Libidinously

Fleeting by the moment I caught sight of the pyramidal temple was a potpourri of ages: poker-faced kids, chuckling teens, ecstatic couples, limp adults. I thought: What energy of sorts does this edifice in the world’s largest archipelago exude to reproduce oblique responses? The gush of cool wind in the steepest slopes of Mount Lawu enveloped me, intriguingly.

Setting foot in Candi Sukuh, my churning juices rapidly turned into anarchy. On the floor of the entrance gate, a pair of lingga and yoni. It started to turn me on, like rocks cascading in full force, soaking up the crispness of the phallus invading, or wanting to invade, the mighty vulva. Not far away, a headless male figure tightly grasping its fully erected penis, urging me to stroke mine. Hawkers perfunctorily pounding their lungs roused my fixations. Suddenly, everything is a merely stone panel carved in three concentric terraces – all wrapped in a sweetish chlorine scent.

A major tenant in the topmost terrace is a carving of a monster devouring a man, a bird, a dog, enthralling me to consume my cravings and yearn for more. And more. Afterwards, the intimacy. Two Javanese hermits crunched their knees, facing two truncated tortoises guarding the pyramid entrance, whispering hymns of synchronous hum-hum tones. Spectators sprawled in the main monument were indifferently quiet watching the trio orchestrate a sacred ceremony, gawking at the deafening reverence. A wrinkly aged man beside me regaled the intense calmness of the fertility ritual.

Onto the highest pyramid, my testosterones plunged into complete tranquility seeing a dwarf, stocky and grumpy, with four balls. My senses shut in confusion: four balls? and in bewilderment: four balls! The wrinkly aged man, again, explained in a rather broken English that his Hindu forefathers thrust into their penile foreskin two metallic balls to revitalize their sexual appetite. This I couldn’t inhabit anymore. My sweat flew over the brim of disgustful pain.

The bricked narrow stairs leading down the base perpetuated patriarchy in high dosages. Left, a humongous statue of Ganesha, an elephant deity dancing inconceivably. Right, a relief of two men forging a kris blade with a blacksmith. Left again, a sculpted man-eagle flapping its washed out wings. I heard three schoolgirls exhaling a virginal laughter of a locked up madwoman while grazing Ganesha’s exposed glory albeit its coarseness.

The orange-y sun retreated, shadows eclipsing one another. I left the unusual circus of genitalia in repulsive awe, gradually closing my eyes that conjured up riveting shapes and sizes of 15th century antiquities. The nakedness of the temple seethed into the landscapes of my soul, gently spurting out through the very pores of my skin, undressing the flesh of my flesh.