Thinking Priapic: A Woman’s Tribute to the Male Sex Organ

My fantasies lean towards the culinary...

My fantasies lean towards the culinary...

I’ve always known that the penis has magical (or is that magickal?) properties, and there is a rich tradition that supports the ideal: the winged phallus of Hermes, the member of the dead god Osiris emerging from the waters where Set tossed it, like Lorena Bobbitt. Of course, Jung viewed the winged hermetic package through the Gnostic tradition and dreamt of a giant member flapping its way across the sky; he appeared to assign it, instinctively, the majesty it deserves, a rigid cock traversing the heavens like a B-52.

The penis is mystical in its expulsion of energy, its visible eruption of a healing elixir. For this reason, it arouses me immeasurably to watch a man ejaculate, rather than be content with his semen shuddering into a latex barrier. A few partners have been surprised by my rapturous gaze upon the milk of Hermes. I sometimes like to sample it like a poetaster, sometimes not; I am nothing if not capricious. But I always give it proper tribute.

Which is appropriate to its history of veneration: In ancient Greece’s worship of Dionysus, images of the phallus were employed in rituals celebrating the god’s connection to wine, excess and ecstasy. Elsewhere. It, pops up with comforting regularity in the classical world as an emblem of Pan, deity of flocks and shepherds, and of Priapus, god of fruitfulness.

But nothing equals its earthly manifestation, attached to the human male. In the non-Empyrean realm, there are synthetic substitutes (I call mine Ivan), but they are unmatched by the product of nature and evolution. The penis is exposed, sensitive, tied to the changing moods of its owner. It is both capable of heroism and tragedy, and inspires ardent affection.

I often like to engage in a short sacramental caress, a tribute if you will, before taking the sacred member, to give it the esteem of a mistress to its pet. In my most recent encounter, with my regular FWB, the mere touch of my homage triggered an unexpected pitch of intensity, as if my affections had cast a spell; a mere delicate stroke had set some cosmic gears in motion: the thrilling spume arrived, dancing over the crevasses of my hand like a mountain cataract, as if the gods had returned a gift for my accolade.

I licked my fingers and said a silent prayer to Hermes.



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© 2009 Sylvia Lowry, All Rights Reserved

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