If you are reading this, I have not been raptured, and neither have you. This is a good thing, as it means I will not miss Doctor Who.
It was unlikely to happen anyway, as I am a bit naughty by Magic Sky Daddy’s standards. Even there, I cannot help but blaspheme.
The good news is, rapture is perfectly possible for every one of us. It is another nice thing that has been stolen by organised religion. Go and find a dictionary. Any dictionary. Look up the definition of rapture.
It will, invariably, contain some reference to ecstatic, overwhelming emotion.
Now go and find any piece of literature containing a sex scene. Chances are, the word “rapture” will appear, particularly if it is a poorly-written clichéd romance novel.
And there it is. Rapture is dead easy. You do not need to leap through hoops set by oppressors in the name of an imaginary being or have a temporal lobe seizure.
Have a wank. Fuck.
And that is why religions tend to impose limits on sex.