As I remove each item of clothing, I feel their mouth on me, breathing in the animal scent of me.
They are intoxicated by this, they have no scent of their own.
The reason they descended was to experience the incarnate of human sex. Its imperfection, its limitation. Its musky and sweaty disaster, slick and wet. Spilling along the iris of their immortality, some mortals taste like the demigods once did.
Nectar drips from between my thighs, I am swallowed whole by Anubis, by Osiris, by Set.
The God of chaos and his storms distort my body into fragments when he makes love to me each night. He is both vicious and tender, and I give of myself willingly each time. My hands are wrapped around my own throat in bargaining not to scream. But the moans that spill out are pained with ecstasy.
I do not know what this energy is that possesses me each night. It has taken me into the trenches and into heights unfathomable. It does not allow me to cling or to own. Every time I try, I reach out and grasp the ghost of pleasure, the vacancy of air.
And he touches me here, and he touches me there. He makes me writhe into submission. But the resistance is found in the conquering, and in my yielding I taste the vulnerability of gods in both their shadow and their light. Tell me, is this not the blooming prize of each gnostic's plight?