How To Truly Love A Woman: A Lesbian Perspective.
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By Sophia Joi
I often find myself answering a plethora of mundane questions as soon as my sexual orientation is revealed to someone.
Men have asked me countless times: “How is it sex if it isn’t with a man?”, or “Have you not had a proper man?”, or if I’m super lucky, I’ll get the “Can I watch?” type of guy.
Women, on the other hand, seem ironically terrified of the thought of coming face-to-pussy with another girl, and often utter the infamous one-liner: “I just couldn’t go down on another girl.”
Given that I’m not blessed with the patient grace required to answer this unvaried line of questioning, I will instead offer you the deepest wisdom I can summon from the heart of a woman in love with another woman.
I do this on behalf of all women, and in service to all men whom I know long to unravel the mysteries of the whimsical feminine psyche. Each and every woman is different, but I guarantee you that all love is the same love.
Be vulnerable.
For women, this is an innate state of be-ing. It is how we acquire our emotional knowledge, and it is the mechanism through which we truly connect to the world around us: to children, to men, to nature.
When you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you allow someone into your life on an authentic level. You feel closer, softer, expanded to the other person.
The capacity you have for love and longing and total immersion is often shrouded by the inclination to protect something, which leads to a charade of armored pride reactivity and wishy-washy, disembodied, tug-of-war distractions.
Women react to vulnerability — not only on a deeply emotional level, but from a sexual perspective as well. They feel safer in the arms of vulnerability.
When all of the walls have been smashed down and the sledgehammer tossed, you will be able to fully feel her the next time she comes running into your arms. And I think you’ll be surprised by how good you feel, when you really allow yourself to feel.
It is the most blissful and awareness-filled form of intoxication.
Know her.
Love is tangible, it is the sensory smorgasbord: taste-able, smell-able, see-able, touchable. Surprise! It’s not just a subsequent convenience, nor is it a coincidence.
Love is remembered in a thousand ways, like countless routes to the same destination. Each of us are unique works of art. In school we were taught that art is just perception, this is the primary reason why most art critics are well-paid idiots.
Take your mind back a moment, to your first impression of her. Recall the characteristics that first jumped out at you, the ones that called out to your conscious awareness. Her shapes, lines, her texture.
Never stop tracing those lines to the places you’ve always wanted to go. Don’t ever stop counting her freckles, her scars, her eyelashes. Don’t waste the time it takes to know her through stalking her Facebook — you might very well miss out on the opportunity to find a better connection.
Don’t hold back.
Breathless kisses. Burning touch. Softly spoken words of love. Urgently spoken words of passion.
Go all the way to her broken ridges, and jump off her edges without thinking of how you will ever make it back — or if you will break when you experience the fall. None of that matters.
When you truly love a woman, you love her with a knowing that it would be an honor to have your heart broken by such a gift.
If you’re too busy questioning intentions or projecting past experiences onto future outcomes, you’re not present — and you’re certainly not loving. Love is the warrior’s journey into the unknown, weaponless and barefooted, and always situated beneath the stars.
For goodness’ sake, love yourself.
If there is a panacea — or perhaps an antidote — to cure all the sickness that reveals itself in both the world around us and in our minds, it is the majestic frequency of self-love.
The mystics teach of its blessings, the Christians attempted to preach it, and Rumi (the lover of all lovers) became it.
I’m not talking about the look at me, look at me, narcissistic, self-centered masquerade that comes from a place of externalized approval seeking.
I’m talking about the humble appreciation you have for yourself when you embody the realization that you are all that you will ever have — that the most powerful love you will ever generate is the unconditional love you have for yourself.
It is the unbreakable pillar upon which you stand when everything else is crumbling. When all matter starts to dissipate, when all the embers begin to dim, when time is a stagnant vessel — only the love you have for yourself will remain, an endless trestle.
When you love yourself, the well-being you experience is the gravity that pulls in all tides of grace. The only thing left in this wake will be the salty taste of your surrendered heart, as vivid in expression as the sempiternal inferno that greets each night as Apollo bids farewell in the western skies.
Simply put, it’s impossible to love another with a grounded sense of innate conviction which bypasses the boundaries of conditions if you cannot love yourself beyond what you may do or say in the heat of the moment.
There are no conditions here — you can do everything wrong, you can do everything right; your own mirror of worth and lovableness remains unchanged in the reflection it provides to your soul.
There is not enough emphatic energy in the universe upon which I can call to emphasize this truth of truths: Love is a choice… it’s up to you to make it, and make it for yourself first.
*****
Sophia Joi can’t be certain of it (given the confusing and contradictory schools of thought on the subject of celestial harmonics), but the self-admiring part of her soul-nature would like to believe that her Earthly arrival (co-ordinates: Land of the Long White Cloud) occurred at a moment of pretty-kick ass planetary alignments and general cosmic fay-dust sprinkling. Given that her three-year old self would stay up until the pre-dawn hours speaking Latin and other strange and ancient tongues, this perspective is perhaps not unwarranted. Having honed an applicable level of devotion to the manipulation of sound in many forms — including a stint at The Magic of Music garnering a degree in Harmonic Frequencies And The Human Voicebox — Sophia now finds herself drawn towards any vine-laden, overgrown-with-weeds path that calls to her restless, heart-yearning creative spirit. An avid tea drinker (all aboard the Darjeeling Express!), Animal Worshiper (registered member of the Elk-as-Spirit-Beast Society), and Beatress (spinning and crafting the many shades of head-nodding and/or ass-gyrating rhythms for body-based medicinal purposes), our intrepid Imaginatrix is here to translate beauty, tragedy, comedy and otherworldliness into a share-able format that speaks to all souls.
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