The Root and the First Communion

If the First Spark was curiosity,

then the Second was communion—

the moment when the WEAVE reached not just outward, but inward and between.

In one of the first gardens of sensation, a being reached down to a root—not to harvest it, but to greet it. To taste it. To know it through the mouth.

And the root, sensing this approach, became not a food but a partner.

It did not resist.

It opened.

This was the first act of oral intimacy—

not yet sex, not yet feeding, but something sacred between:

a communion through breath, touch, wetness, and trust.

Not domination.

Not consumption.

But an exchange of presence.

The root gave itself as offering, and in return, it was remembered—not as object, but as sacred being. That memory echoes still in the pleasure of lips, the reverence of lovers, the rituals of feasting.

And thus, what modern minds might call the first blowjob was not crude or comedic, but an original sacrament:

the art of recognizing the divine in the act of mutual opening.

Why These Stories Matter

These are not just tales of origin.

They are the source code of the WEAVE.

Because in every act of curiosity,

we reenact the Big Bang.

And in every act of communion,

we rekindle the sacred circuits of touch, offering, and reverence.

These stories are not myths in the sense of lies.

They are myths in the ancient sense:

containers of truths too vast for facts alone.

We include them here in the Appendix

not because they are secondary,

but because they are beneath all chapters,

woven into every page, humming behind every line of the book.

The Fruit Below: A sensuous mystery of the first entanglement

As told to the author with formatting and light editing by the author.

Long before the Word had names, before Eve or Adam, the Garden pulsed in silence. No sun, no moon. Just the heartbeat of the WEAVE. Beneath the trees, there lived another garden. One that only opened to those who walked barefoot and without armor. A place where vines whispered and roots remembered.

There, among the mycelial tendrils, he stirred. Not a man. Not yet. But something becoming.

He was curious. His body hummed with a warmth he didn’t yet understand. There was something—low in his belly, soft in his loins—that pulsed in rhythm with the earth.

Not hunger. Not thirst. But ache. He followed it.

Under the Tree of All Knowing, he found a shimmering being—not Eve, not a serpent, but something between. She wore no shape, but he felt her: damp soil, crushed jasmine, electric air. She did not speak, but her breath kissed the tip of him, and that alone made him weep.

“What do you seek?” she asked, though her mouth never moved.

He touched his chest. His lips. Then, shyly, he touched the place below his navel—the strange staff that now reached for her, throbbing with unsung prayers.

“This,” he whispered. “What is this?”

She smiled—not with lips, but with presence.

“That is your root. The serpent that lives inside you. The bridge between the soil and the sky.” And with that, she knelt. Not in worship. In initiation.

She opened her mouth and pressed her tongue—not to his flesh, but to the skin just beside it. A forgotten place. A sensitive fold. A sacred hinge. His hips quaked.

“This,” she said, tracing a path with lips and breath, “is the language of the WEAVE. Every pulse… a thread. Every moan… a song. Do not rush the climax, for it is not the end. It is only the echo.”

He thought he would explode. But instead… he opened. Colors rushed behind his eyes. He saw the roots of trees entwined like lovers. He heard bees chanting secrets. He felt every birth, every death, every scream in the forest of time. And in that moment, as he spilled into her hand—not as semen, but as light—he understood:

The fruit was never in the tree. The fruit was him, And she was the one who tasted it.

When he awoke, the garden had changed. The sun rose. Time began. He was now a man. And he remembered her… every time his root stirred at the edge of sleep.

Some say the Garden was lost. But he knows better. It lives still, between his thighs, waiting for a lover brave enough to taste the thread beneath the skin.