*Please enjoy this beautiful, powerful piece from our guest blogger, Rusti L Lehay.*
In the years leading up to 2070, factions split with each their own ideas to communicate. Professors will project thoughts into students’ minds, a million terabytes a second. Yogis will argue that breath, long and short variations emanating peace will suffice, filling any needs to communicate. Labourers will stick to grunting prodded by the machines that still cannot match the manual dexterity of the human fingertips.
There will be a band of women. There will always be women who hold their heads high, no tech neck for them. They will always know how to communicate with a look. They always have, the mommy look, the endearing look, the come hither look, the seductive glance, the gaze into your essence and see you. Women will teach their daughters and when we wield the only power that matters, the currency of kindness, we will be the western woman who changes the world as the Dalai Llama predicts. Spreading true feminine power, the vitality of the Goddess across the continents. We will gather the women who have been genitally mutilated, the women forced to hide their power behind a burkha, under a hijab, the women afraid to bear a daughter into cultures of subjugation, the woman born afraid anywhere. We will teach about the power of a purposeful pussy flash full of intention. We will teach the charisma of commando Fridays. We will link hands around the world locking up our yonis to those who would go to war.
It may be a myth arising from the ancient Greek play, Lysistrata. But for a moment, imagine the power women wield when they commit to a pact to withhold sexual privileges from their menfolk as a means of forcing them to conclude the Peloponnesian War. The women start out reluctant, but the deal is sealed with a solemn oath around a wine bowl, Lysistrata choosing the words and Calonice repeating them on behalf of the other women. It is a long and detailed oath, in which the women abjure all their sexual pleasures, including the Lioness on the Cheese Grater (a sexual position).
What if the future women communicate with a firm look, no more for you if you insist on marching off to war.
Sadly, people make the mistake of viewing this mythical play as a comedy. I am hopeless in that I believe it doesn’t have to be this way.
Women, I beseech you. In the next 50 years, rise up, and not in protests or withholding but in owning your own sacred power. If only I had stood up to Korby when he shamed me for going commando, flashing my pussy at him, aiming only to him, for him from across the room. I angled my chair and spread my legs only when I caught his gaze just as the magazine suggested. Could Ray Carriere, his friend and co-worker, see anything? What was Korby so worried about? Did he think I offered up my precious yoni to anyone but him?
I didn’t though I wished 95 times, at least one wish for every month of marriage the church later annulled. He never knew how much I railed against the rules that held me in, contained me in the laws of monogamy. I wished for an affair to prove my body was normal and it was his once a month dry push into my sacred centre leaving me to burn that never ever once fulfilled the sacrament of marriage.
He didn’t deserve my yoni. After him, she screamed in pleasure with Arthur’s deft touch. Monte didn’t deserve it either when he uttered his scathing comment that burned away my desire to voice an invite to play with toys in the bedroom. Did any of my lovers deserve my sacred oasis years?
Women, if in 50 years, we haven't communicated to our lovers how to honour our power and collaboratively build humanity up instead of tearing others down… If we haven’t taught our daughters to hold, releasing only when it is their time to blossom of their own free will… If we haven’t taught our sons to embrace, learn, cherish and empower the way of the mindful woman warrior goddess, we will have failed His Holiness, the Dalai Lama and the future.
We must succeed. Reach out for a sister’s hand. Walk with me. Walk with each other.
~Rusti L Lehay