Episode 8: Wheat Grass and Sex

Listen Now
RSS: Subscribe
RSS: iTunes
Marcie Prohofsky hosts this turned-on evening of erotica at OneTasteTM Urban Retreat Center, an innovative laboratory researching connection in San Francisco’s South of Market Neighborhood. Hold on tight to your genitals as you head behind the velvet curtains for a stimulating ride with a community of orgasmic researchers in the sexually liberated, Post New Age world. Join the OneTaste poets as they navigate the landscape of orgasm. You might think about this episode as a glass of wheat grass for your sex.

Transcript

Wheat Grass and Sex

Announcer: This program brought to you by PersonaLifeMedia.com is suitable for mature audiences only, and may contain explicit sexual information.

[music]

Marcie Prohofsky: My name is Marcie Prohofsky and welcome to a Taste of Sex Erotic Poetry Readings.  OneTaste Urban Retreat Center in San Francisco is a place of freedom.  It’s where people come together to explore their desires on a physical level, on an emotional level, on just a raw, raw, raw sensation level.  We don’t just write it.  We live it.

Marcie Prohofsky:  My name is Marcie Prohofsky and we’re here for a special edition of erotic open mic, our Taste of Sex Show.  We are just finishing up a three day weekend called “Love, Orgasm, Taboo,” an incredible weekend full of exploration.  We had Cleo DuBois, who runs the Academy of SM Arts, come in.  We had the Naughty Boys come in for demos.  We had incredible lectures, and exercises, and transformation. 

Voiceover: So stay tuned in, because we’re going to turn you on.

Marcie Prohofsky:  So hold on tight, because we’re going into the territory of Jessica.

Jessica:  This is “A Letter to My Pussy.”
I feel you throbbing, pulsing, wet.
Full, yet still hungry. 
Abundance oozes from you, a wealth of purpose. 
Joy, community, and play.
Because I found reason to surrender to you,
I have all that I could have imagined possible.
The depths to which I feel seem boundless.
Your gifts to me is all that I am,
A treasure chest of sensation, emotion:
Fear, love, hate, joy
Gratitude.
Throbbing, pulsing, wet
Pussy.
Tiny bubbles flow out from you,
Down my legs, across my belly.
Bubbling, boiling desire,
Unfettered, untethered.
If I can stay here
I am unstoppable.
And here
I am most fragile.
I want to follow you through the fear
To surrender to you.
You know the way to the tiny room inside me,
Where my enormity resides.
I want to live from this place.
I want to keep choosing you.
I am yours.
I love you.

[Applause.]

Marcie Prohofsky:  So, Carrie. Our delightful Carrie.

Carrie:  So our assignment this weekend was supposed to be a love letter to our genitals.  Mine turned out to be something slightly different, maybe more of a “begging for reconciliation from a lost lover.” [Laughter from audience.]

I discovered you when I was just a wee little girl. I can’t ever remember a time when I didn’t know the feel of you underneath my hand.
While I have no memories of it, having slipped my chubby baby hands into my diaper seems entirely likely. 
I soon learned to have a love/hate relationship with you though,
Through the adults that I loved and trusted.
Even tolerant open-minded parents, which I did not have, would have had to take evasive measures, to prevent the refridgerator repair guy from checking out the little Cindy Brady look-a-like grinding away at herself on the living room floor. [Laughter from audience.]
So soon I learned not to touch that,
And the whispered “Go to your room!” meant that touching you or talking about you was somehow bad or shameful, although I didn’t understand why.
Being the apt pupil that I was, I soon learned to enjoy your company illicitly behind closed doors, and not to discuss you—ever—under any circumstances.
I’m sorry that I didn’t pay you the attention that you deserved,
even then,
but my attention was so often focused on the footsteps coming down the hallway,
or the door opening with a conscientious adult checking up on me.
So instead of relishing your company and fully enjoying our intimacy, I only got to know you in stolen half-moments, coming as quickly as I could, so that I wouldn’t be caught with you.
Thank God for Judy Blume, who taught me the term “masturbation” when I was 10.  “Other people actually touched there’s too?  And, it even had a name!”  I laughed in joy and in relief.  And continued masturbating.  Even discovering the joy of inserting common household objects into you.
I can only wonder if my parents ever did figure out what happened to the knife-sharpener that went missing from the butcher block. [Laughter from audience.]
(That’s true.)
[Continued laughter.]
I’m so sorry that your first experiences with sex were so fast, intrusive, and that you didn’t get the attention that you deserved.  But my naive teenage brain really trusted and so desired those 30 year old fucking hot bodybuilders that gave me so much attention and flattery.
I’m sorry that over the years, I harassed you, hated you, kept you secret, blamed you, and just generally felt disgusted by all of your fluids, smells, and ever-embarrassing large volumes of blood that oozed out on an ever predictable monthly basis.
I know that I’ve treated you horribly in the past, but the time has come for us to become friends and lovers again.
I don’t know exactly what I need to do in order to get you to regain my trust, and to heal your wounds.  But I’m willing to do whatever it takes for us to have the intense intimate fun-filled relationship that we were always meant to have, but never did.
We’re here at OneTaste right now, and this is the first step in my commitment to honor you, and to repair the rift between us.
I feel like I’m stumbling blindly in the dark, and that all I can do is feel my way through to what feels to be the right step, and trust my intuition and my deep self.  And I hope that my attempts will be enough for you to forgive me one day. 
Thank you.
[Applause from audience.]
[Commercial for PersonalLifeMedia.com.]

Marcie Prohofsky: Harmony.  We have the delightful Harmony.

Harmony:  This is an ancient story.  But it’s also a story about my pussy.

The knock came, but she did not answer.  She had taken off her jewels, how could she put them back on?  She had washed her feet, how could she defile them?  In uncertainty she stands, listening, breathless, to that other breath, his breath, behind the heavy door. 
It fades away.
She puts forth her hand, sweet smelling myrrh drips slowly from her fingertips, into the grooves of the lock.  In secret stillness, the door cracks open.
She wraps herself in veils and rags and walks the dark, twisted streets of Jerusalem. 
The women of the city peer out from shadowed doorways. 
“Have you seen him, whom my soul loveth?”
Their pale faces fade away.
The guards find her.  They beat her.  They humiliate her and leave her in the street. 
And there a trembling starts.  Her palace rises around her from ancient stones.  Her servants ask: “Who is she who looks forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners?”    

Marcie Prohofsky: Ah, we’ve got gorgeous Cristina.

Cristina:  “Letter to my pussy.”
Dear Pussy,
You’re so pretty.  With your light, pink lips that get flushed and red when you get turned on.  I love how you open and play, even though I neglected you for years.  I know you we’re there, but I never thought you were that important. Now I know.
Little clit, although you are small, you have sent me from the bottom of the abyss, to the moon and beyond.  You’re like a Holodeck, only I never know what ride I will go on with you until we’re there.  I know sometimes you’d rather stay and slumber, but you come out and feel you become ravenous.  There’s no way to satiate you.  Thank God.
Dearest Pussy, I love it when you open and let the cocks in.  I love how you surrender and feel every inch of them.  You tease, and nip, and then swallow them whole.  [Laughter from audience.]  Slowly.
There’s a spot deep inside that’s rarely touched.  But when it is, it’s like they touch my soul.  Thank you Dear Pussy.  You’re the one.
[Laughter from audience.  Applause.]

Marcie Prohofsky:  Now we have… David.

[Hand drum and music.  Deep sigh.]

David:  Dear Genitalia,
[Audience cheers, and David laughs.]  I write to you while sitting in a nest, high up in a tree, where the hawks live.  The top of my head, my face, showing in the light of the sun.  Down below me, I can see Julie Butterfly, who is down there, below the canopy, in the mid-branches.  She has a very earthy solar-plexus.  [Laughter from audience.]
I write to express my deepest apologies from my sad, confused belly, for not letting you out to play.  In the gardens, of bushes, of soft furry peaches, of juicy red plums, of Eve’s glistening pussy as she pulls an apple from the tree, reminding me of where I know you want to be.  Climbing mountains of breath-taking views, lifting hearts for a descent down, down, all the way down, into the deep valleys of rich, wet, soil.  Grounding in a rock-hard seat of granite [laughter from audience] that was moved by the river that flows by as you hold on ‘til you’re ready to wade again.
In the water, again, getting wet before the ascent up the other side of the valley, with glimpses of the heavens above, heights you’ll reach, through the trees that sway in the wind.  Like emotions do, in change. 
Up and down, through these valleys, until you expend yourself.  Up, up, up and out, like dolphins, leaping, kangaroos jumping, and millions of flowers blooming.  I am sorry, genitalia.  I am sorry for mechanically jerking you around, like pulling sharply on a steering wheel in traffic, to avoid missing my exit.  An exit into all those places that helped me keep you locked away, in warehouses of stored tools, in old houses I’ve rebuilt, or in files of paper and cyberspace.  And those places of drug shacks and bags of hopelessness and bottle of pain, and the apartments where I lost my mind.
Genitalia I am sorry for having a strange relationship with you, like a hyena laughing away at its own desperate loneliness, screeching away at a sky that will never listen.  And being bipolar with blizzards of whack-offs, and followed by long stays in the desert, dry and gripping.  And God, I am sorry for pushing all my blocked feelings and thoughts down into you.  When I though I, God, was separate from Nature.  Going into box-like structures and calling that church, isolating you from the rivers and the rain to protect you from the oceans of beauty, too big to absorb, in fear of drowning.  And Buddhism is great and all, but I’m pretty sure you had a different kind of chanting in mind, that would have looked quite out of place on the walls of that retreat cabin up there on the hills, deeply immersed in the woulds, shoulds, and coulds.
Dear genitalia, I want your nature to fly freely in the universe of my life.  I want you to know you can come out to play.  The door is open. You can come out to play now.  [Audience cheers and applauds.]

Marcie Prohofsky:  So you’ve had a full experience, huh?  Now you believe we don’t just write it, we live it.  I want to thank you for tuning in.  This radio show has been brought to you today by OneTaste Urban Retreat Center in San Francisco, and PersonalLife Media.  Contact us.  Please send us an email at: [email protected].  You can also find out more information by going to www.personallifemedia.com or check us out at www.onetastesf.com.  Thanks so much.  Thanks for staying tuned in.  And thanks, most of all, for staying turned on.

[Music]

Announcer:  Find more great shows like this on personallifemedia.com.