Here we are without constraint, or interference.
Let us to delve into the foray of my innermost thoughts and desires. I assure you there are no better expenditures of your time than to settle yourselves at my feet as I divulge my intimate musings.
I can feel your wanting—the longing for my touch. Nevertheless I must make it clear from the beginning, my heart belongs to another.
First, I’d like to take a moment to clarify a few earthly misnomers regarding celestial beings. Let’s set aside all false ideology regarding harps and such, and recover the truth of these sublime creations.
There are several camps of celestial beings, Angels in their subject orders, Sectors, Fems, Caelestis, Powers, Principalities, Thrones, Dominions, Virtues, Authorities, Councils, Orators, and Rulers.
We are not a common people. We are created beings. We have the ability to observe humanity in its live-stream temporal state—the original reality television if you will. And yes, we see you in your birthday suit, testing our your dance moves, studying your reflection as you contort a dozen different smiles—all amusing vanities that rarely spark our interest.
Human quirks aside—lets put to rest the most vicious rumor against my kind—that we are incapable of Eros love.
It is very much accurate to say created beings are not only capable of free will, but of desire, lust, and both carnal thirst and weakness. Somehow your watered down mythology lumped us together as genderless, meek, pansies akin to harp strumming butterflies—fierce as a gnat.
I’ll say it once, we can, and will, annihilate and destroy. We have the power to rain down fire from the sky, sweep away half the planet with plagues and illness if moved to do so. We are a band of warriors that operate under the authority to kill, slay, maim—aid if necessary. Whatever the assignment may be. We don’t argue. We simply get it done.
In regards to love, I won’t weary you with the basic mood groups. Instead, we’ll focus on the mystical Eros—the fruit of God—the gift of erotic love.
One of the most startling features of mankind is the puritanical nature of the masses. Astounding when you consider it. Eros love was never meant to be shameful or belittled as some dirty chore. Eros love is the most critical assignment given to man, and thus, one of the only acts replicated generationally other than eating or breathing.
Adam and Eve christened the garden with their love as the first order of business, and believe me when I say there is not better business than to propagate Eros desires.
In the past I have often put my own ability to love and be loved in return under the celestial microscope, and like humans, failed in the attempt to realize the dream. I had come close once before in the middle ages, England. But that’s a story for another day.
Although that love faded and the candle of our affection was quickly snuffed out, I have been fortunate enough to find another—my soul’s prime attachment, a mate, a companion—one who will be a lover without compare.
It is through the Nephilim—irritants they might be—that draws forth the love of my eternal grace, Skyla Laurel Messenger.
Early on when I was in observance of Skyla, she was fumbling around campus in a bathrobe—not a champion of sophistication but a rather delightful spitfire of conventional formality, filled with elegance and grace beyond her years.
I had subjugated her to my eminence in dreams and visitations, and I can assure you although resistant to my efforts at first, she’s come around quite nicely. Her interest in me is duly noted by the aura of sunset hues she releases while burning for my affection. Suffice it to say, there is fire in the air when Skyla is near.
To prove these aren’t the ramblings of a madman—a prized revelation has been divinely gifted to me through Delphinius, an Orator of great respect. He has revealed that Skyla and I will one day engage in holy matrimony. An idea so relished, so desired, I would have sold my rite as a Sector to procure her as my wife to begin with.
And, after the blessed event, Master willing, we will be anointed with a multitude of offspring, which in turn will procure dominion for us in both the ethereal and earthly planes. Such children the earth has never bore witness to prior or I suspect after, although I surmise the future lineage of my descendants will be equally exalted.
I do hope they have Skyla’s eyes—such magnificent beauty is found in her temporal being. It’s a crime of nature to have so many stunning attributes locked in a single person.
There is the matter of a certain affection being returned to me. I assure you I can feel Skyla’s wanting, her desire—her love for me is obvious when she pours herself into those passionate kisses. When she trembles in my arms, I ache to quench her every need.
One day, we shall find refuge and solace in one another’s arms, and should we fall to disagreement we’ll simply settle our differences in the nude, tucked beneath our satin sheets. How I long for days filled with settling our disagreements…
Although, I assure you I’m quite capable of keeping a heartfelt smile on my lovely bride by supplying a generous display of emotional and physical assurances—so many physical assurances—rampant, unbridled, unconstrained, enthusiastic exhibits of both public and private affection. There will be no bounds to my display of devotion. Rest assured I will pour passion out like oil over my beloved. Let’s just say the colloquial term “get a room” will go off like a choir when we’re in the trappings of the general public.
Let’s dissect Jock Strap for a moment, formally known to the populace as Gage Theodore Oliver or number forty-four if you prefer the coding of his inferior athletic pursuit.
He has a bad back, which he’s yet to put the finger on due to the fact he blames his aches and pains on the Pretty One for challenging his male prowess at every turn. I might be moved to snap him in two, should he continue to actively pursue the hand of my betrothed—give his vertebrae something a little more obvious to moan about.
His mind is in a constant state of copulation. It’s distracting when I’m attempting to lead the masses down a path of mathematical reason to have him bombard the atmosphere with thoughts of sacrilegious intercourse. Believe you me, envisioning a blatant pornography session with my future wife does nothing to get on my good side. In fact, it ignites me in a rage to bear witness to the carnality of his boyhood fantasies.
I’d like nothing more than to pith his grey matter right through his lewd glowing eyes. I have a quiver full of arrows ready and willing to assist me in the endeavor. It would be a great way to put an end to the atrocities he afflicts me with and an end to him in general. We will get to the end of young Oliver—that much I can assure.
On to the Pretty One; Logan, unlike Jock Strap, does show a significant aptitude for sacrifice where Skyla is concerned, and in turn, this concerns me. He did employ a rather unusual level of devotion far beyond any puppy love that might be expected at his age when he abandoned his Celestra standing. He’s numbered himself with the Countenance on her behalf, and now Skyla’s heart is forever pricked with undying dedication.
Lets be clear on one thing as we prepare to depart—not a moment passes without Skyla in my thoughts, or in my heart. The prospect of losing her for a time to another is far too excruciating to bear, and thus, I mustn’t allow that misstep to interfere with the building of our intimacy.
I shall quench a flame or two on my own if I have to.
After all—death becomes everybody.
My banner over Skyla is love.
*Please come back at a yet undisclosed time when Ms. Moore graciously rewrites a scene from the most relevant viewpoint of all—mine.
Fair warning—prepare to be dazzled and conceivably aroused.
Perhaps you have a thirst for knowledge only I can quench. Leave your burning questions below. It’s my pleasure to satisfy your every cerebral desire.