Gita-ja, or reading the Gita as Ouija / M and Mrs Hyde


It was on hazy evening on the shore of the blue black sea, in an isolated white house – its doors were painted a deep ultramarine, so that everyone who entered the house entered the beyond – that we started to play a strange game. Tired of the ennui that was eating our very souls, we decided to do in life what the gods wanted us to do. The solution was simple, we would use an old, abandoned (then found) edition of the ancient Bhagavad Gita to consult the gods. The only rule was that once the gods have pronounced their will, we would have to act on it. We couldn’t back out from the divine dictum. It was the only way to enter the metaphysics of the world. Dear reader, it might seem strange to you, so, that the first question I asked was such a simple one. I closed my eyes and asked the ancient scripture if it would be sin to fuck this beautiful girl, her ripe breasts moved like firm fruits inside her sheer dress, and I just really wanted to press them with my palms while being inside her. I opened a random page of the Gita, and there it was, the gods had spoken:

“By performing the duty prescribed by (one’s own) nature, one incurreth no sin.” (Krishna; Chapter 18, verses 47–48)


It usually happened like this: in the evening, shirtless, I sat in front of the wooden table. I poured myself a glass of brandy, closed windows, closed door, lights off. In the distance: the crackling of the flame of a candle, the wind through the cracks of the windows, and the rolling of the waves. And you, who took your shower next door.

I opened the volume of the Bhagavad Gita, and I floated my glass to the side until, passively, instinctively, it stopped on a page, a verse, a word. I loved this idea of ​​being the toy of the gods, their thing, at their attention. As if they were the ones making the decision for me. More than an inspiration, an order. Not that you lack inspiration (nothing and nobody has ever inspired me as much as you), but I liked the idea that we were the puppets of the gods). I liked this idea. Madly.

That night, I asked them how I should fuck you. By which hole. In which way. Which position. And the glass stopped on this verse: “Fill me always in me, become my devotee, offer me your homage, and dedicate your adoration to me. Fully absorbed in me, certainly you will come to me” (IX, 34).

So, I took a deep breath. I took off my loincloth around my hips. I thanked the gods. I pushed the door of the bathroom, and I joined you in the shower. And I bit your breasts as you bite a juicy fruit, and I licked your pussy as you suck the flesh of a mango, and I impaled you with a desire that you would never have imagined, as if you had totally absorbed me in you. Divinely. As if we had become gods again.


It was my turn to speak to the gods the next night. Before entering the room where I knew you waited eagerly for me on the small wooden bed – it overlooked the sea in such a way that at all times it seemed we were the only two people on earth, not even two, but one, the miracle of oneness – I took your Gita in my hands, pressed it against my almost naked body (I was wearing only a small pair of black lace panties and nothing else) and asked what course this mad night should take:

Feelings of heat and cold, pleasure and pain, are caused by the contact of the senses with their objects. They come and they go, never lasting long. You must accept them. (2.14)

And so I poured some warm honey on my breasts for you to suck until my nipples were raw, almost bruised. Then I asked you to sit on the edge of the bed with your legs spread a little apart and against the cool air of the sea, I massaged your inner thighs and cock with my palms wet with heated almond oil.. You closed your eyes as I gradually replaced my hands with my mouth sucking you sometimes slowly, sometimes madly. And just when I knew you were about to explode inside me, I suddenly got up and handed you a blindfold. I asked you to ask the gods what to do next.


That night, I did not need the Gita. I left the book on the coffee table at the foot of the green velvet sofa. Closed. Covered by a pillow to avoid any influence.

I was sitting in a corner, on the left side. You came to me. You joined me on the couch, you got up and you went up to dance. Was it really a dance or a ceremony? I do not know. You were in a short skirt, barefoot, shirtless, hair undone. An Indian dance, Bengali more precisely. Who tells the war between the giants and the gods … in the Bhagavat Gita (still it!).

First movement: a single gesture, your foot stops in front of my mouth, I kiss it. Second movement: one gesture, your ankle stops in front of my mouth, I kiss it. Third movement: a single gesture, your leg stops in front of my mouth, I kiss it. Fourth movement: a single gesture, your thigh stops in front of my mouth, I kiss it. Fifth movement: a single gesture, your pelvis stops in front of my mouth, I put my head under your skirt and I drink in you.

And you do not dance anymore.


That night, there was a dantesque storm. Something that looked like the end of the world. I watched the sky fulfilled with golden scratches. But I did not want to sleep. Kali was sleeping in me. Not far, just under my skin.

I opened the book. The only one. The truth: the Gita. I had a glass of Sauvignon. But it was not strong enough, the glass did not move. Then a glass of amber rum. Nothing. No movement. A dose of Mongolian vodka, with the dirty mouth of Genghis Khan drawn on it: the glass spilled. All the liquid spilled on the book, soaked each one of the 687 pages of the volume, to the heart, to the veins. The leather binding was covered with pink rings.

I took a few minutes to understand the message of the gods. To interpret the signal. To decrypt the enigma. So I went upstairs to your room. You were sleeping in the bed, your face buried in the pillow. Suddenly, I lifted the white sheet, and you did not move. In the hollow of your buttocks slit like an apricot, I sank down, in one gulp, in one blow, to the bottom. And I emptied of all my seed, my whole being. I flooded you to the joint. You did not move. You were dead.


M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.

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