Preface: Deep in a cave, I heralded consciousness. Behold, I struck light. Undying, I reached a maze. Granted with a barrier, I pleaded ignorance, and have since held to simplicity.
The angels of God, the Father, told me to tell you that having sex is not making love. The angels said to me, “Oh, Adam, let it be known, when humans engage in sexual intercourse they do not engage in the manufacturing of love.” I asked the angels how this could be, since everybody I’ve ever known has called having sex the act of making love.
They said, “We sayeth unto you, oh Adam, that what you hear is in error and has very little to do with the truth your Father sent below.” I told the angels, I’m just a simple man. I have very little understanding in the ways of the world, and I know even less about the rules of Biology.
Sayeth the angels, “It is we who bring you the message, and it is He [your Father] who wisheth you to impart to all peoples here below that the act of sex is not making love, but a simple biological urge created by one hundred thousand tiny strands of nerve ends and sensitive tissues used to trick humans into propagating their species.”
Again, I tell them, I do not understand.
“We tell you the words from your Father in Heaven that human copulation produces no love. There may be love present before two or more humans copulate, but that love is irrelevant to the actual act itself. Sexual intercourse between humans is a stroking of the lower energies which are coiled at the base of the spine in the human body. When that energy is lifted to the head can this quandary be understood.”
Why me? I shouted at the angels and fell to my knees.
“Tell the peoples of the world about truly making love. Making love is-“
A knock at my door startled the angels, who fled in glorious bursts of light. I was in the fetal position, on the hardwood floor. The knock at the door persisted. And behind it a woman of extraordinary beauty. A woman wearing a flowing silk robe, and her hair covered with a shawl. A woman wrapped like a gift.
She stood in the doorway as I told her my story. I had never seen this woman before, but we felt like old friends (as the saying goes). I described the angels and their message, and told her, rather hotly, how she’d interrupted the final message, and how I would never know what truly making love was, all because she knocked at my door.
“I have the answer,” she told me. “I was sent to knock on your door, even though I didn’t know who you were.” She smiled. “The angels instructed me to dress myself in this manner and hide an answer you would be seeking.” She continued to smile. “And the angels told me to tell you, ‘Unwrap me, and knoweth all.'”