Kama Moksha Tantra काम मोक्ष तन्त्र / Emilie Fatton

Follow me where no one goes.
To a place where I’ll ask you to flee me.
A sensual escape, a way out for the sensible.
Take my hand and tell me where we’re going.
Grasp my hand instead of hanging onto my body.
Sit down, don’t move.
Give in to no control.
Submit yourself to nothing but your own rules and sensations.
Look at me.
Look at me beyond the iris.
Dilated pupils? Darkness? Desire?
Observe but don’t comment.
Now you’ll see nothing no more.
Smoke. Blindfold, clouded spirit.
Landmarks get mixed up.
I want no resistance, no protest.
Obligation to give up all struggles.
Forget all you’ve learned.
Obey! Not me, not anyone.
Become your own subject.
Give me your hand again. Feel. I place it here and there.
Let go of your ego.
Forget the material world.
Don’t move.
Don’t speak.
Soon you’ll be allowed one word. Just one.
Choose it carefully; and lay it down at the right place.
There is no right place.
The right place is the one you let your instinct decide on.
Instinct. Primal. Archicortex.
Reason is not permitted here.
Remember life before control. When life was for living, for not people pleasing.
Leave self-control where you are now.
Keep on surrendering to desires that are not yours.
Please cease to please.
Now remove the blindfold.
Look at me.
I’m wearing black panties and a white tee-shirt. No bra. Never. No corset.
Outright refusal to suffocate.
The air is suffocating enough.
Love is suffocating enough; it that provides oxygen to excess.
Does a woman need lace, an alluring bodice and garter belts to turn a man on?
Tell me; I don’t know.
Well, I KNOW. I just don’t know you.
Don’t get stirred.
Make nothing of me, turn around me and make of yourself everything you want.
Your body talks.
It’s yelling, it’s shouting, it’s screaming out loud.
The more it wails, the more you find the underlying yet herculean strength to reduce it to silence, to damper its calls.
To not hear; it’s easier than to not listen to.
To deny oneself. To lock oneself in.
To shut oneself in by locking one’s inner door with a hundred turns of the key.
To make of one’s body nothing but the fleshly sheath — of the soul.
To store so many things in this carnal envelope: millions of words, whole sentences, countless concepts; endless colours, ideas, I-know’s.
Yet to have an answer for nothing.
To not know what to reply to “Who am I and what do I want?”
To be able to reply to “What do the others want for and of me?”.
The end of the game is near my dear.
My skin is soft but I’m thick-skinned, despite a million cracks per square inch.
Close your eyes one last time.
Let up all tensions.
Become straw doll, rag doll.
Let me be your guide on your own sweet way.
Let me make you take the wrong path, the road less travelled.
Let me make you stray from the straight and narrow.
Let me help you find your way again.
Be a highwayman.
This safe path I’ll never tread; but along which you will find, at regular intervals, strange fruits hanging from the trees.
Make the right choice: not all of them are designed to be crunched.
Self-deprivation, self-starving will be firmly punished.
And the blood that runs in your veins, listen to it as one listens to a river flow. It’ll be enough to quench your thirst.
Beware. Don’t ever let no vampire bleed you to death.

Passionate, fragmentary; wandering soul. Nyctophile. Paradox personified. Art-eater. Spurned lover; lover of love. Most often in an uncooperative mood.

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