companion. The guide, named Ain, which means “priceless” in Egyptian, and I bonded at once.

Ain joined the group in Cairo and continued with us to Luxor, her hometown. The tour was a whirlwind in Luxor. We were to visit the Temple of Karnak and the Valley of the Kings, then participate in some shopping and eating activities before going on to Jordan. I had done some research on the area I wanted to see other archeological sites, specifically The Temple of Hatshepsut and The Temple of Ramesses III at Medinet Habu. I told Ain that I would much, much rather visit these sites than go shopping. She was delighted that I wanted to explore outside of the tour’s staid itinerary. She arranged a car, a driver, and a young female guide named Nenet to take me to the alternate temples while the main group went shopping. Nenet wore pants, a galabia, and a taqiyah, a cap normally worn by boys. She told me, “… easier to guide if men think I am a boy.”

Both temples were as magnificent as I had hoped. At the Temple of Hatshepsut, Nenet led me away from the throngs of tourists at the “must take” photo spots, to the very rear of the temple to the Sanctuary of Amun. It was a longish walk, but I was thrilled to discover Ain waiting for us there. She had left the tour to spend a few minutes with me in the Sanctuary and tell me the amazing story of Hatshepsut and her relationship to Amun. It seems Hatshepsut, one of the very few female pharaohs of Egypt, was considered a god and was married to Amun, one of the major mythical Egyptian gods, as well as her earthly brother. I was fascinated, completely enthralled with the story. Nenet listened to the story too but it was clear she knew it already as she smiled knowingly at each detail. As Ain began to describe ceremonies involving Amun, she paused and gave Nenet a questioning look. The young one nodded her head almost imperceptively to whatever Ain seemed to ask. Taking a deep breath, Ain asked if I wanted to discover a secret of Hatshepsut that was known only to a handful of women in the modern world. Of course, I did!

Ain then told me to meet her at a dock on the Nile in Luxor at 9 PM sharp that night. Further, she said I must not bring a camera, iPhone, flashlight, radios, or any kind of technology with me. Also, I was to wear no jewelry or any adornments, not even a hairpin. Finally, Ain asked me to wear a colorfully decorated ankle-length caftan I had purchased in Cairo, flat sandals, and nothing else. She meant it, nothing else, nothing underneath. She had to dash back to the tour group so she left me in the Sanctuary with the young guide full of questions. I tried to coax what was going to happen out of Nenet, but she would only offer me her lovely smile and say, “you will see.”

I was shaking with excitement and anticipation when I met Ain at the river’s edge in Luxor at the appointed time. We boarded a felucca along with four young Egyptian women to cross the Nile. All were dressed like Ain and me – cotton full-length caftans or galabias with pretty feminine designs on them. None of the women were of the Muslim faith – no one covered their heads. Their long, dark hair perfectly adorned pretty faces of soft, brown skin.

On the other side of the Nile, we all climbed into two cars, driven by women. This was unusual as I had only seen men driving cars in Luxor. By now I was brimming with questions but Ain revealed little and urging me to, “… as you Americans say, to just go with the flow.”

We arrived at the Temple of Hatshepsut under a bright, nearly full moon. We walked briskly, silently to the Sanctuary of Amun where I had met Ain earlier. Entering the smallish room, three women carrying ancient style oil lamps met us and led us through a small opening at the rear and down two steep ramps to a much larger room illuminated by similar lamps and candles. At one end of the room was a life-size, black marble statue of Amun. It looked like other statues of Amun I had seen except for one thing: a large, straight erection.

Six women were already in the room surrounding a young, nude woman wearing only a wide, ornate, jeweled collar, the type you see gods and pharaohs wearing in wall paintings in temples and tombs. She was a slim, stunning beauty, with waist-length dark hair, a small round tummy, and a pussy as smooth as a baby (I learned later that ancient Egyptians shaved to prevent lice). As she turned to see our group of eight, I recognized her – Nenet. She recognized me and smiled gently offering the subtle nod she had given to Ain earlier. I couldn’t think of how to respond, so I simply put my hand on my heart and nodded back.

In all, we were eighteen women of varying ages, including Nenet. Soon, all but Nenet rested on large brocade cushions on the stone floor. Candles and a flame were passed around until the room was bright with golden light. No one spoke. Nenet stood silently alone in front of the statue of Amun while the six women who had been attending her began to sing, or more closely, chant rhythmically in a harmony I can only describe as a cross between a south sea island hymn and a Bavarian folk tune.

As the tempo of the chanting increased, Nenet approached the statue, making graceful movements in sync with the chant, she danced, performing as if Amun were present before her. One of the attending women stood and produced an urn of scented oil, so fragrant, that I could smell hints of cinnamon, saffron, juniper, and mint from several feet away. Another woman applied this oil to the statue’s – Amun’s – erection.  Two other women began to apply this oil to Nenet’s body, her shoulders, breasts, abdomen, thighs, and, finally, her vulva, labia, and clitoris. Only Nenet’s hands and feet were left without the fragrant oil.

At some unheard cue, the chanting stopped, all the women were seated leaving Nenet sleek and shining before Amun. The silence stunned me. I had anticipated the chanting would accompany whatever I was about to witness like a Hollywood movie. The silence in the room was absolute as Nenet mounted the statue. Amun’s knees were carved to accommodate her feet and his collar was designed to provide handholds.  Nenet recited something, a prayer of sorts, in Egyptian and took the marble erection inside of her. Rhythmically, she impaled herself repeatedly on the statue’s stone erection, as if she could please the marble god. Nenet was performing a ritual, yet all present could tell she was pleasing herself too, using the hard stone cock to excite and stimulate herself. Her breathing, moaning, and finally, her gasps and little screams were contagious, spiritual, and flowed through all of the women in the room, including me. I was soaking wet myself when she quaked and convulsed in a massive orgasm and slumped against the statue of Amun. I knew then why Ain insisted on being naked under my caftan. The nakedness under the cotton fabric was exquisite as I shared the Nenet’s ecstasy.

When the young woman finally pulled her body off of the statue and turned to the women in the room, they all jumped to their feet, erupted in a song, and clapped and sang at the top of their lungs. I had no idea what to sing, but I joined in anyway celebrating and understanding the communal high. 

On the way back to the Nile and ultimately our hotel, Ain explained to me that Hatshepsut periodically copulated with the statue of the god, her husband, in the presence of her courtesans, to worship him and fulfill her wifely duties. In the late 19th century when The Temple of Hatshepsut was rediscovered and excavated, some Egyptian women in Thebes (the old name for Luxor), for reasons still unknown, began to celebrate Hatshepsut’s sex ceremony with Amun on rare occasions, but never the same dates to avoid discovery. 

I thanked Ain profusely for taking me to the mind-bending event, falling all over myself with gratitude. I promised never to tell anyone about it.

She laughed at me. “Tell anyone you like. I have told people and two things happen. First, no one believes me. Second, minutes later, they don’t remember I’ve told them. Only those who have participated in the ceremony ever remember it. Isn’t that odd?”

Staying Calm

Wednesday, Nov. 4, 2020

Staying calm.

Waiting for the count.

Taking A Break

 

I'm taking a break from blogging for a while to devote time to other writing projects. This blog has been fun and therapeutic for me, but the readership is dismally low. That's on me, no one else, but it is discouraging.

Friends have inspired me to write longer-form narratives so I'll be devoting time to that once the election is done and Biden is on his way to White House (#VoteBlue).

Of course, I'll still post snippets on Facebook, despite my disdain for that platform. I don't dare do Instagram or TikTok as I would undoubtedly end up posting inappropriate pictures of myself. That would sink any hope I have of a career.

Thanks to those dear friends who have been encouraging. It was fun while it lasted.

As long as Zuckerberg doesn't ban me or Ellen or Star, I'll see you over on FaceFuck, uh ... er, Facebook.

Be safe, be well.

Love, 

Sparks

Kona Days

 

April and I zoomed away from the Sheraton Kona Resort in a Jeep she had rented, top-down, with a rack of two colorful sit-on-top kayaks for our adventure in Kealakekua Bay. Stopping only for bowls of acai berries, yogurt, and granola at a food truck for our breakfast, we were at the bay less than an hour after sunrise. The air was warm and wonderfully humid, fresh, as only the sea seasoned air of Hawaii can be. We unloaded the kayaks near Napo'o'opo Park and were on the water well ahead of the hoard of people who would be launching later in the morning.

Our lunches, bottles of water and juice, towels, and sunscreen were stashed in waterproof sacks the kayak rental shop had loaned to us. Hoping to impress April, I wore the most revealing bikini I owned. As skinny and flat-chested as I was at 15, I got a thrill out of showing off, wearing as little as I could at the beach. April wore a high cut one piece that emphasized the muscles in her thighs, exposed her sculpted pelvis, and displayed a little of her abdomen. She said she was 40, but her body wasn't a day over 30. I was envious. Someday I thought, I want to look like April. But for that exciting morning, I was happy with my Kate Hudson boobs and no hips to speak of.

Crossing the bay, paddling side by side, we talked as if we had been besties for years. April had the knack of speaking my language, that of a Hollywood teen brat, without seeming condescending or phony. I think I tried to behave older than I was at times, but April would spot that instantly and say something that brought me back, kept me honest. What did we talk about? Hawaii, spa products, clothes, my school, cars, music, boys, the conversation flowed easily like water around rocks, naturally, running a course that needed no specific destination.

Before we knew it, we had arrived at the Captain Cook Monument. A few snorkelers who had arrived by motorboat tours were already exploring the water near it. We stopped briefly to see the monument, hopped back in our kayaks, then April led us towards the north to Cook Point where she had discovered days before a sheltered patch of sand among the lava that afforded a shady picnic spot. It was a perfect, private, and personal place where I would come to know April. And she would know me.

It seemed a natural progression of events. The privacy of our little piece of sand allowed us to sunbathe nude, something I did in California with girlfriends, so it wasn't new except for the fact I was doing so now with a beautiful goddess with a perfect tan on a perfect body. It's a clichè, but applying sunscreen was inevitable. I tentatively applied some lotion to her back before laying on my tummy for her to return the favor. She leaned over me, adding the warm lotion to my shoulders, and whispered, "You need to tell me if this in any way makes you uncomfortable." With that, she began massaging the sunscreen into my skin. When I think of that moment, I think of The Beatles song, "Here, There and Everywhere."

As she touched me, and I tentatively began touching her, we talked about our age difference, how what we were beginning might be considered perverse, would be unlawful. I told April I had been with girls at school, that I had, deliberately, given up my virginity three years before, that I felt like I was far ahead of my girlfriends at school.

She looked wistful and a little sad as she said, "No one can ever know."

To say April opened my mind and body to a vast and verdant universe of physical love would be a hopeless understatement. That day, and the two that followed, were, like another Beatles tune, "Magical Mystery Tour." I have never felt guilty about nor regretted the forbidden tryst we shared. I hope she doesn't.

I never saw nor heard from April again. We agreed that the perfection of our Kona days should stand alone, apart from our days, nights, and years ahead.

And if anyone ever seriously asked me about this? It never happened.