The Metamorphosis of Stolen Beauty
/
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
When the Rhinos F*ck the Cows
/
An acquaintance of mine from Portland shared an article on Facebook which her husband had written about finding one’s voice as a writer.
Since he’s published and I’m not, and he is a very nice man, I read it.
A line in there reminded me of the most extremely short-lived job I ever held in my illustrious career of job-collecting.
I had just moved to Seattle. This was late in the fall the year I had graduated from college. I made the move on a fluke after a friend from college jokingly suggested I move out there and we tackle that unknown city together.
I took her up on it, and she signed a lease on an unfurnished 2 bedroom.
And our apartment remained unfurnished for quite some time.
There were few, if any, jobs. I don’t remember if Kristy was working or not. But I came across a job that promised lots of $$$ for the motivated, no experience was necessary, and the time and date when drop-in applicants were welcome.
The job was 100% commission-based.
And I made no money at this. It was obvious that I wouldn’t make any money at this from the first day.
Promotions in Motion was the worst of the worst sales jobs. We went door to door at various businesses, ignoring “no soliciting” signs to interrupt people at their work to sell them something they don’t need.
The vast majority of the time, we were told no anyway. Fortunately, most people were pleasant about it but it was still embarrassing.
I don’t even remember what we were selling, but I vaguely recall a promotion for an obscure comedy club.
I trained for two days and decided to bail. My first trainer had been a stripper before this job. She was pretty cool and I had fun while I trained with her.
The next trainer was nice enough, but he had a lot to say about our POC supervisor who was making it “in a white man’s world.”
He also spent the entire drive back to the office trying to convince me to stick it out with a psychological head-trip of “It’s not easy being a leader.”
But I’d already figured out that such a job would have been a daily exercise of humiliation where my dignity would be chipped away to nothing, and no way was I signing up for that.
Later, I met somebody who worked for them for about a year. He said he “made money,” but he also said he worked well beyond the 9-5 time slot, and often went to homes and businesses until 9 at night to make about $1500 a month. (This was in the 90’s btw.)
They didn’t tell me that when they were selling this job to me.
So how does this have anything to do with the title of the blog or the article my friend’s husband, Johnny Shaw, wrote about finding your writer’s voice? Patience, please, because I’m getting there.
On my first day of training, the former stripper told us about their morning meetings where they get pumped up with a Rhinos vs. Cows cheer. We were the “Rhinos,” of course, and everybody else working a regular job with guaranteed pay and some benefits were the “Cows.”
“Rhinos fuck shit up,” she said. “Cows just graze.”
On my second day of training, I got to experience this for myself. All the door-to-door sales associates were there and the POC supervisor who was making it “in a white man’s world” started the cheer.
“WHO ARE WE?” he roared.
Everybody made the “hang loose” sign - aka “shaka” in Hawaii - with one hand. Then they defiled this expression of mellowness and peace by putting thumb to nose so their fist and pinky finger made a facsimile of a rhino horn.
“WE’RE THE RHINOS!!” they called back.
“WHAT DO WE DO?”
“FUCK THE COWS!!”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!”
“FUCK THE COWS!!”
“SAY IT AGAIN!!”
“FUCK THE COWS!!!”
“GREAT! NOW GET OUT THERE AND MAKE SOME MONEY!!”
Yeah.
It would have been the wiser choice to bail right then and there, but I’m a firm believer in stepping outside of one’s comfort zone to find inspiration.
This was one of those moments. Experiencing the sheer lunacy of these people was priceless.
Johnny Shaw’s article made a reference to fucking a cow too, but that was for the sake of artistic merit. If you would like to know how his article triggered this memory when I was young and clueless, check it out here.
I don’t know if this experience helped me find my writer’s voice, but perhaps Johnny’s professor would have been gratified to know that such a story was out there.
Introducing Master #2, II - Tantric Shitshow #3
/
Image by LoggaWiggler from Pixabay
Hey y’all,
(Continued from April 21, 2020)
How do I know all this? Because Charles Muir is a storyteller and he told us all about it.
For the record, although Christy Rose was described as one of the elite teachers, she did not offer private sessions that week.
His son, Orion, did. He was a beatific, California-hippie type who was cursed with the inability to get a tan. He had fair skin that burned easily, with regular features, a beard, and long, flowing hair. He wasn’t all that compelling. He revered his father and lacked his father’s charisma.
Charles Muir did have his own crazy version of charisma, because his appeal defies explanation.
Seriously, think of Yogi Bear as one of the players in “Revenge of the Nerds,” and you might come up with a fairly accurate image of his presence.
As the week progressed, I came to like and respect Leah, the head dakini for Source Tantra, quite a lot. You’ll be reading more about her later.
I had no idea I would that first night, however, when she was introduced.
She was cute, vivacious, and confident – a cheerleader type. She wore a form-fitting Asian-style dress from her neck to below her knees. Her dress would have been demure except for the slits that went halfway up her thighs and the obvious boob job encased in such a garment.
Leah was very frank and articulate in what she had to offer, and her specialties were erectile dysfunction and premature ejaculation. She was very passionate about sex and sexuality, and how Neo-Tantra could help us all got so much more out of our bodies. She was especially enthusiastic that we women have as much erectile tissue as men, inch for inch and ounce for ounce, and we deserve to know all about that, and what to do with it.
In the gossip that ensued over the next week - because the Source Tantra group was very gossipy - I found out that she had been Charles’ partner for 8 years, from the time she was 25 and he was 55, to 33 and 63 respectively. She had also been one of students. During that time, she helped him run his Art of Conscious Loving workshops that he had started with his 2nd wife, Caroline Muir.
As Charles’ protegée, it’s highly possible Leah has surpassed her mentor and that really pissed him off. Leah taught some of the classes. The one time she and Charles were on the stage presenting together, he was such a dick to her and regularly undermined Leah during the lecture. She kept her head and her composure, and probably had to exert herself to do so.
When Charles introduced Lisa, the other dakini, the one who is gay, he made a point of saying that she had strong “Shakti energy.” (I’m sure Rashmi would have done backflips to hear that.) Lisa was the one I thought I would be interested in working with from the info about her online. But she didn’t have a whole lot to say other than “yeah, everything Leah said,” and that was pretty much it.
Lisa was not somebody I gravitated to, so I don’t have much to say about her – other than finding out through Facebook that she’s gay, and that she and her partner, Dana, traveled in Sri Lanka after the workshop.
So exit stage left, gay dakini Lisa, and happy trails.
After the lengthy introduction of his team, Charles launched into an overview of the next 10 days, with some sage pieces of advice on how to handle the experience and various challenges that would come up.
“Tantriks and tantrikas are noisy lovemakers. When you feel one coming on, make sure you grab a pillow and howl into that.”
He even showed us how, by grabbing a pillow and making muffled, gargling, and grumbling noises into it.
I thought it very odd that an Ecstatic Love Workshop on extensive private property that throws events like this all the time would have strictly enforced quiet hours that started at 10pm.
Especially because there were events up until 9:45.
Later, I heard that at the very first Masters 8 years before, the ecstatic orgasm noises got so loud and lasted so long that somebody in the neighborhood called the cops in the middle of the night, and “Master” Mantak Chia had to get out of bed to go deal with them.
That workshop must have been rip-roaring success.
Another of the topics Charles Muir covered was “falling in love” during the workshop.
“It’s so tempting,” he said.
“We all have that urge to merge. And you throw in great sex and possibly the best orgasms you’ve ever had, and it’s so easy to believe that you found the ONE! And this is LOVE!”
“Don’t do it!” he warned.
“When this is over, everybody goes back to their real lives. So while you’re here, meet people. Find friends you can practice on. So become tantra buddies and help each other learn. That way, you don’t hurt each other.”
Solid, practical, sound advice that definitely applied to the audience. Most of the people at this workshop were flying solo. At most, I believe couples made up 1/3 of the attendees.
That impressed me. His perspective on awakening sexuality impressed me even more.
Charles Muir was very frank and open about the gift of awakened sexuality for both men and women, and how riddled we are with the sexual shame that shuts us down. He said men had limited time to awaken before aging did its thing, yet women could awaken at any age.
He spoke with compassion how so many women don’t feel what they should with a clitoris that has 8000 nerve endings because we’ve been numbed out. We’ve endured stress, criticism, slut-shaming, fat-shaming, age-shaming, trauma, sexual abuse, rape.
He said we could heal. He said we could get our feeling back.
Listening to Charles Muir that night was such a relief. He was a truly powerful speaker and an eloquent storyteller. I was inspired after that talk, and filled with optimism.
Looking back on that strong beginning, it’s almost impossible to believe how badly things would tank within days.
And that, my friends, will have to wait until further down the line. I’m leading you into this slowly, and there are reasons for that.
Thanks so much to the friends who heard my plea and sent letters, notes, WhatsApp texts, and even a WhatsApp phone call.
That made me feel so loved. Yes please, keep them coming!
By the way, if you write me, I also write back. Not long epistles like this, obviously, because I need to have some time for me and the wonderful place I’m in.
Much love to all y’all!
Peace,
Mana
Introducing Master #2 Part, I - Tantric Shitshow #3
/
Image by LoggaWiggler from Pixabay
Hey y’all,
So for the past 4 years, I’ve studied with a classical Tantra teacher who comes from the source. Rashmi was born and raised in India, and her family comes from a long lineage of Hindu Shakta Tantrics - like everything else, there are various lineages that approach classical Tantra from different angles. In her lineage, as the name implies, their priority is to worship the goddess first.
So…needless to say, Neo-Tantra makes her blood boil.
Neo-Tantra started in India about 150 years ago. According to Rashmi, it started from a bunch sexually-repressed white people who couldn’t handle all the decadent, sensuous images in the ancient temples, much less the culture of a people who knew how to enjoy their sexuality and their energy and their bodies – possibly without limits.
So what they did was take the sexuality and leave behind the spirituality (Hinduism) and the physical practice (Yoga) that went with it. Then some posers came back to reclaim both, only to get it all twisted and distorted and bastardized beyond recognition.
I imagine a few fake Indian Swamis got in on the hustle – and if so, it’s possible one of these was Charles Muir’s guru back in the day.
However it happened, Charles Muir is known as the “pioneer” who brought Neo-Tantra from India to America. His company, Source Tantra, is based out of California.
I can easily understand Rashmi’s rage towards this man, and others like him.
The workshops he branded with the flowery language of pretty words like “Sacred Spot Massage” and “Tantra: The Art of Conscious Loving” would be more honest and aptly described with the moniker: “How to Fingerfuck Like a Boss.”
Because that’s pretty much what it is.
However, that would be far more challenging to market.
“Welcome to the Sex Seminar,” said Charles Muir on his introduction.
Of course, that got a lot of laughs.
But what can I say about my own impression of the man?
To be honest, my impression of him on that first night was highly favorable. But my very first impression of Charles Muir was that he was in a lot of pain.
On the first night, as I had said in a previous email, the “Masters” were introduced to us along with their teams. While Mantak Chia talked and talked, Charles Muir sat cross-legged on the stage. His eyes were closed and he rubbed his legs in a continuous rhythm. His face held the tightness of people who are struggling physically, and trying hard not to show it.
His hands were huge – even larger in proportion to his tall frame. I think he stood around 6’3” to 6’5.” However, I wouldn’t call his presence imposing.
Why? Because Charles Muir has the goofiest face I’ve ever seen on a man. And once he started to talk, his mannerisms were as cartoonish as his features.
Not exactly what I expected from a man who has been married 3 times and slept with countless women all over the country while touring with his workshops.
Yet he was funny and very endearing. What was obvious was his personality, his humor, and his charm, not the patriarchal glory-of-man mindset that unveiled slowly as the days passed.
I also appreciated the fact, that unlike Mantak Chia, he allowed generous amounts of time for his Source Tantra team to be introduced with a lot of detail. They were offering private sessions during the workshop, and he also talked all of them up.
His team included his current wife, his son, and his 2 best dakinis - one of whom had been his lover for 8 years; and the other I would later find out was GAY.
(So, Sierra really wasn’t so necessary for the queers. But that’s another story and I’ll get back to that later.)
Christy Rose Muir is his 3rd wife and pretty much half his age. She’s a festival goddess type with platinum extensions braided into her hair, exotic makeup, and clothes that managed to be both clingy and flowy at the same time. She gazed at Charles with the goo-goo eyes of adoration, and even had a sultry, caramel voice. It could be argued that Christy Rose was also rather cartoonish, but sexy cartoonish.
“I met this beautiful man 8 years ago,” Christy Rose crooned when she was introduced. “And what you’re about to learn over these next 10 days are not just secrets taught to him by some Hindu in India, but techniques Charles came up with on his own, as well as relational tools we use in our relationship.”
So how did this idyllic pairing of beings come together?
At Tantrapalooza. According to Charles, the nickname for that happening was “Fuckapalooza” and his friends tried to talk him out of going.
He said something about feeling like he was too old for that kind of thing.
On that night, Christy caught his attention with her blue dreadlocks, mad hula-hooping skills, and six pack abs that had their own six pack.
Charles must have caught Christy’s attention with his presentation of sacred spot massage with one of his lovers, Mare Simone, who must be really well-known in the Neo-Tantra Universe from all the hoopla on the mention of her name.
Anyway, Charles Muir and Mare Simone did their thing with quite an audience, and she was also on her period that night. So at the climax (ha! Pun impossible to avoid), she squirted blood along with her sacred amrita, and they were a hit.
The first date between Charles and Christy was sacred spot massage. Their second date was when Charles invited her to be his “birthday present to himself” for his 65th birthday.
And from there, love blossomed. Isn’t that romantic?
Peace,
Mana
PS: To be continued on Friday, April 24, 2020…
Ready for Your New Life, Addie?
/
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
It was exhilarating to contemplate the onset of my wildest dream coming true.
I stared at my reflection in the still water at the edges of the river.
My wide face with browned skin and peasant features, the deep pockmarks and coarse hair that had the texture of straw held back by the kerchief around my head. The broad shoulders, thick torso, muscular arms, and meaty hands, calloused from a lifetime of hard labor.
Within days, I would never look like that again. My eyes would be the only original feature I would carry with me into my new life.
In that moment, I couldn’t imagine what I would look like.
How strange was that since envy created deep memory. I had the face and figure of the Patron’s Daughter etched in my brain because I had coveted her beauty my entire life. Yet when I tried to get a mental picture of what I would look like with her face and my eyes, my mind grew blank.
After an hour at the river, my nerves were settled enough to make my way home. I made a shortcut through the Ancient Grove, and had not gone too many paces before the Sorcerer appeared.
“Excellent diversion today,” he said. “You didn’t let them push you.”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the workers in my group badgering me about the identity of the lover who had humbled the Patron’s Daughter.
As unnerving as it was that the Sorcerer always seemed to know the happenings in my day, I shrugged it off.
“After all your hard work,” he continued. “It would be a shame if you ruined it at the final hour by running off in a panic.”
“I’m not panicked.”
The Sorcerer raised his hairless brows slightly.
“Are you sure?”
“People are starting to talk,” I countered. “That means people will start to watch. If she gets caught, I get caught.”
The Sorcerer chortled.
“You underestimate me, Addie. I promise you the Patron’s Daughter won’t be unless I want her caught. She would have been long ago had it not been for me.”
I stared at him.
“Relax,” he continued. “Don’t run away to the Capital City unless you’re confident you have what it takes to be there.”
“I’m ready.”
“Are you sure? You know you will have to flee as soon as you transform, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do. I have a plan for how I’ll arrive in the Capital City.”
“Convince me,” the Sorcerer countered. “When you get to there, how do you enter?”
“Through the eastern gate before dawn. The gate is always open and seldom used. There is rarely a sentry there to check papers, which I don’t have.”
“What do you do then?”
“Slowly make my way to a café on the avenue of theaters. I’ll have breakfast and tea there until the time to go to a boarding house three blocks behind the opera. The house is dull red and has no sign. The landlady loves nothing more than money.”
“And?”
“I ask for a room in her boarding house with a silver coin in my hand, more than enough for a week, even if she chooses to cheat me.”
“Very well. Then what do you do?”
“I settle in for a bit, and mention that I am looking for a very spacious apartment, suitable for entertaining.”
I almost felt like I was leaving my body as I said that.
The thought of my own room seemed an incredible luxury. I didn’t even know what an apartment was. I couldn’t imagine living in one, much less entertaining anybody. Everything I said didn’t seem real.
“What do you do when she pries?”
“Maybe she won’t pry.”
“Trust me. She’ll pry. A lot of people will. How do you handle that?”
“I don’t answer. I look away from her, turn my back.”
“Excellent. When she offers to show you an apartment or two, what do you do?”
“I act casual, and agree to see them. But I also say I will ask around the area for other lodging because my needs are very particular.”
“Very good. She’ll resist that. What do you do when she asks about your plans?”
“I’ll tell her what I do is my own business. I then tell her that I will pay rent six months in advance to the landlord who will respect my privacy.”
“Perfect. She’ll want you as a tenant and show you her best. What do you do after she shows you her available apartments?”
“I view all the apartments, even if I have my heart set on a particular one. I listen for her particulars and prices of the apartments, and whatever price she names, I offer less.”
“Why?”
“Her first offer will likely be an attempt to cheat me. If she offers eighty a month, I’ll offer fifty.”
“What if she wants a hundred per month?”
“I still offer fifty.”
“Then what?”
“We haggle until I get her price down to no more than sixty to seventy a month, no matter how elegant or spacious.”
“Why do you do that?”
“So she doesn’t take me for a fool of whom she can take advantage.”
“Addie, do you think you’re capable enough to argue her price down?”
I thought of everything I had been through to get to this moment. There was no way I would let that future greedy landlady drag me down.
“Yes, I am.”
The Sorcerer nodded slowly.
“So what do you do then?”
“I’m careful with my money, and resist the overpowering urges I am likely to have to spend it too freely.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’ve been poor all my life.”
“Why else?”
“To protect myself. As a young woman without family nor papers, I’m likely to be marked by con men and mercenaries.”
The Sorcerer nodded slowly, his expression confusing to me because nobody had ever looked at me like that.
Many years later I would remember his face in that moment, and recognize that the Sorcerer had been proud of me.
“Addie, do you think you can handle my next tryst with the Patron’s Daughter without fainting?”
I blushed.
“You must stay conscious this time,” he said. “Maybe you should fake sick that day and get some rest.”
I looked at him as if he was out of his mind.
“You do understand what kind of patrons they are, don’t you? There is no such thing as being too sick to work.”
The Sorcerer chortled.
“It was very clever of you to suggest the Patron’s Daughter pay you in clothes and jewels this week. I’ll make sure she brings at least one complete ensemble to outfit you.”
I must have looked confused.
“You are definitely ready, Addie.”
“You really think so?”
The Sorcerer nodded and smiled broadly.
“Time will be of the essence that night, so I doubt there will be a chance to express to you my congratulations and say, fare thee well. I’m sure you will fare well indeed, Addie. You have so much ahead of you. You can’t even imagine.”
It was a kindness that the future remained a well-hidden mystery in that moment. I might have lost my nerve if I had had a glimpse of the life that awaited me.
As it was, I could scarcely breathe.
Hostility and Lust
/
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
Her hostility was relentless.
The next morning, the Wanderer was relieved to find his tent undisturbed when he woke up.
He heard the girl moving around the site, but doubted she was in a better humor. He lay inside his tent until the grating of metal on metal irritated him enough to get up. Her dagger blinded him when he came out, the blade catching rays of light as the girl swept it along a rod.
She must have gotten up earlier to hunt; two slain rabbits were draped across her lap. Finally, the edge was sharp.
He watched the girl carve meat from bone, mesmerized by the sure strokes of her dagger. Then he looked up and saw her stare riveted on him.
The hairs prickled on the back of his neck and he averted his gaze. Ignoring her as well as he could, he went to the fire pit, surprised to find some acknowledgement of his presence in the camp.
The girl had staked two forked branches on either side, leaving the iron weave for him to cook upon. By the time he got the fire going, she was ready.
Pieces of rabbit were impaled along a spit she’d carved from a thick branch, which she set between the prongs.
Without thinking, the Wanderer put his hash beneath the meat to catch the drippings of fat.
But the girl glared and pulled her spit away until he moved his skillet to the side of the fire.
Hoping for a trade, he ignored the slight and offered his food when they were done.
“Do you want try some of mine? It’d go well with the rabbit.”
The girl flicked her eyes between him and the skillet, then walked away and settled down at the base of a large tree.
Then she started to eat.
She took her time with the rabbits, tearing through meat with her thick teeth and chewing slowly, even licking her fingers when she was done.
The girl didn’t glance his way once, but the Wanderer suspected this was a performance meant for him.
Her piece of theatre angered him enough he had to wait until she left before he could eat. By then, his hash had gone cold.
Days became weeks.
The Wanderer tried to ease the tension between them, but any questions went unanswered, his attempts at conversation ignored.
She never spoke to him.
Nor did she pretend he wasn’t there.
While she dressed her kills and sliced through animal flesh, the girl always stared at him, those cold blue eyes tracking his every move.
He found himself avoiding her, often waiting until she was gone before he left his tent in the morning.
But they cooked next to each other every night.
His stomach rumbled every time he watched the precious drops of fat go to waste in the fire. The Wanderer knew they’d both eat better if they only shared.
Yet he never offered his food to her again.
The Wanderer spent his days foraging, always gathering in the woods south of their camp.
Once he tried to venture north on his mare. But the girl appeared out of nowhere, glaring at him with more ferocity than usual and turning her massive steed to block him.
He took the hint she’d claimed that part of the woods and never went that way again. He didn’t mind too much. The border patrol was to the north and he didn’t wish to attract the law.
The Wanderer came to love the woods of No Man’s Land.
When the forest wasn’t quiet, the trees whispered from the motion of animals, the song of birds, and breezes ruffling the leaves releasing scents spicy and sweet.
Immersing himself made him forget everything and he found something new every day. Nuts, berries, leaves, and edible flowers added taste to his hash, while fresh varieties of mushrooms sprouted after each rain.
Although he foraged enough for breakfast and supper, his appetite was barely sated and he was losing weight. The Wanderer had to admit his craving for meat and fat had grown past the point of pain.
He suspected the girl found his cooking more appealing, especially on the day he returned with a stalk of rosemary and sprigs of thyme.
He thought he saw her nostrils quivering while he cut the herbs to bits, the aroma irresistible from the heat of the fire.
It was almost enough to distract him from the roasting partridges, but he still wanted to reach his skillet under her spit.
He was glad he resisted the urge when he saw her glance away.
“I caught you looking this time,” he said.
She scowled and turned from him.
His animosity for her grew as hers did for him.
His ill will made him uneasy, for the Wanderer never disliked anybody in his life, and to his embarrassment, his body had become a traitor to him. As much as he’d come to dislike his neighbor, he still wanted her.
His lust transformed into a physical yearning that was terrifying, his desire increasing with his antipathy.
No woman had ever affected him like this.
He couldn’t be comfortable in his skin when she was near. His limbs would go rigid as the Wanderer fought the animal urges pushing him beyond his reason.
To make matters worse, the girl knew the effect she had on him. The glint in her eyes and her vicious smile were a daily humiliation.
And the tingling along his flesh made the Wanderer loathe himself.
Summer finally gave in to autumn, the leaves started turning to gold, and the Wanderer realized that staying where he knew he wasn’t wanted made the worst kind of loneliness.
After a month, his obstinacy seemed foolish. Every night, he was determined to pack up and leave the next morning, a surrender that brought him much relief.
Then he fell asleep and floated into the dreamtime.
Gossip, gossip!
/
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
I don’t know if it was a coincidence or not.
As the peasants who worked the fields, we were the least important and the most reviled. We were at the end of the grapevine, the last to hear the latest news gossiped about in the village.
Often we didn’t hear anything at all.
So it was possible that it took that many weeks from the start of these bizarre trysts before the sniff of scandal wafted to us in the fields.
That week after the Patron’s Daughter begged to be free of her maidenhead, the people began to talk. Everybody in the field couldn’t stop whispering about the bruises they had heard were under her clothes, and those marks in the most intimate places.
“She has definitely come to ruin,” mumbled one.
“She got the look of smut on her,” sniggered another.
“How long before Patron knows his untouchable daughter has fallen?” mused yet another.
And on and on it went.
The one thing that safeguarded a shred of her reputation was that nobody could figure out the identity of the man who brought down the Patron’s Daughter. That was impossible to discern for she had spurned all of her suitors except for the Noble Son.
But that didn’t stop the flow of imagination.
Since I was one of the people, I was privy to what they had to say and I was shocked at the brazenness of some of the gossip that I heard.
Somehow the wantonness of the Patron’s Daughter was starting to show. I can’t really explain it or why.
Perhaps it was the subtle changes in the way she moved her body. She was looser and freer, and her restlessness was always close to the surface, especially when the days neared the night when she would escape her parents’ noble house.
I heard some folks say they could smell it on her. They say a woman’s scent changes when she is no longer pure.
It was impossible that anybody could have any idea of the Patron’s Daughter’s trysts with the Brute because the Sorcerer put a powerful protection spell over the Ancient Grove.
I almost laughed out loud when I heard the workers muttering about the virile head of the stables at the house, or the ironworker that made the horseshoes for the Patron’s stables.
Those men were soft and weak compared to the Brute.
The stream of malice ran free, but had no pond to gather in.
Towards the end of the week, their attention turned to me.
“You’ve been keeping awfully quiet, Addie,” noticed one. “How come you’re all ears and no mouth?”
“That’s right,” another piped up. “It’s no secret you always hated her.”
“So what if I do?” I snapped. “I’m not talking because I don’t have anything to say about it.”
“But ours is the only team she leaves alone,” said yet another. “It’s because of you, isn’t it?”
“Who would seriously believe I’m in the confidence of the Patron’s Daughter?” I snorted.
That shut them up. They all stared at me, some looking rather abashed.
“Let’s get back to work before she decides we need her special notice,” I snapped. “We’ve been lucky this season. I prefer that to last.”
The bluff worked that time and the subject was dropped.
But one thing was clear.
The time had come for me to go.
If the Patron’s Daughter got caught sneaking out on her late night trysts, the opportunity would be lost whether I was caught with her or not.
I was so shaken I had to walk off my agitation in the trees, praying the Patron’s Daughter was unaware of the gossip about her.
If she knew, she might lose her nerve and not show on the usual night.
I shook my head.
There was no way she wouldn’t turn up. She was completely enthralled and hooked on the Brute. Eventually, she would get caught.
I reviewed everything I learned from the Sorcerer in my head as I made my way to the river. To reassure myself, I stomped on the ground of the tree where my treasure was buried, relieved at the arrangement of stones that told that nobody had found it.
I hoped the Patron’s Daughter would bring me enough to wear this week because it would be the only chance I had for some decent clothes.
I reviewed in my mind the district behind the theaters where I could ask about lodging, knowing nobody would ask too much if I paid for a few months rent up front.
I trembled as I thought about it all.
The Day After Thanksgiving - On the Road #26
/
Hey y'all,
So how was everybody's Turkey Day?
Mine is happening sans turkey...and the day after I might add. The official day of Thanksgiving was rather boring, but the day before was so epic it hardly mattered.
Eugene, Oregon is a town that loves its hippies and its disaffected, which is a beautiful thing, but it takes a little getting used to.
The oddest characters approach you with the comfortable expectation that they will be received.
My day started out at the coffee house and I was shuffling tarot cards, obsessively asking the same questions over and over again, because I just needed to make sure everything was going to go okay, dammit!
Jay approached me, asking about playing with tarot cards, saying that he preferred gin.
Wearing dirty blue jeans, and layers of tops, his pink wrap-around scarf stood out. His blue eyes had the faraway glaze of mental illness, and conversing with him did nothing to dispel that impression.
But he hadn't always been that way...
When I told Jay I was born and raised in Florida, he told me that he'd been in graduate school in Tallahassee, had driven with his wife to Key West then up the Gulf of Mexico to Acapulco and Mexico City. He said he didn't finish his grad studies in something scientific that I couldn't grasp because "the draft came calling."
He joined the Peace Corps and went to Africa instead.
"That experience was amazing. Africans are beautiful people."
I didn't ask what happened to bring him to this point, but I gave him a book when I took my leave. I had a hot springs to get to and in the Brown Beast, it would take time to get there.
Several years ago, a wandering hippy named "Gypsy," who I met in Bar Harbor, Maine told me about Cougar Hot Springs outside of Eugene. This was back in my traveling bartender phase, and he suggested I come find him there - if I made it to the West Coast.
"There's a group of us that camp right next to the pools. I'll be there all winter if you need to find me."
Well, I went back to New Orleans instead, but I’d never forgotten the name and location of Cougar Hot Springs. It was almost 10 years later by the time I got there, and in that time, things had changed.
The forest service had driven the hippies away from the springs and started to charge for the use of the pools.
"It really is much better," said Don as he pointed to the lush forest around us. "Years ago, this was all mudslide from people trampling around here and they camped right at the pools."
And probably staked their claim too, making it uncomfortable for those who just wanted to use it for a couple of hours.
That was the way I felt when I first got there.
The approach was amazing, walking through the lush green of the Oregon rainforest, with moss covering everything - there was even a tree bent all the way into an upside down U.
I felt like I was walking through an arbor and five minutes later, I arrived at a tier of seven pools descending down the hill.
Each pool was made from rock and soft soapstone, with the hot water pouring out of a small cave to fill the hottest pool at the top, and the water would cool the lower it trickled down.
It was the perfect interference by man on nature, harmonizing with the Douglas firs towering above the tier of pools, and the ferns and other rushes embracing the rock pools.
As I approached the pools, I saw a woman getting herself and her son dressed, while her husband and daughter stayed in the third pool lower from the top two.
In the upper pools were three men and one woman. The woman was rolled down into a Gollum-style crouch on one of the rocks, cackling as she was talking to her boyfriend, who was in the water.
Another bearded gnome was in the upper most part of the pool, right next to the stream of hot water coming out, while the third was grinding soapstone into powder, which he then used as a cleanser and exfoliant when he had enough.
I undressed and went to the top pool, where the vibe was not friendly.
It got much friendlier after the bearded gnome and the bather left the pool and a new guy, Don, joined the top pool.
He told me all about many other hot springs I could go to in Oregon and Nevada. Then Mike joined the pool. He was at least sixty years old and lean as a whippet from living simply in remote surroundings and riding a seventies Schwinn bike everywhere he went.
A younger man got in the pool, but he did not join us. With his head down, his curly hair and beard shielded most of his face; and he had a womanish bulge to his belly and double-A cup breasts.
He was intent on having his own deeply personal experience of the springs, and certainly had no use for the petty social animals chattering away and fucking up his moment.
He lay face down right in front of the stream of hot water with his arms dangling above his head, came up to smoke pot for air, and then lay on the rocks, and made the "OM" sound in his meditation as he cooled on the rock with a cougar face carved into it.
When he'd had enough of the November air chilling his skin, he dove face first into the shock of hot water and then lay in the hot water with his legs above his head, as he hummed "OM" for enlightenment while he lay in the pool of his own world and provided background noise for the next hour.
In the course of conversation, I told Mike and Don what I was doing - driving around telling stories and selling the book - and Mike twinkled.
"Oh! Are you going to tell us a story!"
"It wouldn't be the first time somebody told a story in these here springs," said Don.
What? Tell a story amongst a bunch of naked people - ages twenty-something to sixty-plus - taking a soak in the middle of the woods?
Ummm....okay.
Everybody should love what they do this much.
Dirt and Donna joined us while I was about five minutes into telling of the birth of Ella Bandita. And they were the ones who bought a book.
"I figured you was an author," said Dirt. "Nobody talks like that."
"His name is really Dave," said Donna, his wife. "But he insists on telling everybody he's Dirt."
I felt rejuvenated when I left the springs and came back to the hostel. The hostel in Eugene is the only one I've ever seen that puts limits on what you can eat.
Vegetarian household...no meat allowed.
But it has an awesome down-home vibe with a fireplace and an automatic social scene with some good folks. The Eugene hostel is a true haven for the solitary traveler and a homing point for Eugene locals that stop by to visit, whether they had once stayed there or not.
The effect is eclectic.
Scott is a thirty-seven year old local who stayed there at the same time I did for unknown reasons. With a crew-cut, Carrhart overalls, and a tie-dye, he was a bizarre hybrid. He had the walk of a good ole boy and the talk of a...well, you'll see.
"I love Eugene," he said. "It's very magical."
When I told him about my day at the springs, that was when he let his woo-woo out as he piled up the rest of the firewood into the fire.
"I get offended by hippies and their naive view of the springs," he said. "There was a time when that space wasn't cared for and when you don't take care of sacred space, bad spirits will come in and bad things will happen."
He then proceeded to tell me about a time when he and a magician friend of his had gone to the springs after taking some "very pure acid" and the spirit of a young woman entered his friend's body.
"You have no idea how crazy it is to see your buddy suddenly become a woman. She had been raped seven times and killed there, and she'd been trapped at the springs ever since because the bad spirits wouldn't let her go. But we got her out of there that night."
In spite of his rather nasty ghost story, I was still so relaxed that I fell asleep in front of the fire.
Yet I could still hear Scott tell Charley, a twenty-four year old that wanted to travel with his savings, to make his money now so he could afford to have his essence distilled to a pill when the spiritual technology was advanced enough, and then be put in a cloned version of his youthful self.
"I want to enjoy my life while I'm still young and beautiful," said Charley. "And you're telling me that travel is a waste of time and money?"
"Absolutely!" said the would-be mystic.
I woke up to see the appalled facial expression of Adrienne - one of the girls in my room, as she sat in front of the remains of the fire.
Scott had gotten on the phone for a round of sexy talk with his Canadian girlfriend and he lacked the discretion, or consideration, to seek out some privacy.
"You've been a baaaaddd girl," crooned Scott into the phone. "Papa's gonna give you a spanking. Oh yeah he will."
I figured it was time to go to bed.
Anyway, today's the day we have our animal-friendly (since we aren't going to eat any) potluck Thanksgiving. My donation?
Wine, of course, and wood. Scott used up all of it.
Peace,
Montgomery
A Hostile Welcome
/
He heard the humming growl from the abyss between sleep and consciousness.
The sound confused him until the collapse of heavy cloth brought him into morning, and he woke up with the burden of his tent upon him.
Flailing through the canvas, the Wanderer pushed his head and shoulders through the flap into a whirlwind of dazzling color.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
His heart pounded and he was suddenly dizzy, squeezing his eyes shut until it passed.
“How strange. I was about to ask you the same thing.”
The Wanderer recognized her voice and opened his eyes.
The girl he followed into No Man’s Land had finally come awake, standing over him with one hand wrapped around her necklace.
He swallowed hard.
She had the coldest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Her glare seared into him when she opened her palm and dropped a crystal in the folds of her shirt.
“So what are you doing here?” she asked.
The Wanderer felt foolish on his knees with his tent collapsed around him. The girl’s presence was unnerving. Even as angry as she was, his flesh came alive as soon as he saw her.
“Making myself at home,” he said, stepping out of the heap. “Same as you are.”
He noticed she dressed like him, in a loose shirt and pants.
But she also wore a holster, a small pouch slung around the belt at her left hip, and a pistol and dagger held in sheaths on her right.
The Wanderer glanced at her face and saw the corners of her mouth twitching.
She might be an adventurer, but not of his kind.
“I don’t have anything worth stealing,” he said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied. “Maybe you should get going.”
The Wanderer sighed. The thought of packing up exhausted him, and he didn’t relish being alone if he complied.
“I didn’t mean to scare you…” he said, trailing off when the girl raised her brows. “But I saw you going into the woods the other day and-”
“Yeah, I saw you too,” she interrupted. “Did I ask you to come with me?”
“No, but I thought we’d make good company.”
“Well you were wrong.”
The Wanderer hesitated.
He couldn’t think of anything to say confronted with somebody who disliked him.
Then he remembered she addressed him as a wanderer, not a vagabond.
And he noticed the girl faced him directly and met his eye with a steady gaze. The way she talked also belied animosity, the low pitch and desultory rhythm of her speech pleasing.
If anything, the girl acted somewhat bored.
But he sensed she struggled to maintain her detached poise. He saw tension in the arms crossing her chest and in the muscle twitching in her jaw.
“Can’t we just start over?”
“No,” she snapped. “You need to get out of here.”
The Wanderer shook his head, wondering if he was in another dream.
But he looked again to see the girl’s demeanor was unchanged, her eyes staring right through him.
“Why are you being like this?”
“Because I have no use for wanderers. Now move along.”
She turned as she spoke her last, and headed for her tent.
The Wanderer stared after her back, too stunned to move for a moment.
For weeks, ostracism chiseled at his spirit.
But she was an outsider the same as he, and her dismissal birthed a fury he never knew he had. Before the Wanderer knew what he was doing, he caught up with the girl and swiveled her around to face him.
“I’d like to ask you something,” the Wanderer said. “Do you own these woods?”
“Let go of me.”
The calm in her voice made the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Then an image of a horse and rider came to mind, backlit by the sun and running across the ridge before turning towards No Man’s Land.
“You crossed the border through the woods, didn’t you?”
The girl said nothing, but her pupils narrowed.
“I saw someone disappear in the trees,” he continued. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Are you threatening me, Wanderer?”
She spoke softly, yet there was no mistaking the menace in her tone.
But the Wanderer didn’t care, driven as he was by a wrath of his own.
“I don’t want the Lawmen around any more than you do,” he said. “But you can’t tell me whether I can stay or go.”
He released the girl and made his way back to his tent.
“You’re a fool, Wanderer.”
He knew he had shaken her composure from the hissing of air when she spoke.
That lent him some satisfaction, but her venom gave him pause.
His spine heated where her eyes burned into him and he had to force himself to focus on the fallen heap. His ears prickled from the sound of her running, then the muffled squeal of leather, and the click of her tongue.
The ground quivered when a giant stallion was spurred to action, the pounding of its hooves resonating in the Wanderer’s feet for what seemed a long time after the girl had gone.
Introducing Master # 1 of the Tao - Tantric Shitshow, Part 2
/
Hey y’all,
I’ve always had a thing for the yin/yang symbol, that balance of light and dark, with a piece of light within the dark and piece of dark within the light.
The yin/yang is actually a major symbol in an afterlife love story, an unfinished novel that I really need to finish someday. Maybe this experience is a nudge for me to work on “Lover Man and Bella Donna” – although god/goddess knows how this might affect the original story.
The time I spent in this workshop, I feel like I was immersed in the meaning and essence of yin and yang.
As I said in the earlier email, there were yin/yang symbols everywhere – but not necessarily white and black.
There were a lot of white and gold combos, red and blue, the former tied into how Mantak Chia taught the sexual aspects of the Universal Healing Tao.
Sexuality plays a strong role in his system, but it’s not the end all. His main suggestion with orgasm is to send the chi up into the organ systems to create healing, because our sexual energy is the most powerful source of chi we have.
His focus is mostly on alternative healing, and he has all kinds of odd and peculiar treatments - Karsai Nei Tsang Genital Detox therapy is one of them.
According to Mantak Chia, this is crucial in clearing our sexual organs of the grit and gunk and metals and toxins that settle in our systems and in the pelvis.
Really, this isn’t as out there as it sounds, most of the treatment is a deep abdominal massage with only a few minutes in the genital area. Or at least that’s the way it was for the woman. That burly Thai Karsai Nei Tsang massage therapist really went to town on the man.
Oh, there were live demos of this.
One of the guests, a Frenchman, volunteered to be the model for the male half.
He kept his underwear on - fitted black shorts - the entire time, but the therapist pulled his testicles out and did what I can only describe as wringing them out to dry.
Maybe they didn’t tell him what the demo entailed because he looked like he was about to pass out when it was over.
The female model was from the Source Tantra team, let’s just say she was ready. I think she didn’t get the memo that the therapist would work around her underwear.
She expected to be naked, and immediately threw off her bright yellow sundress – to the shocked horror of Mantak Chia. He threw the dress back at her and told her to cover up as the audience howled with laughter.
Other than that, the demo went without incident.
There are many who consider Mantak Chia to be a fraud. That what he teaches isn’t really Tao.
Rashmi, my classical Tantra teacher, is one of them.
He’s also come up with his own version of Qigong. Most of the Thai locals don’t know who he is. He caters to a well-to-do Western audience.
Dean, the New Zealander owner/manager of the guesthouse where I landed knew who Mantak Chia was, and knew Tao Garden is where I was coming from because Kip told him, and asked me about it when I got there.
“I’ve heard some strange stories about that Tao Garden and Mantak Chia, something about him getting people to drink their own piss.”
Well, he didn’t go quite that far with my group.
But he did make a suggestion.
Gold and white light are the colors a couple draws in and exchanges in the peaks of sexual ecstasy and orgasm – or something to that effect.
He happened to mention that non-alcoholic beer and urine were the perfect gold color to take in that magic color, and that people have been known to drink their urine…
What some people will do for a harder hard-on and stronger orgasms…who knows?
Aaannnddd…wouldn’t it be something if Mantak Chia was having us on, seeing just how far he could push a bunch of stupid Westerners to follow his crazy lead?
He always looks like he’s about to laugh…so maybe?
Either way, the man has written and co-authored a gazillion books on his take on the Tao and Qigong, as well as made as many videos.
So if he’s full of shit, he’s gone to a lot of trouble to prove his point and make it truth.
And a lot of people have benefitted from his teachings and methods. So perhaps everything, even ancient spiritual and healing systems in a state of constant flux, changing with the times and as needs arise and shift?
Yet Mantak Chia treats his staff like shit, and it is obvious women are there for a man’s pleasure and other needs.
His current girlfriend is at least 40 years younger than he is. He blatantly and unabashedly owns the excessive privilege and sexism of a man from his time and place, as well as stature since he has risen far in his life and career.
His house was on the property, and it’s a beast of a mansion.
The man runs a tight ship, I’ll give him that. There’s reason this is called the Tantric Shitshow - none of that crap from his Tao half.
As far as Sierra’s mission to get the Tao and Tantra dinosaurs to “change their language to be more queer-inclusive,” Mantak Chia made his nod.
He mentioned in one of his lectures that gay and lesbian clients could also use these practices to gain more chi and improve their sex lives.
Other than that, he did not give a damn about changing a thing about how he expressed himself.
Since we were on his turf, tough shit if nobody liked it.
His lesson-plan was extremely male-centric. Whenever he was supposed to focus on female sexuality, he always slipped into…
“And the penis and the testicles…
Also, his talks were interspersed with the dirty-old-man chortle.
You know that sound that’s a hybrid of “hee hee hee,” and “huh, huh, huh?” (Maybe it is hue, hue, hue?) That’s what he sounded like.
One thing that was helpful was that he taught through repetition. So after a while, I started to get it. Every morning, even if we didn’t make it to his Qigong class, he started the same exercises repeated the same things over and over.
We’d circle our pelvises in each direction and then take it to smaller circles to move the sacrum. Simple exercise, but that worked.
It was awesome for low back pain, btw.
“Now squee (squeeze) your anus, squee (squeeze) up, up, up…” He would lift his hand up to indicate sending the chi up to our brains.
“If a man has his sacrum stuck, that affects his penis and he can’t screw…(insert dirty-old-man chortle here)…so spiral from your sacrum.”
“If the lady doesn’t work with her jade egg and tighten her wagina, the king would throw that concubine out! (Insert dirty-old-man chortle here)…”
“If you want more chi, more energy in your sexual organs, play with your nipples and connect with your prostate, and ladies, connect with your mysterious gate and your uterus. Lift your sexual organs, and men, don’t forget to squee your testicles. (Insert dirty-old-man chortle here)…”
Honestly, the only queer (queer as in bizarre, not queer as in gay) aspect to his lessons was the room full of people squeezing their nipples, while the men grabbed their junk.
And my personal favorite? The lesson in the soft entry, hard retreat – and that is exactly what it sounds like it is. Part of that lesson was his advice that it was crucial for the woman to come first. But even that was about the men.
“Men, it is very important for the lady to ejaculate first. Because when lady orgasms, her wagina becomes so warm and juicy, and the penis is like, OOOHHH…and immediately grows hard.”
Granted, I probably didn’t get his words exactly right, but this is close enough.
I think that’s enough for now.
I’ve been in Laos for a few days, and I absolutely LOVE IT here! I’ll write more on that later. But this place is just gorgeous!
Peace,
Mana
Addie Claims Her Power
/
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
The weeks passed.
Because the fall of the Patron’s Daughter was a slower progression than I anticipated, my escape to an unknown future was delayed.
I couldn’t complain, however. I was growing my fortune, and the Sorcerer was thorough in teaching me how to use it.
Really, the Sorcerer was a most splendid mentor. I would never have been able to navigate my way to a new life without him.
Even with a fat purse and a beautiful face, had he not passed on a wealth of instruction on where to go and how to comport myself once I got to the Capital City, a lifetime peasant like me would have been doomed.
Some basic math was the most important thing he taught me. I learned how to count, how to add and subtract.
Such knowledge to one who had been an indentured servant all of her life was priceless. There was no way I would ever have been able to understand the value of money if he hadn’t done that. The Sorcerer went over the differences in the value of gold, silver, and copper coins until I recognized the differences in my sleep.
He also drew various maps of the Capital City for me, and showed me many drawings of its more distinguished areas.
It was intimidating.
I had never seen such majestic buildings in my life. And the size was massive, many times larger than the village where I grew up.
The belief that I could ever feel at home there was beyond my imagination.
Yet the Sorcerer was patient, breaking the Capital down to neighborhoods and districts until I saw it as nothing more than a collection of villages.
He didn’t stop until I knew that city by heart, and could mentally find my way through avenues and streets I’d never seen.
Only then would he introduce me to the best neighborhood where a girl like me could land.
I would arrive in the Capital City with no papers, no name, and nobody to introduce me.
Therefore I had to choose those parts of town where no questions would be asked so long as enough money was handed over.
The part of town where he directed me was right next to the grand avenue of the elegant arts where the theater, the ballet, the opera house, and the symphony all lined up.
Yet on the street behind it were homes where art was an act of decadence.
The underground cabarets, the hidden gambling houses, the private gentleman’s clubs, the secret bordellos, and even a molly house for men who desired men found their home there.
The Sorcerer directed me to the most exciting and the most scandalous neighborhood in the Capital City.
But I get ahead of myself.
Before I could arrive to such a sumptuous future, I had to finish my business in the mundane dreariness of life as I had always known it.
Those last weeks of working in the fields were the most agreeable of my life.
I no longer suffered the bitter rage that kept people at a distance. For the first time, I got on well with those I worked in the field with.
I’m sure it helped that the crew I worked with was spared the humiliation of overwork from the Patron’s Daughter.
Strangely enough, her routine of haughty rides past those who slaved away in the fields now occurred more often than once a day.
Perhaps it wasn’t so strange.
After she had subjugated herself to the Brute who degraded her mercilessly, she had to compensate her pride.
And who better than the peasants who were at her mercy.
This was during harvest.
The most brutal months of year when we were worked pitilessly.
It was the time to pick more fruit and vegetables than was humanly possible, as well as making jars of preserves of whatever hadn’t sold at market.
The work was relentless and the expectations from our patrons were absurd.
This was a family who had more than enough jars of preserved fruits and vegetable to eat from for generations, yet from the yelling insults of our overseers one would think they faced famine in the winter.
They could have fed all of us all year on what they harvested and preserved, but of course, they didn’t.
We could scarcely keep up with their demands.
During this time, the Patron’s Daughter decided to impose her very particular ideas about how the peasants should pick to preserve the integrity and freshness of the produce.
Of course, her way would take three times as long as the fastest of us could do, thus making a near impossible chore intolerable. And her methods resulted in severe consequences for the team of workers she chose to persecute that day.
Before she had been a nuisance. Now she was a tyrant, and her nastiness had become hideous.
What did change was that she dared not indulge herself at the expense of my crew.
She tried, though.
The first time she screamed at me to pick fruit in a manner that would have my fingers bleeding within an hour, I let her have it without saying a word.
I simply looked into her eyes and brought to mind in vivid, excruciating detail the memory of the Patron’s Daughter in that whorish corset, with her breasts bobbing and her hips bucking while the Brute pummeled his engorged manmeat down her throat as the Patron’s Daughter groaned and suckled, spittle frothing at her mouth.
Then I sneered at her.
Her face went white.
She left my group without explanation, ostensibly because the group next to us was even more incompetent.
The Patron’s Daughter never came near us again after that.
Everybody I worked with noticed. For the first time in my life, everybody wanted to work alongside me.
Since we were never subject to the petty tyranny of the Patron’s Daughter, my crew brought in the most harvest every day.
Although that did not bring us anything in the way of reward or privilege, at least we weren’t punished and beaten as the other groups were.
That was my last season as a laborer, and the hard work was almost pleasant.
Perhaps the novelty of having power over another was the cause, but I actually reveled in how much strength and stamina I had.
I was actually considered pleasant to be around, rather than ugly Addie, the pathetic wretch who wanted more than she could ever have.
For the first time in my life, I had the respect of my people.
I enjoyed that very much as I planned my desertion.
When the Patron Met His Beloved
/
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
All was black drifting into the dreamtime, but the Wanderer knew he wasn’t heading for the terrors of the past.
He knew because of the heat, and warm always meant safe.
Then he came to the massive hearth, and sobbed when he saw the silhouette in front of the fire.
Before he could speak, the Bard waved him closer.
Sweat beaded his skin as soon as he sat down beside his grandfather, but he didn’t care.
The old man felt strong when they embraced, just like he did when the Wanderer was a child needing comfort after a nightmare.
He wanted to hold on forever, but the Bard pulled away and gripped him by the shoulders. He saw his grandfather’s eyes had changed, his gaze more penetrating now that he saw from another world.
When he spoke, his voice rang as clear and resonant as the Wanderer remembered.
“Kid, there are some folks I want you to meet.”
The Bard waved his hand through the fire, yet remained unscathed.
Then he pushed the Wanderer in, where he tumbled through the flames.
Yet he suffered no pain.
When he fell out on the other side, he found himself in the night.
The bitter cold gave him violent shivers.
Wherever he was, he assumed a storm must have just passed from the snow piled high on the ground.
The sky was black and dotted with stars, but he found the villa from the lamps illuminating the way up stairs carved from green slate.
The steps were clear of snow and two servants in furs stood on either side, puffs of air smoking from their mouths. Candles glowed from the windows, and the Wanderer heard the sounds of conversation and laughter from inside.
He knew that it must be some kind of celebration when a carriage drawn by a quartet of horses made its way up the path, and the footmen stood taller.
The noble crest on the door of the carriage seemed familiar, but the Wanderer couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before one of the servants opened the door.
“Happy Solstice, Patron,” the footman said. “Your uncle is eager to see you.”
“I can’t believe it’s been a year since I last came,” the visitor said, stepping outside.
Although he smiled and his manner was pleasant, the Wanderer sensed he didn’t want to be there.
His suspicions were confirmed when the nobleman looked at the sky and grimaced.
“I loathe cotillions.”
The Wanderer smiled at his muttering.
This was the youngest Patron he’d ever seen, only a few years older than he. The Patron was tall and powerfully built with long arms and broad shoulders.
He must have forgotten his gloves, or perhaps he didn’t care to wear them. His bare hands were as muscular and calloused as a farmer’s.
This Patron was rugged, lacking the fleshiness that usually contorted the features of noblemen.
When he went up the steps, the Wanderer knew he should follow.
Getting out of the cold was a relief, but he was overwhelmed as soon as they entered the villa.
The Wanderer caught the scents of cinnamon and clove burning from the lamps.
He’d never been to a masquerade before, except through the Bard’s stories. Staring down the cascade of creamy stone steps, this Solstice Ball surpassed anything he had ever imagined.
Gentlemen covered their hair with silver wigs, wearing stark white shirts with dress breeches and coats in somber black. They faded next to the women.
The ladies pranced in gowns of deep jewel tones, moving with sluggish ease, holding their skirts with hands in white gloves.
The swell of breasts rose from the mounds of silk and velvet, yet they were ghostly from the powder dusting their décolletage, their necks, and their faces.
Their lips were stained red, their hair piled high on their heads.
The musicians strung the first notes of the song to prepare the guests for the next dance.
The Wanderer was amused when several women discovered the handsome young Patron at the top of the stairs. They were slow to look away, their lashes fluttering to invite him to ask for the honor of a dance.
But he glanced at the Patron and saw from the expression on his face that he was blind to them.
The Wanderer followed his gaze and immediately understood why.
He had known many women in his travels around the world.
All of them were lovely in their own right. All of them had a grace and allure that was unique to women.
He admired most he had known and loved a few. But this was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
The Wanderer almost wondered if she was human.
Her face implied a world beyond the mists into shadows and dreams.
Her bones were elongated, the angle of her cheeks stark beneath her tilted blue eyes, in line with her jaw slanted from her ears to the point of her chin.
Her high forehead teased with the arched brows of a coquette, her nose was long and upturned at the tip, her lips curving in the smirk of an imp.
Her skin was luminous, naked of powder. Her pale blond hair gathered in lace where her neck rose from her shoulders.
Her gown was airy, bringing to mind the springtime courtship between sun and water. In the shimmers of blue and green and flashes of quicksilver, the Wanderer saw a creek reflecting grasses and hints of morning light.
The girl seemed to glide across the floor when she hurried to her place in line, her skirts slithering around her hips and legs.
Even her dancing was liquid grace.
When the music started, her arms arced from the sway of her body and her gown made eddies around her waist before swirling away.
There was deliverance in her eyes, betraying the ecstasy of a woman deep inside herself.
The Wanderer followed the Patron to the hall and they edged the mass of twirling couples.
It was difficult to breathe from the ladies holding their skirts high and fanning their perfumes around them.
But the Patron never lost sight of that face.
The Wanderer noticed a pink flush across her cheeks.
The girl sensed she was being watched.
At first, she didn’t seem troubled by that, occupied with keeping her feet safe from the oafish dancing of her partner.
But the Patron kept up his vigilance, and the blush deepened and her features grew tight.
Finally, the dance ended and the girl curtseyed to her partner.
Then she spun around, her gown a swirling cascade as she turned on the stranger who had been staring at her for the last quarter hour.
The Wanderer flinched in the face of her fury and braced himself for the onslaught of scorn.
Instead, he was relieved to see her wrath dissipate when she saw her admirer. Her color returned to its porcelain glow and she smiled.
But the Patron stood paralyzed, his mouth open then closing when words didn’t come.
The girl smiled even wider. There was challenge gleaming in her pale blue eyes, a challenge she expected her suitor to meet.
“Come on, Friend,” the Wanderer murmured. “You can do this.”
As if he could hear him, the Patron pulled upright, proving his instinct to conquer was stronger than fear.
He walked tall when he approached that beautiful girl, his gait at leisure.
The Most Exquisite Whore in the World
/
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
The Brute picked up the corset and looked over to me.
“Clean her up and dress her.”
“No!” the Patron’s Daughter shrieked. “I’m not wearing that!”
The Brute stepped forward and gripped her grimy face in one of his thick hands.
“The only choice you have is to come here or stay away. But once you walk through that door, you don’t make decisions. If I tell you to do something, you do it.”
“No!”
The Brute pushed her away.
“Then get out.”
My heart sank, and even the Patron’s Daughter was confused.
“I don’t understand!”
“It’s simple. I want you and Addie to leave, and I don’t want you back until you obey me.”
The Patron’s Daughter shook her head, but the Brute shrugged and turned his back.
I felt a pain in my chest and realized it was my heart grieving as the ache came back to my loins. The sensation was bizarre because it was how I felt every time I saw the Noble Son, knowing he was out of reach.
It was the soul of yearning, and it was bizarre that the Patron’s Daughter would pine for the repugnant beast of a man standing before her.
“I give you one minute before I physically throw you out.”
Having no wish to be bodily removed, I stepped forward, gripped the Patron’s Daughter by the arm, and pulled her with me out the door.
She didn’t resist, dazed as she was, and I could feel her yearning sear through me.
Before we came out of the woods, I guided her to the river.
“You need to wash these stains out of your gown first,” I whispered. “It’s warm enough you won’t catch a chill on your way home.”
At the river, I did the best I could to get the stains of man juice and vomit from her dress, soaking those stains as best I could until I couldn’t smell the stench any longer.
The chill of the water, brought the Patron’s Daughter back to her senses. As we came out of the woods, she handed over two of the gold coins she brought.
I accepted without argument, even though what I saw was worth the whole lot. Yet she had had a rough night, and I felt something close to pity for her.
“I’ll be here same time next week,” I said as we came out of the woods. “I’ll wait for half an hour. If you don’t come, I understand.”
After she left, I went back to the barren cabin where the Sorcerer waited.
I was sick with worry that she wouldn’t be there the following week.
“Will you relax?” the Sorcerer chided. “Of course, she’ll be back.”
“You can’t possibly know that for certain.”
“She showed up tonight, didn’t she?”
“She had an orgasm last week. This week didn’t go so well.”
The Sorcerer smiled, his yellowed teeth gleaming.
“Which means she’ll be craving another. Trust me, she’s already surrendered her pride. Would you prefer to waste time lamenting something you need not worry about, or would you rather learn the value of what’s in your pocket, and how to navigate the Capital City once you get there?”
He made a good point.
We changed subjects easily, and I absorbed all he had to teach me.
Of course, the Sorcerer was right.
The Patron’s Daughter was there before I was the following week.
The Brute nodded slowly when we came in, raising his brows slightly as he glanced at me and handed me the strange corset.
The Patron’s Daughter’s fingers trembled as she unlaced the front of her oversized gown and let it drop to the ground, pulling her camisole and bloomers off.
She was even more beautiful naked.
The Patron’s Daughter looked like a goddess.
Her breasts were large and full, standing high on her chest. Her nipples protruded carnality. Her torso tapered to a ridiculously small waist before billowing out into her rounded hips.
She went limp when I encircled my arms around her waist to wrap her in the corset. Her waist was already so small, I pulled the laces tight mating the edges. Rather than squeezing her lungs tight, the corset fit her perfectly.
Even though he didn’t suggest it, I undid the elaborate roll at the nape of her neck and let her raven hair stream over her shoulders and down to her waist.
Just like that, the Patron’s Daughter metamorphosed into the most exquisite whore in the world.
The corset was obscene, pushing her full breasts as high as her collarbones, her erect nipples jutting towards the sky, the hairy mound of her pubis damp with anticipation.
With her flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, her red mouth parted, the Patron’s Daughter could not wait for what would happen next.
Any doubt that she wanted to be there was done away when I felt the rush in my loins as they opened.
The Wanderer and the Concubines
/
Image by spicetree687 from Pixabay
Every time he caught a woman watching him, memories of his mother were stirred and stopped him in his tracks.
It was such a gaze that propelled him away from the Northern Brothers.
They had been in the Indies for a month and the trio could never resist the weekly bazaar. Market day was the day of women. Covered in saris and veils, they milled around the booths, their delicate hands touching the wares they coveted the most.
The Wanderer and his friends drifted along the sea of feminine mystery, the scents and sounds of the women enchanting.
Most were demure, looking away from the Wanderer and the Northern Brothers, charming them even more as they imagined the beauty of the face behind the veil.
Then the tease along his flesh let the Wanderer know somebody was staring at him.
He scanned the crowd until he found her. He could see she must be the concubine of wealth and power from her dress.
Her sari and veil were the color of plums and threaded with gold, while an amber pendant hung in the center of her brow. Her eyes were the same color as the jewel, elongated and lined with kohl.
That was all he saw of her face, but it was enough.
He suddenly remembered how his mother had looked at him for the last time and he had no choice but to follow the concubine home.
She belonged to a harem of twenty women, with six eunuchs as escort.
The Wanderer kept a few paces behind, but he had no difficulty trailing the group. Their saris made a festival of color, billowing behind the concubines returning to the house of their master.
The spice of their perfume lingered in the street when he stopped before the majestic residence.
He felt foolish waiting outside, knowing his friends would taunt him mercilessly when he found them again.
Then a window opened from the top floor and the girl from the bazaar leaned out. Her face was unveiled and she was even more beautiful than he imagined.
Two other concubines stood behind her, their laughter piercing through their veils. The women dropped a long silken rope from their chambers to the ground, their eyes daring their admirer to climb it.
The Wanderer accepted the challenge, only to be overwhelmed with the pleasure of a long afternoon.
He had known happiness in his life, but nothing prepared him for the embrace of the concubine.
She took him to the edge of delirium.
The women almost refused to allow him freedom from the harem, only letting him go after he promised to return the next day.
The Northern Brothers breathed a loud sigh of relief when he returned, declaring they were convinced he must have lost his head when they didn’t see him by sundown. Their eyes widened as the Wanderer gathered his things.
His heart squeezed when he faced them.
“Have you lost your mind?” one of them asked.
“We weren’t joking just now,” said the other. “It will be your head on the chopping block if you get caught.”
The Wanderer hesitated, but the memory of his mother closing the door to his bedroom for the last time flashed in his mind.
Then he remembered the earnest desire in the amber eyes of the concubine he’d made love to hours before.
“I know,” he said. “But you’ve taught me well and I promise to be careful.”
Shaking their heads, they embraced him with tears in their eyes.
It was no less painful for him to say good-bye, for the Northern Brothers had become his family and the Wanderer knew he would never see them again.
But he returned to the harem and drowned his sadness in the sensuality of the concubines.
Over the next few months, he made love to them all and learned more about the ecstasy of the body than he ever would have in the brothels.
The concubines hid him well, camouflaging their young lover as one of them, dressing him in their clothes and lining kohl around his eyes.
When their master visited their quarters, the women circled close around the Wanderer so he would never be chosen. Fortunately, their master was in his elder years and less driven by lust.
Thus he seldom came to the harem.
The risk of danger carried the women to euphoric heights of madness for months, while their silken skin and heavy musk were ambrosia for the Wanderer.
But one afternoon, he was nearly caught.
He was buried in the embrace of his favorites, the concubine who lured him from the bazaar and her mentor, when their master came to the harem without warning.
The other concubines were swift and cunning enough to protect them.
They convinced the old man that a few of them were devastated with violent stomach. Nobody could be certain if supper had disagreed with them, or if it was a malaise that was going around.
Their master left in haste lest he should fall ill. After he was gone, a heavy silence fell over the harem and the fear in the eyes of the women made the Wanderer hate himself.
If he had been caught in the harem, the Wanderer wouldn’t have been the only one to lose his head.
He left them that night.
He thought loneliness would break him apart, but met another traveler before long and their adventures were a revelation.
And so it went for nearly four years.
The Bard's Grandson, the Wanderer
/
The first days at sea had been disappointing.
The excitement of following the steward to his berth didn’t last after he met his neighbors. The passengers around him were dressed in the most exquisite clothes he’d ever seen, cut to fit close to their bodies.
They perused his oversized clothes, looking to his berth with disbelief before the smiling mask of good manners came over their faces. His neighbors nodded in passing and acted pleasant, but they never invited him to join them.
His heart ached when he thought of how long the Bard must have saved to buy him that ticket. His first week onboard gave him the first dose of loneliness he ever knew in his life.
But that was trifling compared to how he felt when his grandfather died.
He knew the moment the Bard passed on. He’d been at sea a couple of weeks. The morning was lovely with the sun shining through wispy clouds and reflecting a bright wake along the sea.
But the air stung his cheeks and wind pierced through the patches in his wool coat. His mittened hands were buried in his pockets, but he still had to rub his fingers together to keep them feeling.
The other passengers avoided the cold, so he was alone on the deck when a sudden wash of heat crashed over him. He was sweltering and the image of his grandfather backlit by a mountain of fire came to mind.
The vision lingered. The heat absorbed in his skin while the slap of the wind relented to the caress of a breeze.
The Bard had come to say good-bye, but the affection of the farewell gave him no comfort. Knowing his grandfather was no longer of this world dropped him to his knees, his hands clenched to hold onto something that was gone.
A steward found him an hour later.
He was lying on the deck curled into a ball, his eyes squeezed shut with tears frozen on his cheeks.
The steward carried him to his berth, and revived him enough to learn what happened.
After that, he knew the crew kept a close watch on him and even his neighbors tried to be kind. But he neither saw nor heard any of them. He avoided people, leaving his cabin only to descend to the decks where nobody went.
One day, his melancholy was disturbed by the whisper of an unfamiliar voice.
“Hey there, Kid.”
The stranger caught him off guard.
He was too surprised to pretend he didn’t hear and turned toward the stairwell leading to the lower holds of the ship. From the tour he took on his first day aboard, he knew no passengers stayed down there, only cargo and rats.
But there were two men peering at him from the cracked door.
He wouldn’t have seen them but for their bright yellow hair.
The men opened the door wider and he saw they must be from the northern countries. They had eyes in the same deep blue as the rivers of ice covering their land for centuries. But the warmth and sympathy he saw in their gaze melted the freeze of his isolation, and he no longer felt alone.
“What are you looking so sad about?” they asked.
The captain and stewards were relieved he finally came to the dining room that evening and ate with so much enthusiasm. They didn’t see him wrapping breasts of chicken and mounds of potatoes in his napkins to hide them in his pockets.
His presence in the berth was pretense after that day. He stayed in the bowels of the ship with the Northern Brothers, the joy and laughter they shared keeping the gnawing ache away.
His new friends took him in that first year after they came to port and initiated him in the libertine ways enjoyed by wanderers.
They got him drunk for the first time, taught him how to ride in caravans, fight off thieves, and steal aboard ships. But after they bought him his first woman, the days were marked until the one when he would move on.
It was his eighteenth birthday.
The Northern Brothers teased him until he admitted the reason he avoided the brothels when they went. His cheeks were hot when he told them he had never known a woman.
“That settles it then,” they said. “Tonight, you’re coming with us.”
He remembered what his grandfather always said about following his heart and tried to refuse.
The Northern Brothers wouldn’t hear it.
“You may be blind to how the ladies look at you,” they said. “But we’re not, and you’ll thank us for this later.”
His heart pounded as he followed his friends into the brothel. Yet the Wanderer was disappointed with the prostitutes.
They weren’t beautiful with their painted faces and unnatural smiles. On a second glance, he saw one who appealed to him. She seemed more comfortable in her skin and stood apart from the others.
She also gazed at him in a way that kindled something he’d long forgotten. So he went with her and she brought his lust to life.
The Northern Brothers later told him she was considered the best, and the Wanderer had no doubt that was true.
Once released, his desire became overwhelming.
But he lost interest in the brothels, for the women of every day distracted him the most. The leisurely whirl of modest garments made it difficult for him to breathe. The scent of perfume made him wonder how the flesh would taste.
But it was the glimpse of eyes following him that made the Wanderer lose his senses for minutes at a time. Every time he caught a woman watching him, that stopped him in his tracks.
A Day in the Merchant's Circus - On the Road #25
/
Hey y'all,
My first flea market was really cool.
In the U-district in Seattle, they have a decent outdoors Farmer's Market set up, and a flea market was tagged on just a few weeks ago inside (most important at this time of year) at the University Heights Community Center.
The building began life as an elementary school, complete with old wooden floors and wide staircases with fat banisters. It was only the fourth week-end they've done it, so there were about ten vendors there.
I set up my booth up in the middle of the old hallway right in front of the middle entrance, with the side entrances equidistant from me. In other words, prime location and the cherry was the huge windows right behind me to provide plenty of natural lighting.
I draped my silk saris to disguise the long wooden bench delinquents and class clowns once sat on before visiting the dreaded principal, and completed my Arabian Nights transformation by draping the roll-up camp table that would hold my assortment of books with a purple silk special from India, via Chicago.
Laying out my blanket and pillows for coziness, I set up my sign also offering FREE Tarot card reading with book purchase. Shuffling my cards, I was ready for business.
Millie Buchanan, the lady in charge of the flea market shebang, came tottering up the stairs in complete clown regalia. Over the phone, I could tell she was elderly, and as soon as I saw her pulling herself up the stairs, I knew I was right.
Well into her eighties, Millie had taken the time to don a yellow and red costume, with matching face paint and red afro wig. She had a little horn that she tooted on a regular basis as she visited around the market, helping people any way she could, and shaking hands with the kiddies.
She also had a booth of her own set up and was determined to make the flea market a success. She even offered to make flyers for me and hand them out if I gave her a week's notice next time I came.
She was the sweetest of the characters I met that day.
Right across from me was Marcia (pronounced Mar-see-Yaa) Moonstar, performance poet and mystic (wanna-be, I suspect), and she was very gracious at my direct competition for her readings.
Besides cards and poetry books and CD's of techno keyboard pop with her reading her poetry, she offered tarot and astrology readings starting at $10 a pop (when you consider that my books are $10 and the reading is complimentary, where do you think the better deal is?).
I was dismayed that we were set up in direct competition; but as I said, she was gracious and gently suggested I charge for my readings.
I'm a writer, not a psychic.
Marcia (pronounced Mar-see-Yaa) had all kinds of questions about what I was doing and I made the mistake of telling her about the Rasmuson Foundation grant. Because after that, it was an act of will to get her to leave me and my booth alone.
One thing I’ve learned thus far is that all it takes is one person to monopolize my space and other, would be book-buyers and readers are kept away. But she offered several times to have me listen to her read her goddess re-emergence poetry with the picture of her in full regalia on the back.
"I wear a Raven's mask with my cloak when I perform in public," she said, as I looked at her in a moon cloak draping her head and glittery scepter.
Ah, what the hell.
People want their dreams and Mar-see-Yaa is no exception. She just didn't want to stay put in her booth. We did a trade of items, and for once I came out the winner, for she was excited her work would be going to Alaska.
You're a sitting duck when you set yourself up like I did. I guess a long table keeps the invasive at bay, but me sitting on my blanket with Tarot cards, saris, and vivid sign attracts the attention of...certain types of people.
In the middle of the day, a tall thin man with silver hair and a turquoise western doo-dad that substitutes for a necktie came up, and looking down on me, asked in a booming voice:
"Do you read fortunes?"
"Only if you buy my book," I said.
"Well have I got something to sell you!"
“Oh shit,” I thought, as I politely stated that I was the one who paid for a booth.
But he continued.
"I'm a mystic, and an artist, and a musician, and a preacher!" He boomed. "Is what you're selling cool?"
"What I'm selling is beyond cool," I replied.
"Beyond Cool! Now that's something for the lost youth to think about. You must be an Enlightened Master Mistress!"
"If you insist."
"I came in to take care of a call to nature! I'll be right back!"
And of course, he was. After some carrying on, he picked up the book and went to "Preacher Man and the Golden Pedestal," complimented me on my descriptive style, found my preacher offensive, and offered to quote extensive scripture to me if I had a minute.
"Well, I am working."
He offered to keep it short, but he still kept potential people away until he left my booth ten minutes later. And that was after telling me that he was Romeo to a gorgeous, yet misguided saleslady.
It was a day.
It wasn't even a busy day, but I sold nine books.
And I had to work for it.
Peace,
Montgomery
The Quixotic Quest of the Great Queer Hope II - Tantric Shitshow, Part 1
/
Image by ktphotography from Pixabay
Hey y’all,
[The beginning of this letter is the blog right after this one.]
I thought: “What the hell. I’ve never been to Thailand, and what better way to celebrate my freedom after ending a stifling, oppressive relationship than to go to SE Asia and start that journey with a Tantra adventure.”
So I signed right up.
This is the part where I should have done some research.
From the information I found online, the Masters – Mantak Chia (Tao) and Charles Muir (Tantra) - seemed really male, really straight, and much older than you would expect. Mantak Chia is 75 or 76, and Charles Muir just turned 73.
In other words, these men were of a different generation who never had to consider LGBTQ inclusiveness. Hell, they never even had to consider women – queer or straight – beyond making sure they had orgasms.
There was also no mention of Dr. Sierra Levy or a space for Queer Tantra in the description.
This would have been a good time to ask those questions. But I didn’t. And again, that’s on me.
So I get here.
This workshop was on Mantak Chia’s turf of Tao Garden Health Spa and Resort outside Chiang Mai. The grounds are lush and beautiful, there are yin/yang symbols everywhere, and there are all kinds of eastern healing modalities offered in the clinic and in the spa, some of which you can’t find anywhere else in the world, and it seems he keeps making up new treatments.
The environment there is far more Taoist than Tantric, but that’s ok. As complex as Taoist sexuality is, I learned just enough from Mantak Chia that I’m interested and curious to learn more - even if he was prone to saying “wagina” instead of “vagina,” especially when tired and his accent got so thick I hardly understood him. But I preferred his “wagina” to the excessive “yoni” talk that happened during Charles Muir’s lessons.
We’re not Hindu. Yoni coming out of an American mouth sounds pretentious. So pretty please, with sugar on top, call our bits the sacred cunt already. It’s more honest, not to mention sexier.
I finally ran into Sierra, who said she didn’t know how many people had signed up who were queer. Kind of odd for the head of queer tantra.
She said she had put the word out on Facebook and “other groups,” so maybe some would show up. She had heard there were “a few queers” here.
She also said that there would be an announcement drawing attention to her as the queer pod leader, and that’s how we would find each other.
People came to this workshop from all over the world - some couples, but mostly singles - of all ages and sizes, many between mid-twenties to early forties, and most seemed straight.
Although I suspect there were several bisexual women here, most of them were from Europe, a place where discretion is the better part of valor. From my experience, European lesbians/bisexuals are perfectly content to hide in plain sight.
And when you’re in a workshop that’s very patriarchal in its outlook, that’s probably a better way to be.
Oh, and both of the “Masters” in this Workshop on blissful, ecstatic love had a harem mentality when it came to women.
All this became more obvious every day.
So does this sound like the kind of Tantra workshop a queer woman would feel awesome in?
Umm….yeah…not. Dr. Sierra Levy did not tell me any of this.
Once I got here, Sierra told me a lot more. This was a biannual workshop – the 4th, and rumored to be the last “Masters.” She had been here for the 2nd and 3rd workshop, and said that both times had totally sucked.
“It’s so heterosexist,” she said. “I’m here to give support, and to make this a safe space for queers to be. The Masters need to evolve and change their language.”
And Sierra was here to make that happen.
She didn’t tell me any of that either when I had met her.
She had a particular hard-on for Charles Muir, the Master of Neo-Tantra.
Sierra had taken his course in California several years ago. When it came time for the men and women to separate to learn about yoni (cunt, goddammit!) and lingam (you mean cock?) massage, she piped up that she preferred to massage yonis .(cunts!)
Sierra insisted she’d rather join the men and Charles Muir refused to let her do it. He said she could buy his books and videos on how to massage the yoni.
(How about divine pussy? That has a nice ring.)
But Sierra Levy could not join the men.
“Well, what if I pack? Could I join the men then?” Sierra told me she asked him. “Charles Muir didn’t even know what I was talking about.”
Well, no. Why would he? Never mind the generational difference, most men who are mighty comfortable in their male privilege don’t take the time to learn the ways and verbiage of queer women.
Anyway, Dr. Sierra Levy, naturopath and acupuncturist has been pissed off at Charles Muir ever since.
Who knows how long she’s been a thorn in his side? She was determined to get him to evolve, and change his language to spill his secrets to a queer audience.
“I would rather die than change my language!” Charles Muir protested.
What’s mystifying to me is how many times she has taken his workshops. Again, this was her 3rd out of 4 Meeting of the Masters Workshop. And that doesn’t include the California workshop she took several years ago.
For what it’s worth, Sierra has a kind heart and I think she meant well. And to give credit where it’s due, the Sierra’s of this world do their part to bring about social change. They squawk long and loud, and eventually people have to listen, even if they only do so in the hope they’ll shut up.
Which she didn’t.
However, I did not knowingly or willingly sign up to be a part of her Quixotic Quest as the Great Queer Hope in the world of Neo-Tantra and Sexual Tao.
Oh, and by the way, she lacked the skills to be supportive to the one and only queer who showed up on her recommendation, much less be this stellar hero of the Great Queer Hope.
This was one of those scenarios where somebody wants to be a part of something so they can feel important and special, not for what they have to give to others.
If you’ve read this far, this is only the beginning.
Peace,
Mana
PS: Click HERE if you’d like to read the beginning of this letter.
The Quixotic Quest of the Great Queer Hope I - Tantric Shitshow Part 1
/
Image by KiraHundeDog from Pixabay
Hey y’all,
Well, that was a disaster.
I love being open. I love the results of being open most of the time. It’s a state that makes life more interesting, and jumping into the unknown has landed me in some spectacular places and experiences.
But every so often, I would be wise to exercise the caution of taking a closer look of what I’m jumping into.
And this Masters Workshop Tao Meets Tantra, with Sierra Levy (no – excuse me, I mean Doctor Sierra Levy, naturopath and acupuncturist), allegedly as the head of Queer Tantra was definitely one of those times.
I should have researched.
I should have asked questions. I should have asked a lot of questions.
But I didn’t, and that’s on me.
To get y’all up to speed, I left the Masters Workshop on Sunday, while it ends today, Wednesday. I came to Pai with Kip on Monday.
Right now, I’m sitting in a lovely little café on a dirt road with a lovely view of a small farm between this café and the place where Kip and I are staying in our respective mud huts.
Roosters are crowing, birds are chirping, the morning sun is bright, and it’s not too hot yet.
Photo by me.
Oh, and there’s a white Buddha statue on the hill above us.
There are lots of Buddhas on hills around here, and lots of temples.
I have this gorgeous little cappuccino set up in front of me, with a tiny cup of flower water on a small wooden tray, with a wooden spoon to stir as much brown sugar as I desire into my cappuccino.
In other words, I’m good, life is good, and I’m in a good place.
Photo by me.
I’ve also had some time to process long enough to find the humor in what I just left behind.
It’s fabulous when everything goes smoothly in life and travel, but the really good stories come from conflict and chaos, when everything goes to hell and all the drama that ensues.
So please excuse the length of this email. For those who want to dive with me, it will take several letters to tell all this in digestible chunks.
On that note, back to the shitshow and how I landed in it.
I met Sierra last summer at the first Cascadia Tantra Festival on the Olympic Peninsula. I almost didn’t go. I had finally gotten back in my house and I was exhausted. But the guest coordinator convinced me to come, insisted this would be so healing and nourishing after a breakup.
So I rallied and went.
This was one of those times when jumping off the cliff into the unknown was a gorgeous idea.
Five weeks after my split with Morgen, I was numb. The healing from the CTF was desperately needed. At the end of those few days, I was able to feel again, without feeling horrible. And to give credit where it’s due, Sierra Levy had been a part of that.
Sierra and I were 2 of 3 queer women there. The 3rd, Grace Bryant from Seattle, was one of the presenters and her 2 workshops – “Deconstructing Gender Identity” and “Non-Binary Tantra” - left little doubt as to what she was about and what she had to offer in this workshop.
On the last day of CTF, Sierra and I had paired up for an exercise in letting go through sending some love to those who had hurt us and who we hadn’t forgiven.
Sierra said: “I don’t need to do this. I’ve already done my work, but I can hold space while you release. I’m in bliss about 97% of the time.”
Looking back, that statement right there was a red flag.
But I went with the flow. In the exercise, we sat across from each other and held hands – left palm up and right palm down, left hand receives and right hand gives to make a circuit between us.
It was intense.
Energy coursed through me as tears streamed down my face.
I let go of so much shit inside of sorrow and the sorrow inside of shit about Morgen and her daughter, Yseult. Then they flowed out, and Robert (my late brother) and Keckley (his ex-wife) came in, and then my older brothers, then my parents, and I think you get the idea.
A powerful release like that is vulnerable and sets up a lot of trust.
After this exercise, Sierra and I continued talking, and agreeably lamented the lack of queer women who were also interested in studying Tantra. She then told me about this intensive Workshop in Thailand, and to spread the word to other queers who I thought might be interested.
“I’m heading up Queer Tantra,” so said Sierra, “and I want as many of us there as possible. There are only about 20 spaces left.”
“Are you teaching classes?” I asked.
“Maybe. My role hasn’t been fully defined yet.”
She friended me on Facebook and sent me the link. I kind of had a picture of her playing a role similar to what Grace Bryant had at this one.
I thought: “What the hell. I’ve never been to Thailand, and what better way to celebrate my freedom after ending a stifling, oppressive relationship than to go to SE Asia and start that journey with a Tantra adventure.”
So I signed right up.
This is the part where I should have done some research.
To be continued…
Peace,
Mana
For the Love of BackStory!
/
Fiction has changed a lot, and really, not necessarily for the better.
My ex-fiancée used to teach high school English, so she stayed current on YA fiction. She has a particular love for YA dystopian fiction, but she even read YA fiction she didn’t like to stay on top of what her students were reading.
Like me, she has loved to read her all her life. But I have given up on most contemporary fiction because I think most of it has gone down the toilet. She agrees, and insists that most of the great writing right now is happening in YA.
If I had to guess, I bet one of the reasons why is YA doesn’t cut out backstory.
I read voraciously when I was a kid. Growing up, I read mostly commercial junk and did not become actively interested in the classics until I was in college.
But one thing most of my favorites novels had in common was that the backstory was a crucial part of developing the core plot. Novels were often hundreds of pages long, and far longer than the 100,000-120,000 word limit of what is now considered an epic.
What made up all those pages and words? Backstory. The backstory of each of the characters before they came to be a part of the main plot line was anything but shortchanged, and usually described in great detail.
These were incredible stories and I loved falling into those worlds.
The biggest mistake I made with my first novel of the Ella Bandita stories (Ella Bandita and the Wanderer) was cutting out so much backstory. The reason why? Because I was trying to get traditionally published, and all the agents and editors insisted on a word count between 70,000 and 110,000 words.
Sometime after the 80’s, novels became shorter; backstory was only a succinct mention, and in many cases all but disappeared. If the story is one that takes place in a short frame of time, that would work fine most of the time. But how can anybody have the space to disappear into another world when that universe is so constricted?
It didn’t work for me.
The criticism pointed out the most often in my reviews is due to the lack of backstory. The critical readers expressed an inability to connect or understand the main character.
For a long time, I’ve known I need go back and rewrite it, add that backstory. But I simply couldn’t do it. I wrote and rewrote and cut out large chunks of that first novel so many times, the thought of working on it anymore made me weary.
There comes a time when you have to move on to the next book, so I did. Lesson learned, but ouch, that hurt.
Then it occurred to me that I could add to it.
Since Ella Bandita and the Wanderer was written as novella segments, I could take those 75 pages that had been cut, mainly written from the The Horse Trainer’s point-of-view, and put them before Birthing Ella Bandita.
I could also write a novella in the 1st person from her mother’s point-of-view, in the final days of her pregnancy, knowing that childbirth was going to kill her. That could be at the beginning. The main character would still be at the start of the story, even if she’s in utero.
Of course, this changes the entire tone of the novel, and the name needs to change. I think the name of the final novella of the novel as it is right now would work beautifully - The Heart of the Lone Wolf.
It makes sense, really. All the important characters in this novel are alone.
Right now I’m working on the 2nd draft of the 2nd novel in the Ella Bandita stories. When I finish, I’ll take a break from it and go back to the 1st novel and make those additions. It shouldn’t take too long and it will make a nice break from this draft.
As far as the 2nd novel work-in-progress is concerned, my working titles are: The Shepherd and the Courtesan, or The Art of Taking Chances.
Oh and the Courtesan has a juicy backstory. Even if the transformation of an ugly peasant girl named Addie into the legendary Adrianna the Beautiful has nothing to little to do with the main plot, I’m writing it and it’s staying.
Why? Because it’s good. Even if it makes the novel more expensive to print, it’s going in. Besides that’s the beauty of ebooks.
Maybe the glorious backstory can find its way back in to the pages of novels, now that printing may not be such an expense.
Coming Home. A Day of Subtle Wonders, Part 2
/
Blue Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me.
Hey y’all,
After another splendid afternoon at the Once Café, I walked to the Blue Temple in time for sunset.
As the guy at my guesthouse had said, the place was far less crowded. The falling light also made the temple more beautiful. But it still felt like the Disneyland of Buddhist Temples.
On the way back though, magic happened.
Walking in Thailand is an experience of watching where you step. When traveling with Kip, he pointed out the many perils along the way with efficiency.
“Don’t trip here,” he’d say at an unexpected step that could have easily tripped me up if I hadn’t paid attention.
“Broken concrete.”
“Broken glass. Watch your step.”
Although not as shocking as in India, there was always trash, and I even came across a couple of logs of human feces freshly shat right on the sidewalk.
That was a couple of days ago.
So spacing out in my own little world, as I often do on walks, is not a good idea here. Pay attention to my surroundings or fall flat on my face or step in shit.
The Blue Temple was almost 3 kilometers away, on the other side of the river from my guesthouse.
I wouldn’t have noticed this place had it not been dark.
As I approached the stairs to the walking path of the bridge, I heard the clink of dishes and silverware – sure signs of a nearby restaurant – on my right. Through the lush foliage, I saw a tall white building and the glass enclosure of what looked to be an elegant conservatory.
That made me curious. I wandered over and sure enough, it was a restaurant and a bakery.
I walked into something that was straight out of French Colonialism.
This place could have been in New Orleans with the soaring ceilings, soft wood floors, verandas, and columns, and just the way the space was made.
I didn’t expect that in Thailand, but Chiang Rai is so close to the Laos border, it’s definitely possible this area had had French settlers.
This place was a jewel.
Very romantic with seating both inside and outside before the river. With the classical French architecture and the lush growth of the tropical environment that is Thailand, the atmosphere was stunning and romantic and very relaxing.
Of course, there were a lot of couples dining there, and most people I saw were Thai.
I wasn’t super hungry, but there was no way I wasn’t going to have dinner there. The best tables were reserved, but the host sweetly guided me to a place on the lawn near the river.
Dinner was delicious.
Tamarind vermicelli noodles baked in a puff pastry with a small soft-shelled crab on top, I even had wine with that. For dessert, I indulged in a creamy panna cotta with a decadent strawberry sauce, and a honey-mint limeade to drink.
But the food doesn’t matter near so much as I felt dining there.
Nothing brings my soul to life faster than spontaneity.
That is one of the treasures of traveling – especially alone because there’s no negotiating with somebody else. The chances to follow curiosity where it takes me are abundant, and I love it when I’m rewarded with discovery.
But there was something about what happened here. Finding this gorgeous place where I had a gorgeous dinner because I followed my curiosity filled me with so much joy.
I didn’t care that I wasn’t part of a couple. I didn’t mind I wasn’t there with a new travel buddy. The gift for me in that moment was the spirit of celebration in the experience of solitude.
Photo by me.