Go back and taste forbidden fruit

  Ben Lee Handler Ben Lee loves Jesus, and
her boyfriend too. E-mail him at [email protected].

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And God commanded Adam, “You are free to eat from any tree
in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of good and evil,
for when you eat of it you will surely die.” But Adam and Eve
fell to the temptations of an evil serpent and ate the forbidden
fruit in spite of God’s order. At once, their eyes were
opened to good and evil, and humankind was cast out of Eden to toil
the earth from dust to dust.

Still, even in our Fallen state, a small piece of paradise
managed to steal its way out of God’s grasp and plant itself
on the backside of every person born since the original sin.

Our asses are ever-ripe gardens of goodness, perennially
yielding undying flowers and fruits of pleasure for the nourishment
and well-being of our respective Adams and Eves.

As in Eden, at the center of every buttgarden grows a forbidden
flower of carnal knowledge, and though you have been warned against
it by countless people, you long for a taste.

Sure, the surrounding roughage may offer several lifetimes worth
of cheeky delights, but it is difficult to stomach the fact that
the centerpiece of the ass’s anatomy is left entirely off
limits for hungry tongues by societal standards, barring the
majority of humanity from ever knowing the fullest extent of its
sexual palate.

For the small fee of my innocence, I recently descended into the
dark valley of this proverbial garden to savor the most succulent
of its fruit, only to rise again for the salvation of
sexuality.

Trust me, ignorance is not bliss.

To lick the forbidden fruit is to know God-like power over
one’s partner; to kiss the assflower is to render the
receiver putty in your hands ““ or rather, taffy on your
tongue ““ letting you re-create your lover into a personal
sex-servant, eternally eager for another miracle from your divine
mouth.

Make no butts about it, if you truly wish to become a sex god,
you must be willing to ignore the taboos and taste where your
partner, well, poos.

Contrary to popular mythology, thankfully, the asshole offers a
flavor like anything but ass, and if your partner is even
moderately hygienic, the sphincter most definitely will not stink,
so you won’t have to hold your nose as you indulge.

Now that you’re ready to dig in, you have to convert a
congregation, or at least find one potential devotee. At first, the
garden keeper will usually prove a little hesitant to grant you
access to the innermost section of his/her personal Eden; your
Adam/Eve’s deep-seeded fear of opening to any false prophets
is perfectly forgivable and understandable in light of
humanity’s Fall.

It is best to advance subtly: when your partner bows before you,
instead of risking an immediate loss of paradise by snaking for the
forbidden flower right away, start by enjoying the free fruits to
the left and right of the desired knowledge. Kiss, nibble, bite and
blow your way around the garden’s perimeter, slowly spiraling
your way onto the awaiting apple.

The yelps of heavenly ecstasy exuding from your lover are
testament that your destination is clear, near and attainable, and
that you should by all means continue along the path in progress.
(However, if your partner is screaming for you to stop, exorcise
yourself from the premises promptly.)

When your lips are at last in contact with the loveflower, every
movement of the mouth becomes meaningful, as the anus is a
veritable cornucopia of nerve-endings ripe for the rousing. Halo
your tongue around the rim of the gloryhole, suck and blow
lip-scripture out and in, raspberry religion onto your now-tainted
lover; with every wave of knowledge you send, the recipient is
Falling faster in love with you.

You are your lover’s angel. You have become his/her only
God, but don’t stop until any inhibitions your partner may
harbor about returning the favor have been entirely pruned away
““ people have a way of losing religion rather quickly if not
completely convinced of its validity, if the faith has not been
fully fostered onto them.

A spazmatic testimony to your everlasting glory should serve as
an undeniable sign that the baptism-by-tonguebath has indeed been
successful, and that you now have at least one lined up to sip from
your communion cup on the Sabbath ““ and any other day deemed
worthy of a revelation.

Sure, my church worships the repeated Fall of humanity. We revel
in it. You can call it serpentine, blasphemous or downright
disgusting, but the covenant my congregants have established with
the mouths of their lovers is as real and rewarding as any religion
I have ever encountered, and it touches people in ways most faiths
could never even conceive.