PRISM: ACQUIESCE

PRISM is a storytelling series amplifying the experiences, creativity, and imagination of Black, Brown, and Indigenous storytellers based in Kentucky.

by Kenresa Jones

Waxing Gibbous Moon

March 22, 2024 11:04pm

Jefferson County, Kentucky, USA

PLAYLIST:

Galimatias – “Wonder”

Aches – “Her”

Maxwell – “Silently”

Marzz – “In The Morning”

Emeli Sandé/Jay Electronica/Áine Zion  – “Garden”

ACQUIESCE

It was as if the moon escorted me to her. The moon hung so perfectly with the finest, sheerest silks of fog draped across her sacred orbit. They both waited for me drenched in palpable anticipation. The streetlights dancing in the mist, mingling at the tops of the trees along the rural highway, were what movies and dreams were made of. In retrospect I should have taken a picture, but I was so focused, so drawn to the stirrer of my deepest sacral urges–the goddess dipped in melanin and hyssop-infused grapeseed oil.

The drive is smooth and dreamlike, with the iridescent fog, the midnight black sky, the jagged tops of pine trees lining the road, and the beautiful waning gibbous moon. Tonight is one of those rare nights that remind me of the pure bliss and newness that comes with youth–and the pubescent glee that I felt when I first drove to a lover’s home, when I was just beginning to explore my sexuality and driving. The pure euphoric, primal energy of adventure and a nearly full moon has always been the best natural high, and tonight the happy-horny hormones fly and flutter through me, move me like wind on linen pinned to a clothesline. 

I make my way to her quaint home in the middle of the county, on the outskirts of a national forest. Even with the windows down, through the night air and marijuana smoke, I still smell her essence in my mind from the last time I was with her. The journey to her home is a ritual itself: the ruralness requiring downloaded music, a trek up an unpaved, unmapped road and driveway, memorized directions, and provisions for the 36 hours of bliss ahead. Each candle, fruit, oil, fabric, and artifact is packed away with intent in my truck. My high-profile lights bounce against the leaves of the elder trees in the same rhythm as the packed glass bottles clicking and clacking gently as I crept up the half-mile gravel driveway. If you weren’t paying attention, you would miss the turn into the trees that served as her driveway. I know she liked it this way–the added mystery to her temple-esque oasis of an off-grid residence nestled on owned acreage.

She requires me to wear purple when I am in her presence, so I adorned myself in my custom royal purple linen spaghetti strap, harem leg jumper with pink fuzzy platform UGG slides. No jewelry outside of my ever-present strings of waist beads and rutilated quartz ring. Tonight I smell of lemongrass, oud, and geranium avocado body oil that I specifically conjured on the last full moon for our time together.

There is a protocol that we put in place at the genesis of our tantric trysts that I follow to keep the energy flowing smoothly between us upon my arrival. She knows I have arrived due to bells tied to low hanging tree limbs a few yards from her residence, and her donkey alerting her with his distinctive sounds of warning. I park, knock on her side door, and enter with my medium “spinnanight” rolling bag at my own prompting. I then dip my fingertips in the bowl of spikenard water she keeps by the front door, and glide the water along my hands, on my forehead, throat, and womb to cleanse myself of any lingering negative energy. I light my candle that she keeps on her entry altar for me, and this candle stays lit the entire time I am at her home. 

Upon entry, it smells of Indian temple incense, palo santo, and burning sage. I hear her in the bath, the sound of water splashing back into the tub from a washcloth being wrung out, and her deep coos of soulful, sensual humming. I don’t disturb my goddess in her bath, as we will greet in the sanctity of each other’s presence and in the sacred space she dubbed “The Upper Room.” I make my way to this love nest, a bedroom suite directly above the one she sleeps in.

This is the space that she shares with her sacred lovers–a space for coitus and all the rituals and sounds that come with adults adulting. The suite features a spacious bedroom with a vaulted ceiling, including a huge skylight; a kitchenette; a full bathroom with a toilet closet; a walk-in shower with multiple shower heads and big enough for three, complete with an enclosed balcony with an amazingly sturdy padded chaise lounge. The whole suite was designed to be hospitable for its inhabitants for a day or three. I place my roller bag in the closet and take the attached large leather apothecary bag on the wooden table by the sliding glass French doors. This bag contains all the candles, oils, fabrics and assorted trinkets that will be used in our hours together. After a quick rinse in the shower and reapplication of moon oil to ensure optimal freshness, it is time to prepare the space for our physical awakening. From this moment on, I will only be wearing moon oil, jewelry, and a large rutilated quartz pendant necklace worn only when I am with my goddess. 

I crack both Palladian windows and the balcony door to allow the air and energy to flow freely. After lighting love incense on the bedroom altar that faces south, I then place the red pillar candle dressed in jasmine oil I brought along with me. Holding it in both hands, I blow on the wick and whisper the name of my goddess into the candle before lighting the wick and placing the candle in the center of the altar. To the left of the candle, I place a large piece of quartz and red carnelian, and to the right I place a red rose with five petals painted with my menses, with the petals facing toward the candle. The flame is strong, thin, unwavering. Final prayers said over the altar, it’s time to bless the bed and ready the pillowed passion pit that is the California King size bed. I set up the speaker, ensure I am on airplane mode, and start the downloaded music. 

After lighting four red pillar candles around the bed, laying a red silk sheet over the center of the bed, spraying the silk with jasmine water, and readying the small table at the end of the bed with our wine and charcuterie tray, I hear my goddess stirring and making her way up the steps. She wears brass anklets with dozens of tiny bells on each one. You can hear her hypnotic jingling and swishing of fine linens ascending the steps, the sounds reverberating against the wooden stairwell walls. 

My pulse quickens and my body purrs and sways between realms when our eyes meet as she stands in the entryway. She is how she always is: ethereal in her deep Sudanese beauty, her 5’2’’ frame dipped in rose almond body oil. I approach her, maintaining the gaze as I kneel before her and kiss her left hand, the top of her hand, and then the palm. As I arise to embrace her, we fit together perfectly with the top of her faded head cradled underneath my chin and my arms wrapped around her entire body. Moments like this, I relish my height and ability to easily encase her in my embrace. We stand in this embrace for what seems like a lifetime, engulfed in each other’s pheromones and energy, our forms meshed until she takes my hand and leads me to the altar. Hands still intertwined, she places her own rose to the right of my rose. We kiss in front of the altar, sealing our union in this time of bliss. We then make our way to the blessed bed area. We do not speak much in these moments, as our souls do all the communing. 

Seating in the center of the red silk, our bodies fall into the lotus position, her sleek legs wrapped around the base of my torso, petite hands playing in my never-retwisted locs. My huge hands encase the circumference of her lower back. Chest to chest and eye to eye, she will reside in my lap for the evening, bound together in intergalactic intimacy. Since the day I met her, I felt we knew each other previously, in a time and land unknown to us both, and after many moons we have finally found each other again. Knowing her was like having the craving for something you never knew you needed satisfying. Bound in each other’s limbs, we begin to soul gaze and synchronize our breaths. This is the essence of connecting through soul gazing in the lotus position, because the seven chakras will align and through that powerful alignment, soul-shaking, full-body, and heart climaxes will be reached between us tonight.

We breathe face to face, our eyes rarely breaking the gaze. Our breasts meet when we exhale, and I feel her body ease into mine, water gathering under my fingertips and in the center of our lotus. A rhythm is created, and it feels like we are levitating in the stars of our whirlpool of sacral energies. This is the feeling that I traveled across counties for, readied myself to be in her divine presence for. The tingling in the center of my forehead, heart, and clitoris is bursting through every nerve, and with each breath the same flurry of sensations shimmers throughout my goddess.

I hear her primal sounds of ecstasy so up close, as her head is nestled at the top of my chest, her breath hot on my skin. The sound of her voice vibrating against my chest is like whipped cream on sliced strawberries–the perfect addition to my own vibration, reaching a chakra-opening, toe-curling, energetic sensual exclamation. I usually reach the top of the mountain slightly before my divine beloved, but tonight we arrive at the top together, a tizzy of deep breaths, guttural sighs, and the most delicious mixture of slight perspiration and essential oils. I lightly run my fingertips along the base of her spine and kiss the nape of her neck. She laughs in my arms, silently answering my nonverbal request for her to sit on my face. Drinking her nectar is healing, the connection it creates makes me feel we are the only ones in the whole world. Time stops as she stands upon me before sitting on her throne, my lips to hers

There were times I dreamt of this very moment, looking up at all of her towering over me, her delectable feet on either side of my breasts. The candlelight accentuates the slim trail of juices gliding down the interior of her left thigh. Wallowing in our energy and pheromones, my beloved snaps a photo of me with a disposable camera that I brought for us, a slight smirk of satisfaction and victory on her face.

She asks, “Are you ready, my love?”

I acquiesce to her power and my longing for her taste, answering without haste, I say, “Yes.

Kenresa Jones is a writer, seamstress, dancer, herbalist, and energy worker currently residing in Louisville, Kentucky. She is currently nurturing her divination and necromancy techniques.  She is open to engagements and discussions that help others to understand sex work as a healing art and the importance of ancestral reverence/communication.