15. God and Women

What follows is a continuation of a series of articles comprising a book entitled “Passion, Power, and Panties–Confessions of a Businessman” wherein the author describes being raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, spending almost ten years at their headquarters in Brooklyn, NY and then entering the ”outside”  world at the age of 27.  For purposes of continuity, I encourage you to subscribe in the column to the right so as not to miss a post.  It is free and without obligation

Warning:  Chapters 14 through 19 contain sexually explicit narratives, told in the language of the street as I learned to speak it.  I have made no effort to be politically correct in the telling of this story; and I seek neither approval of my choices nor the expiation of guilt.  I would remind my readers that upon leaving Jehovah’s Witnesses I had made a committment to myself to never let the judgments of other humans, traditions, and cultures get between me and my quest to understand existence, to discover reality, to know what IS, and to find or achieve meaning in my own existence.  I was not interested in adopting other people’s meanings; I was done with all that.  I was continually in shock at the pervasive human need to BELIEVE.  Belief came first, reality was always a distant second.  For a short while I was convinced that this was a phenomenon unique to Jehovah’s Witnesses, or maybe cults in general.  As time progressed I came to the same conclusions as scientists who coined the term CONFIRMATION BIAS.  Belief trumps reality–at all levels of all societies. At this point in my story, women and sex were very high on my list of unresolved internal conflicts.  I wanted to know who they were, how they thought, what they believed, how they viewed men, and why they had  sex (or not).  I also wanted to become better acqauinted with myself as a sexual being and how this  related to my larger quest for meaning.  I attacked this challenge with my usual gusto and determination, and relate events herein without regard to saving face or winning approval.  In doing so I understand that I am foregoing any chance of ever running for political office for the rest of my life.  The things I did , you do AFTER getting in office, and standard operating procedure when suspected of such activity is to deny, deny, deny.

When you are growing up, you are taught that there are certain things that are never discussed in polite society; politics, religion, money, and sex.  I have discussed all of them in considerable detail in this and my blog www.financialliteracysource.com, so let’s finish what we’ve started.  I do not wish to offend, so if you find the subject of sex, as learned by a middle-aged neophyte and related in an honest but not intentionally salacious manner, to be offensive, you may want to resume with this narrative with Chapter 20.  I offer my observations in the light of what I understood at the time the events took place.  Some of those conclusions evolved over time, as you will see.

The Three Great Questions

 At this point all the confusion in my life distilled down to three great questions:  (1)  Was there a God?  (2)  If there was a God, and the Bible was his Word, why was He such a lousy communicator?  (3)  If there was a God, was woman his practical joke on men?  It just seemed to me that male and female natures were custom designed to nurture disharmony and aggravation.   Bear in mind that at this point in time I did not have “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” to guide me. 

 In time I decided there was no God.  I decided that the existence of God would be a violation of the Law of Identity, which means simply that to be, is to be something.  To be something is have boundaries, as the boundaries are what distinguish one thing from all the other things that it is not.  This delimits God, institutes boundaries and limitations, establishes what he is NOT.    God cannot be everywhere and all things, which is to be without identity, which is to be nothing, not nothing as a kind of something, but nothing as nothing, as non-existent.  This is not the only reason I did not believe in God, but one of the most important.  Coming to this conclusion really simplified a lot of things for me.

I was no longer troubled with defending God’s honor, such as why he permitted bad things.  I didn’t have to make sense out of any of the holy books of the world any more, nor did I have to explain or mediate the contradictions  in their respective messages.  I could simply accept them as what they were:  primitive attempts at an integrated philosophy based on the body of knowledge available to the authors at the time they were written.  I could understand why the churches were often empty, and I could also understand why they were full during times of great stress or confusion.  In times of great change, the appeal of ancient religions is their millenial resistance to change.  I knew enough about most of the holy books, having at least read them if not exhaustively studied them, to know that they borrowed freely from each other and from philosophy extant at the time they were written.  I understood that all of this was a great conversation down through the ages, with many of the same questions and often quite divergent answers.  Most of all I became aware of man’s need for certainty, his need to believe, his need to be right, and his need to kill on behalf of what he believes to be right.   I no longer had to reconcile ancient, and sometimes silly faith-based premises that contradicted what I had already established as truth. I could accept and understand the miracle of the creation of wealth where none existed before, but I did not have to accept or explain the miracle of the parting of the Red Sea or Joshua commanding the sun to stand still.  The one was congruent with reality, the others were not and I was now intellectually free to reject them.

It did of course create some brand new problems for me as well.  I would henceforth have to deal with the arrogance of believers who think all atheists can’t really mean it.  My friends and associates would assure me that I would recover from this phase and eventually return to normalcy.    And of course I would have to deal with those who believed that without God and the supernatural there can be no basis for morality and therefore no meaning to life itself.

My new position did mean that instead of looking for a meaning to my life that had been imposed by a supernatural entity, I would have to create my own purpose for my life, and take responsibility for achieving it.  I would have to decide what direction I wanted my life to take,  and what it would mean for me.  This is an awesome responsibility.  It also meant I would have to give up such cute catch phrases like “Everything happens for a reason.”  No, not necessarily.  The Law of Causality states every effect has a cause, but that does not imply any sort of preordination by some supernatural or supreme somebody.  Many things happen from sheer randomness, and we confound ourselves in our efforts to read order into chaos.  Disorder, chaos, and randomness are all naturally occurring  phenomena that require no explanation.  They simply are.  The concept of randomness is scary because we cannot anticipate everything, and therefore cannot control everything.  That means we’re vulnerable.  Welcome to reality!

Any purposeful activity  in life requires maintenance of some type or other to sustain order and forestall chaos.  Management in any context, whether painting a house to protect it from the corroding elements or creating a rule by law for a nation, like all of civilization itself,  is an effort to maintain order.  Order makes growth possible.  This is every bit as true in a relationship between two people as it is with celestial bodies.  (And so much the better if it is your good fortune to be in a relationship with a celestial body).  Due to the Law of Causality, there can be no surprises if one simply has enough information.  The Law of Causality as applied to women means that even though we cannot divine the inner workings of their non-linear, labyrinthine, chthonian  minds, there is a cause for every thing they do, and if we had enough information about them, it could and would become comprehensible.  I found this vaguely comforting.  Even randomness becomes discernible and predictable if one has enough information to crunch, and quickly enough.  Unfortunately we rarely do, so we always seem to be playing catch-up with reality.

But I digress.  What we believe has a lot to do with our managment of pain.  Pain can be instructive or destructive.  Pain can be an early warning signal of impending danger, in which case it serves our survival.  We each have a different pain threshhold.  We “believe” in what we cannot justify or rationalize, because we need to, and the need is real, just like psychic pain is real.  Anesthetizing the pain can make us less susceptible to genuine warning signals and can in some cases prevent us from growing.  If the pain is too great, however, it becomes destructive, and we cannot function at all.  When we anticipate the pain of reality as being unbearable psychologically and emotionally, we deny reality and invent things.  For some the thought of no great power out there in control of everything is too scary to contemplate.  For others the finality of death without a hereafter is unbearable.  My answer to all is to do whatever your pain threshhold allows you to do.  For me however, there is only one acceptable choice.  I have to go with reality, with what IS.  For those who offer the postmodern thought that our realities are all different, I disagree.  Our perceptions of reality may all be different, but our perceptions do not change what IS.  What is, IS.  It is our job to figure out what that is; to test our perceptions in the scientific method.  If the postmodern concept were accurate, virtually all science would be useless and human progress an unattainable fiction.

This is a committment and a promise I made to myself when I left Jehovah’s Witnesses; that I would never again believe something because another told me I had to accept something on faith.  Faith is only necessary when what we are being asked to believe contradicts other premises we know to be true.   I cannot confuse wishful thinking with reality, and I do not delude myself into thinking I can change reality by willing it out of existence, or by willing it into existence.  Lack of omniscience is not, as Ayn Rand said, a license to invent things.  My future success in life depends on my ability to perceive what is, and respond appropriately.  Nor am I one of those people who would “prefer not to know.”  As disagreeable as the truth may be on occasion, I would still rather know than not know. I do, however, reserve the right to kill the messenger.

There is a point to my digression here.  I have discovered that my committment to reality and to what is, is not, and has not been shared by most of the women I have come to know, sometimes intimately.  Quite the opposite in fact.  They have frequently cherished their misconceptions and held them close even when it did not serve their wellbeing to do so.  A simple example of what I am talking about is that virtually all of the “women’s magazines” on the market today have many ads for psychics and fortune tellers and sections for horoscopes and astrology.  I know of no such man’s magazine that contains the same.  I have asked many women why this is so, and I have gotten many different answers.  The more educated and savvy of them scoff at the ads and horoscopes, but read them nevertheless.  Obviously there is a demand for them or the publishers would not include them. 

In the singles dating scene, I found this desire of women to react to situations at an unconscious level to be quite common, and eventually I decided the reason for this behavior was “if I don’t look at it, I can’t be held responsible for it.”  For example, women very commonly lie to their significant others.  First they try to change their men, and when that doesn’t work, they simply resort to deceit.  I don’t think even women would argue this point, it is such a ubiquitous behavior; but they justify the deceit on the grounds that in a male-dominated world, deceit is the only way they can get what they want.  Well, maybe that was true once, but it isn’t anymore, but many women have not made the transition yet to the new reality; the reality that women earn just about the same as men now, and often more, not to mention the fact that they control all the pussy.  They have options just like men do; the problem is, they may not always like their options, so they resort to deceit.  If you as a woman are trading with a male in the marketplace, and the man disagrees with you about certain values that are important to you, you may find you are incompatible.  If you cannot agree, you may have to disengage and separate.  For a woman though, she will calculate that her standard of living will go down at least temporarily because she will no longer be living on shared expenses, and rather than endure this temporary hardship, she will go underground, lie, and try to have her cake and eat it too.  And this is still justified on the basis of  “it’s a man’s world.”  Nonsense.  It’s a shared world, and the practice of deceit in the marketplace of romance quickly reaches a point of diminishing returns when your significant other(s) figure out what you’re doing.  When trust is gone, it’s gone, unless of course you are living with someone who prefers to remain in denial about what you are doing. But for many women it is still easier to pretend that they had no choice in what they did.  

The Singles Scene

Shortly after I became single again, and during one of many periods when Diana and I were broken up, I found a singles magazine outside the door to my apartment where I lived.  (This was pre-Internet of course)  The magazine was about a dozen pages or so, half devoted to women seeking men, and half vice versa.  I had an attitude that particular evening, and I wrote a separate answer to every single woman’s ad in the magazine.  I got about a dozen responses back, and I dated every one of the respondees.  One of these, when I met her at her home, greeted me with the news that her psychic had told her I would be contacting her.  I laughed and wondered if her psychic had told her I would be leaving too.  During the months that I knew this woman, it never ceased to amaze me how she could so selectively apply what suited her from her psychic and totally disregard what did not work, without once challenging his credibility.  Well, it certainly wasn’t the first time I had witnessed the power to believe.

I came on the singles scene at a most interesting time during the gender wars.  The singles bars were flooded with divorced women who all had one thing in common–male bashing–at the same time that they sought us out.  Their favorite pet peeve was that all men wanted was sex , and that they didn’t really want anything else.  This really annoyed me because it wasn’t true.  Sometimes I was horny and sometimes I wasn’t, but it was never a foregone conclusion that I wanted sex with them.  I thought that was quite a presumption that was only valid just before bar closing time.  And I quickly discovered that many women wanted sex every bit as much as men did, but sometimes for different reasons.  I also discovered that a woman’s wedding ring didn’t mean any more to her in most cases than it did for a man.  I got to know many of Diana’s girlfriends from the office she worked in, and most of them were married.  They all told their husbands they were going out with their girlfriends on Friday night, and indeed they would, but they frequently found someone on the dance floor with whom  they went to a motel room first before returning to their husbands.  .  One woman I knew slept with a different man each night of the week and raised the “Sex for Resources” game to a fine art form, keeping track of the presents each of them gave her.  If they were negligent of their responsibilities, she moved on.  One woman fucked the husband of her best girlfriend for years, at the same time that the three of them  socialized regularly, and she even was their babysitter when the couple went out.  That takes a lot of chutzpah in my book.  I couldn’t do it.  If I slept with someone’s wife, I didn’t even want to know who the husband was, and I certainly didn’t want to meet him or socialize with him.  Not that I went looking for married women, but a lot of them were out there, and if their marriage meant nothing to them, I didn’t consider it my responsibility.  I have never found a man that was as good a liar as a motivated woman.  Generally speaking men are clumsy in comparison.

Also this thing that men hit on women until they give in is a partial myth.  Women are, or can be very direct and assertive, aggressive even.  One supervisor who worked for me told me one night that she was 39 years old and wanted to have an affair before she turned forty.  And she had decided that I was to be the lucky guy.  I saw no particular reason not to oblige her.  The partial truth about men hitting on women is that men rarely know what a woman’s being nice to him means.  She may just be being nice to him because she likes him, or she is having a good day, or whatever.  Or she may be sending him a signal of sexual receptivity which he probably doesn’t want to ignore.  With a lot of guys, especially as they get older the general rule of thumb is Never waste a hard-on; you never know which one will be your last.  So the guy makes a tentative (or not so tentative) gesture and waits to see what the response is.  Depending on his own urgency, anything less than a vehement rejection may be perceived as encouragement.  It is nature’s way that the guy who gets the most rejections gets laid the most–because he was persistent.  Unfortunately this can be a problem  in the workplace, where such persistence can get you fired.

Humans, like animals, have a way of letting the opposite sex know when they are in heat, when they are available.  I don’t know scientifically how we do it, but I do know it’s real.  Many women loved to play a game with guys where they would lead them on, get them heated up, getting half disrobed or whatever, and then at the last second telling them they can’t go all the way, that they’re not “that kind of girl.”  I found many that practiced this little game with malice aforethought and bragged about it to their girlfriends.  I began wondering how the woman would react if the man responded to them in this way, rather than what they had come to expect.  So I decided to find out.  On several occasions I began the mating ritual  by seducing them, getting them naked in bed, working them over until they were close to coming, and then without entering them, I would get off the bed, get dressed, and tell them I just couldn’t go all the way and I was sorry, but this was wrong.  You cannot imagine the look on their face.  I had stolen their line and used it against them.

The irony of all this is that women do not trust their girlfriends with each other’s men, and with good reason.  They may be good friends in all other things, but they will go after each other’s men in a New York heartbeat.  Ladies, if you don’t trust your girlfriends around your boyfriend, you are quite right.  You shouldn’t.  But guys, if your woman’s girlfriend tries to put the make on you, and you tell your woman about it, there’s a 50/50 chance your woman will deny it and be mad at you for even suggesting it.

Losing My Virginity–Again

With these few anecdotes I have probably conveyed the impression that I was a born lothario, and that I burned up the sexual landscape with a scorched earth policy once I was freed from my religious restrictions.  Nothing, actually, could be further from the truth.  I simply didn’t start at the beginning  with this part of my story.  Diana of course, introduced me into another world, and it was a world that scared the crap out of me, even while it fascinated me.  I wanted to know more about women, and I wanted to experience more women, and I wanted to experience the differences between lovers.  I had absolutely no idea how to make this happen.  Since I was traveling extensively teaching management seminars around the United States and Canada, even before my divorce from Barbara, and on one occasionn I flew into Oakland, California on the way to Napa Valley.  I drove by a “health spa” that looked very cheerful and inviting, so I stopped.  I had never been to such a “spa” before and really didn’t know what to expect or how to act.  I was alone and quite nervous.  A woman came to the window and said it would be $60.  She didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t know any to ask.  Someone let me in, and led me down a hallway and into a room.  There was a small, clean, elevated bed in the room with clean linens and towels folded on it, and not much else.  The girl was oriental in appearance and she instructed me to disrobe and left the room.  I stripped down to my shorts and sat on the edge of the bed.  When she returned, she took one look at me and told me to disrobe.  Since I only had one item of clothing left on, and being a quick study, I figured out right away what she meant and complied.  She handed me a towel, and told me to follow her down the hallway.  I was embarrassed, as I had never walked down a “public” hallway naked before in my life.  We turned a corner, and there were a series of showers along a wall with very small, inadequate curtains hanging in front of them  She told me to shower.  There were two or three of her pretty female colleagues, all fully dressed, standing right there in front of the showers.  I had never been naked with any women other than my wife and Diana, so I was flustered.  I took my shower, toweled off in front of the women, who totally ignored me, and followed my oriental girl back to my assigned room.  The girl was wearing a normal one-piece swimming suit.  I lay on the table and she gave me a rubdown with baby oil.  When she had me turn over on my back, she laid a small towel over my privates.  She did absolutely nothing suggestive or remotely sexual.  I was so disappointed.  I knew I was doing something wrong, but I didn’t know what.  I asked her if she would take her swimsuit off and she said no.  She was very polite.  I must have been experiencing considerable guilt and talked obsessively about my wife during the massage.  At the end the masseuse dismissed me with “Go back to your wife.”  I dressed and left.  I was so humiliated.  I thought, wow, I’ve got to be the only guy in the world who can’t get laid  in a whorehouse!!

I hardly slept that night.  The next morning I got up, and went straight back to the whorehouse.  I plunked my money down as if I was a regular, and when another girl came out for me, I stripped down quickly, took my shower, and when we got back to the room I politely asked her to strip herself and told her I wanted her to include a hand job in my massage, and how much would that be.  She said $30 without batting an eye.  I paid the money, got my massage and hand job, played with her tits while she rubbed me down, and needless to say, there was no hand towel over my genitals this time. 

I had figured out what the problem was the first time:  I was so awkward and obviously inexperienced, they suspected me of being a cop.  When I walked out the second time, I felt like I was ten feet tall.  However, there were unintended consequences.  My childhood conditioning came back in a rush in the form of paranoia about the possibility of contracting AIDS from the hand job I had just received.  In total,  irrational panic, I called the local Oakland police department, asked for the Vice Squad, and asked the officer who answered the phone if he thought I could get AIDS from a hand job.  He paused, and then without even missing a beat, said he wasn’t sure but he supposed it was possible.  Now I can just imagine what he said to his fellow officers after he hung up the phone!  Anyway, that was the wrong answer for someone in the middle of a full-scale guilt-induced anxiety meltdown like me.  That was precisely why I had ordered a hand job to begin with, because I figured it was the safest sexual contact.  Nobody wore plastic gloves when they gave hand jobs, right???

My sense of guilt manifested itself by an obsession with contracting AIDS.  I read everything  I could get my hands on about AIDS and waiting daily for some telltale sign to appear on my body, a rash or something, that would tell me I had made a terrible mistake.  The media was in full swing alarming the nation about the disease, and to listen to them, virtually anyone who had sex with anyone else, ever, was at risk.  But then I noticed an article that said a law was being passed that made it illegal for someone who was HIV positive to be discriminated against in employment, including public restaurants.  Then I thought, wait a minute, if some guy with AIDS has to be allowed in a restaurant kitchen where he could cut himself and accidentally bleed into my salad, I don’t think I’m going to get AIDS from my hand job.  And if I can get AIDS from a hand job, I can also get AIDS from shaking hands with someone who had AIDS.  So why would the government make it illegal for such a person to be kept out of public kitchens??  Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I decided I was safe.  For the moment.

With my background, sex was obviously a very emotionally charged issue, not to mention who- knows-what that I had suppressed over the years.  I decided to resume my investigative studies.  Soon I was in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and I found a very delightful, modern whorehouse within a stones throw of Harvard,  for the convenience of the students I suppose.  This place was a virtual smorgasbord of services, complete with a menu (seriously) and an album of color photographs of all the girls in the house (about 60 or so).  I looked at the menu and decided on a threesome.  It was some outrageous price like $180 or something.  The receptionist asked me to pick out the two girls I wanted to have my threesome with, and I did so.  I was escorted into a room, stripped, and laid up on the table waiting in a state of high anxiety.  Soon the two girls appeared, and as my luck would have it, they hated each other’s guts and stood there above me arguing ferociously with each other about whatever.  They almost forgot I was there.  Remembering me suddenly, one of them  said peevishly, “well, what do you want?”  I said “I want both of you to play with me with your hands and get me to come.”  Well, I was so distraught with their arguing and my own anxiety attack that I couldn’t get it up.  They worked on me for a few minutes, and then one of them said, “Well, I don’t think this is going to happen.”  And that was the ignominius end to my first attempt at a threesome.  Needless to say, I didn’t qualify for a refund.  But I had learned an important detail in the politics of sex:  if you are going to have a threesome with two women, choose one woman and let her choose the other.  The things your mother never tells you!

The interesting part of all this is that I wasn’t fucking anyone.  Not yet.  I was breaking down internal barriers and prior conditioning.  I was very nervous during these episodes.  I was way, way out of my comfort zone.  Mostly I wanted to see naked women up close and have them touch my body.  I wanted to see and touch their bodies.  I was so inhibited still, at this point, that I walked away from a sure thing several times.  Some times, incredibly, I was too dumb to recognize what I was being offered.

Once I was at a convention in New Orleans and winding down with a few drinks with another contractor.  It was very late, about 2 a.m., and my ass was dragging.  Finally I said to her,  “Well, I guess it’s time for bed, don’t you think?”  And she replies, “You know, I was just thinking the same thing, but I’m not really divorced from my husband yet.”  It took a moment or two for the implications of what she had just said to sink in.  We went up to her room, and she got naked and I gave her a massage.  She had a nice body and I played with it, but we did not fuck.  I didn’t even go down on her, or take off my own clothes.  Actually, this had been her half-hearted idea and I wondered what I was doing there.

On another occasion I was paying my repair bill at a car dealership, and the clerk wore a low-cut blouse that was particularly lovely when she bent over my bill.  I asked her what it would take to get her to go out with me, and her reply was, “Try asking”.  She told me where to pick her up, and when I got there she introduced me to her boyfriend!  This really confused me.  She said goodbye to her boyfriend, and then she and I went to a motel, and once again we got naked and I couldn’t go through with it.  This time it was her turn to look confused.  I took her home.  I couldn’t explain it to her because I didn’t understand it myself.  I hadn’t even gotten a hard-on.  I was starting to wonder if I was gay and didn’t even know it.    Sexually, I felt like I was wandering in a wilderness in my head, with little or no sense of where I was at. 

I began going to strip clubs, but found most of them boring.  Once in a great while there would be a dancer who was truly sensual and it would be a turn-on, but most of them just acted like bored used car salepeople.  Once I was in a bar in Philadelphia where the patrons put their heads on the bar, face up, with a folded dollar bill on their face and a naked dancer would come by and pick up the bill with her pussy as she sat on each man’s face in the process.  Nice trick.  I can still remember her fragrance.  And once I went to a strip club in Montreal with several Parisian businessmen, and the girls would dance nude at tableside, and they were so beautiful that to this day I can remember their fragrance, their bodies, and in at least one case, her name.  She was a gorgeous college student, and her name was Casey, and she danced because she made $50,000 per year, tax free.  She was paying her own way through school and living the high life.  Not bad for a girl of 19.  My French friends, who were my hosts for the event,  dropped  over $400 on tips in there that night.

I also began discovering that partially clothed was often more of a turn-on than nudity.  I found a nudist colony and talked a girlfriend  into going there with me.  It was the most un-sexual experience imaginable.  There were three or four generations of families present, and there is nothing more unsensual than a naked mother wiping the nose of her naked kid.  Surprisingly it was family oriented, and these people just believed in nudity, period.  Neither I nor my girlfriend had ever been to one before, and we rolled up the driveway in my bright red Chevy Camaro convertible, with the top down, and the “receptionist”, a guy, wearing only sandals, walks over to the car on the passenger side, and hands my girlfriend a clipboard with a paper to sign in on.  He was just the perfect height so that his dick cleared the top of her door.  Happily, he did not have an erection, or it would have been in her ear.  She tried not to notice as she reached up to get the clipboard.  Later we met another couple, and the four of us played outdoor shuffleboard.  That took a little getting used to.  On the whole, however, with everyone in sight un-self-consciously naked, you get used to it quickly.  There is a lot of intense eye contact, and I figured this is because there is no where else to look, without it looking like, you know, you’re staring ‘down there’.  We went several times and I never saw a hard-on.  Not once.  They did have a dance one night, and you had to put on a Roman toga for that.  Something else:  most people look better with their clothes on, and a hint of cleavage is often far more inviting than the sagging breasts that are the rest of the story.  And we saw a lot of guys who couldn’t see the tips of their toes when standing upright.

On one occasion a group of us had worked very late, and we were all staying in a hotel for the night.  Everyone else had gone to bed, and there was no one left in the bar but the bartender, me, and this big fat girl.  I hit on her, and she came to my room, and when she undressed I realized there was no way I was going to get turned on by someone with all that fat.  I felt bad for leading her on, so I played with her breasts and the most amazing thing happened:  she had a violent orgasm that shook  her whole body, just from playing with her nipples.  It was a seismic event   Other women can do that too, but somehow it is just a lot more memorable when the woman is that fat.

I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but so far I wasn’t particularly impressed.  I was collecting experiences, but there was little coherence for me.  Clearly I didn’t know what I was doing; but surely somebody else did??  Compared to this, Jehovah’s Witnesses led a pretty sensible existence.  I was sure that if God had done this, it must have been one huge practical joke, but nobody seemed to be laughing.  I pressed on.