Still somewhat holidazed, which sounds like a sauce, and I’m feeling pretty saucy. Friday was a multi-holiday: The beginning of Xmas Weekend, the Last Night of Hanukkah, about a month before Eros Day, the Day After Winter Solstice and Global Orgasm Day! H and I decided to get the day started by doing our bit for Global Orgasm Day (GOD). After all: An Orgasm A Day Keeps the Wars Away!

Bicycling the rickshaw filled with gifts for naughty people, led by red-haired reindeer Annie Body. Photo: Kim

Well, maybe, maybe not… I mean, I love the concept. It’s the Bonobo Way of peace through pleasure. It’s our way of ethical hedonism here at the Block Institute and Dr. Suzy’s Speakeasy. We Squirt for Peace! It is well-known here at the Speakeasy that Squirt Bombs produce “Shock & Awe” with zero casualties. Moreover, we promoted the GOD project, put together by Baring Witness, the folks who spelled out PEACE on the beach with their naked bodies (and how cool was that?) on our recent Hip Hop Holiday Orgasm Operetta show. The idea was that on Friday night, as many people as possible would concentrate their thoughts before, during and after orgasm on peace. The goal was to “add so much concentrated positive input into the energy field of the Earth that it would reduce the current high levels of aggression and violence throughout the world.”

Sounds good! But do orgasms really stop war? What about all those orgasms that soldiers have when they’re raping and pillaging? I’m not just talking about the individual rapes that some officers have committed against individual women and men in Iraq, though accounts of these atrocities have been horrific. I’m talking about the whole invasion and occupation of Iraq which isn’t worthy of being called a war; it’s a rape. I’ve been calling it a rape since April of 2003, (winning myself some media enemies on different sides of the battlefield), since that seems to be an apt metaphor for the way U.S. forces brutally inserted themselves into this weakened, sanction-wracked country without anything close to “consent” from said country or the rest of the world. This was the rape of a land and its history, the bombing of homes and infrastructure, the killing and maiming of thousands of citizens, the looting of stores and museums. And sad and appalling as it is to admit, a lot of soldiers, in the deserts of Iraq as well as behind gleaming mahogany desks in Washington, have had orgasms over it.

And what about the orgasms Bush has when he’s looking at Abu Ghraib photos?

Obviously, these are not orgasms for peace. Quite the opposite. Which just goes to show: there are good orgasms, and there are bad orgasms. There are even evil orgasms. But all in all, contraction for contraction and squirt for squirt, there are mostly wonderful, peaceful orgasms.

So, on Friday, Global Orgasm Day, H and I were determined to have at least a couple of wonderful ones and dedicate them to World Peace. We got into bed around 4 am. The first objective was to get warm. Like an old castle, with its high ceilings and palatial rooms, the Speakeasy gets cold in winter (one of the reasons we have so much sex :-). The sheets felt like sheets of ice. But H’s nickname is Heater Boy, so I was toasty in no time. Then we started to make love. Nothing fancy, a little oral, a little manual, then sweet slow orgasmic intercourse in the missionary position. The point wasn’t to get gymnastic, but to focus our consciousnesses on Peace-On-Earth before, during and after our orgasms.

The “before” was the toughest part, especially for H who’d much rather focus on the image of me with my butt up in the air than Bush being impeached, governments shutting down their nuclear war programs, and soldiers laying down their assault rifles, everybody reaching out to each other and singing “kumbaya.”

As for me, my favorite orgasm image is a sparkling salty ocean wave crashing against the shores of my Delta of Venus. So it wasn’t too difficult to turn that picture into a Peace Wave washing away the blood and stink of war. My Big O burst forth first, and I was so immersed in the concept of Global Orgasm for Peace that I found myself crying out “Peace Now!” as well as my usual “Oh God, Oh Baby, Oh God!” It sounds pretty ridiculous, I know, but what can I say? I’ve been a sex-positive peacenik since I was in junior high.

Then it was time for H’s orgasm. I whispered the kind of dirty talk he likes into his ear during the lead-up, interspersing it with a few schoolmarmish reminders to “focus on peace,” which made him giggle. I told him to imagine a bunch of hot well-hung soldier-boys about to attack a village, then throwing their weapons into a ditch and running over to an oasis where I lay on my bed, legs open and ready to accept their libidinous energy into my body, alchemically transforming it from lethal aggression into peaceful orgasms. He seemed to like that, especially when I really got into describing the anatomical details of the consensual gangbang. When he was beyond the point of no return, I called out “Peace on Earth, Pleasure for All!” He giggled again, but it was too late; he was coming into Peace on Earth. Then we drifted into heaven together. It’s not too difficult to focus on peace in the afterglow of orgasm, since post-orgasmic bliss is the essence of peace.

But did it work? Well, obviously, not. The Perma-War(s) continue. Death piles up upon death. Despite the clear peace mandate from the recent U.S. elections, it seems that troop numbers in Iraq aren’t even going to be reduced, but are about to “surge.” Kind of makes the whole GOD project feel anti-climactic, to say the least.

Then again, maybe the Global Orgasm effect is cumulative, and we have to do a lot more of this before there’s a measurable change in the world. I know, H and I are willing to do our part again and again and again.

What? A Menorah shaped like an Arabian Magic Lantern? Could this be a merging of cultures? A sign of peace between Muslims and Jews?.

So that was 4 — 5 am on Friday, meaning it was not just our part of the Global Orgasm for Peace effect; it was our Ha-nookie duty. After all, it’s a mitzvah (good deed) to have sex with your spouse on a Jewish holiday, and Friday was the seventh day of Hanukkah. Since Friday night was the eighth night, we gathered together a few brothers and sisters, lovers and sinners, doctors and lawyers, artists and porn stars, christians and jews, buddhists and hindus, muslims, pagans, secular humanists and ethical hedonists, and had ourselves a Hanukkah dinner party. Sorry, if you weren’t invited, but it was very impromptu. Nevertheless, it managed to be fabulous.

The Porn Star Shoots the Filmmaker at the Speakeasy. Notice the Filmmakers priestly collar and cigarette tucked neatly behind his ear. Notice the Porn Stars bitchin biceps!

Why Hanukkah? Judaism is the religion of my childhood. Though I’m one of those secular humanist/ethical hedonists, I cherish certain lessons and rituals from my Jewish upbringing. One of these is lighting the Hanukkah menorah. I just love the mystical beauty of the flickering flames, and the giddy excitement of the candle races. This being the eighth night, that meant nine radiant lit candles. Since we had company, we lit all four of our functioning menorahs, including the one shaped like Aladdin’s Magic Lamp that Gene just got us, the Tree of Life menorah that we got as a wedding gift, the old traditional one from my childhood, and the tiny one that takes birthday candles, so we had 36 lit candles on our table, a pyromaniac’s delight. H was the chef, and he cooked up a fantastic hearty banquet featuring the traditional Hanukkah potato pancakes called latkes which he made for the first time. My doctor’s father (the senior Dr. Klutke) said he hadn’t had such good ones since he was a young man in Germany.

But this was not a strictly Hanukkah Happening. We mixed in a few Solsticey, Hajji, Buddhist, Bacchanalian, Vedic, Saturnalian and even Christmasy touches. Wearing Gene’s Pimpin’ Santa hat, I bicycled in all the gifts in the rickshaw, with Annie Body leading the way as my beautiful red-haired reindeer, fully clothed (this was a PG-rated evening at the Speakeasy), but totally foxy. After most of the guests left, my H and I went back to the Global Orgasms for Peace Corp. Technically, it wasn’t Global Orgasm Day anymore, but we figured it couldn’t hurt to send another couple of climaxes to the cause.

Wallace drives me around town Xmas shopping in the rickshaw. Doesnt he look miserable? Notice the whip..

The next day, I had Wallace pedal the rickshaw while we went downtown Xmas shopping, with Canaan running alongside filming us for his Speakeasy quasi-documentary.

Wallace complained the whole way; before, during and after. But he always complains, even when he’s not working (which is pretty much all the time), and he really did a good job driving the rickshaw, steered it nice and steady, looking just like a chauffeur in his suit. He said he’d rather drive us around next time in his BMW. But rickshaw travel is very ecological. No burning of fossile fuels. It’s human powered! And fun!