If you believe in God – a big if – then you must believe that God made sex. How could it be otherwise? God made the trees and the birds and the bees, and you and me. Then it must be true that God made all my parts, and all your parts, and how our parts fit together.
God made my breasts to be just enough to fit into your sweaty palms; lovingly painted the freckles on my pale skin; curled the reddish fur on my mound; gently sculpted the petals around my sex. Just so, God made your body as well: the curve of your stiff cock so hot in my hands; your tip bulging like a weird alien mushroom; the taste of your semen slicking my tongue or dribbling out of my God-given cunt.
If God’s pronouns are He and Him as they say in church, then God must be a man. Does God feel like a man feels toward a woman? He gave us these aching, yearning parts and he must have known the chaos and bliss he unleashed. They say that Adam and Eve were innocent in the first days, were naked and unashamed, and the Serpent tricked Eve and revealed sex and sin. Yet how can Creation be so easily subverted if it was not built with these flaws as part of the design? The heaving, lusting, slobbering urge to mate must have been what God had in mind, or he would have designed sexless angels instead.
If God’s pronouns are She and Her as they say in the witches’ circle, then God must be a woman. She must know the cycle of the moon, of blood and fucking and birth and death. They say that the teaming earth is our Mother, the silvered moon is our Sister, but what do earth and sky know of my desires? When my hand anxiously strays between my legs in the dark of the night, my breath quick and sharp as my fingers rub wetness from my pussy, does the Goddess know or care? When my insides quiver and clench with ecstasy and I bury my face in my pillow to smother the cry do the ancient ones come with me? Or am I alone, enjoying the weird pleasurable quirks of being a living woman? If God’s pronouns are They and Them as they say amongst the philosophers, then God must not dwell in such an easy dichotomy. Yet They created us, female and male and all shades and spectra between. Perhaps They love the diversity of expression, our bodies marvelous and different, pleasure flowing freely without thought of hers or his. Fluidity and conjunction in free union, yearning, wet, hard, yielding, giving… The God that created us created this wondrous multitude of expression as well.
If God is nowhere then my body is my own, its weird tickles and folds and tingles nothing but tricks of savage nature. I pull you close and you penetrate me, my animal wetness warming you against a heartless world. There’s no need for the eternal questions in our bed, just breath and heat and the rhythm of nature’s yearning for itself. We take what moments of bliss we can find, and before we know it we are dust and memories.