Have you ever not felt your orgasm? You get all the big rush-ups, the pre-thrills, the proto-ecstasy, you get the first-blush instant of the big rush, and then what? Where did it go? If this happens to you, you have quite likely been orgasm surfed. Orgasm surfing is a kind of alien visitation or possession that happens only during orgasm. The aliens get the orgasm, and we experience their presence as a kind of numbness.
And why would aliens want to ride our orgasms? The answer is not flattering. Though we're the dumbest of creatures, sexually we're apparently the best.
We have the finest bodies, the fullest flesh, the most exquisite of appearances. We're the pinnacle of nerves, the product of a billion generations of climax engineering, but we're so dumb we aren't worth our own come. We've evolved primarily for the orgasm. We come like gods. We come better than we deserve. And so they surf us.
There is no such corporeal excitement where these freaks come from. They have one nerve: hot/cold, on/off, one/two. That's what they 'sense.' Here in the sponges of our skin, they go insane with orgasm.
But they're so addicted that one is not enough. They wait to that last moment to flip in and flip out. They can catch the big gush of the orgasm right at its root, ride it all the way up and then just as it ends be on to the next one, skidding the night away riding the spasm through the chasm from orgasm to orgasm.
They like to hurl one another like coins across the water, each skip triggering utter awesome orgasms instantly. But who comes?
Not us. People from space. Religious 'greys' trying to write thrill bibles in our blood. They know the funnel, the spiral, the corkscrew into you, the whirlwind out. You are a way through the infinite.
They use your orgasm like a gravity slingshot round the sun to get extra spin, to fling them further into furious space. They're looking for home, shooting in from all angles to ride us like angel cowboys. We are industrial machinery in star pits of the soul.
Sure, for a moment we ride the big pattern. We resonate with the grid but miss it. It's stolen from us. We become invisible in the equation. (This is why sometimes when your partner is coming you suddenly seem to see the movements of some kind of hyped-up spider as two limbs become 42, because the alien essence briefly peeks through the amber-tinted glow of body on body.)
As of now this phenomenon is unregulated. We are like bugs to them. They care not if two people are compatible. They know nothing of love. Once their agents have decided two of us will come together, their rays make it happen.
Suddenly, the smallest flash of a come-on can do it. All those movies where two strangers get behind closed doors and start to rip off each other's clothes and bang all spread-eagly up against the walls -- that's not acting. It's alien visitation.
That's why we find ourselves constantly saying the same stupid come-on lines.
That's why we're so obsessed with copulation.
That's why behind everything we do there always seems to be a plan at work to get laid. ****