Talia didn’t know what they’d find. She was going on intuition, trusting that I’d provide her with the proof she needed. At first they saw nothing. Then, in the distance, two deer making love. They watched until they heard a sound, turned around, and saw two squirrels going at it right behind them. They stepped away and Mischa nearly kicked two rabbits similarly engaged. Moment by moment, they spotted more: birds, raccoons, even ants, all around them. Talia, terrified, froze. Mischa squealed, shoved Talia to the ground, threw herself on top of her; she ripped open Talia’s dress, then grabbed a handful of dirt and dead leaves and rubbed them on Talia’s stomach and breasts. Neither of them had me on their mind anymore.

Mischa kissed Talia in the area where the right thigh and lower abdomen meet, just south and in of Talia’s pronounced hipbone, and softly dragged her lower lip left to Talia’s outer labia. Mischa drew a breath and exhaled: a hot throaty gust, then filtered through puckered lips. She tipped the upper left quadrant of Talia’s clitoris – a touch indistinguishable from hovering proximity – and both women gasped. Mischa couldn’t grasp what she’d felt; she kissed it, to confirm, and yes, felt it again. Then she stopped questioning. She went all in, so to speak, and felt everything on her own clitoris. She felt every suck, dive, nip, trickle, and glide; every sliding scoop and half-orchid fold, every saddle press and [sound]; and everything else the tongue does during cunnilingus – and there really oughta be more words for it; if Eskimos can have 27 words for snow, men and women who give and receive cunnilingus should have no less than 40 words for moves of the tongue.

Feeling everything herself, Mischa knew better than ever how to time herself, when to switch it up, when she was pressing too hard or too soft, when her tongue was too dry. So that it was the best head either woman had ever received. And because I’m not a heartless writer that hates his characters, they came at once, letting out single extended moans – Talia’s high-pitched and slight, Mischa’s coarse and broad. As they sighed and recuperated they heard their moans echo, alternating, all over the mountain. These echoes yielded echoes of the echoes, modulated slightly in pitch and rhythm, which rang over the original echoes; and these echoes of echoes yielded third-level echoes, modulated yet again, ringing over the previous two, and so on, so that for minutes, the women listened to what became a grand fugue of their natural ecstasy.

And that’s how it came to be that Mischa believed Talia when she said they were written.

After the orgasm I gave Talia more information about me, bit by bit, always through the same method: she’d reveal in conversation with Mischa something she hadn’t known that she knew.

I never gave them any further “proof.” I wasn’t about to start writing all kinds of supernatural events to sate some stubborn skepticism on their part. Besides, Talia knew, she didn’t need proof, even the once, and Talia is all that matters. Should Mischa someday doubt what she experienced, well, I could write that, but it wouldn’t matter. Talia knew the way you know your name, or that a hand is called a hand and not a stove.

Once a week or so they would visit the spot on the mountain, make love, and meditate. During these meditations I would transmit images and words to show Talia more about me. She would share these with Mischa and they’d discuss for hours how lucky they were to know of me, how grateful they were to me, not just for writing them, but for writing them to have happy lives, to be good people, to have found each other. They never groveled or swore allegiance. I let Talia know from go that that is not what I wanted from them; if I was going to be their God, then their method of worship should be personal freedom, everyday joy, and many, many orgasms.


NEXT: 4. Plan/Execution