Enlightening Nonsense

I was running late to the Acro-Yoga workshop. This was being taught by a couple of people I had met in Sedona in 2008 at the Raw Spirit Festival. These two are based out of Hawaii and were in New York City for the Yoga & Raw Food Expo and I wanted to play a little with them. The class had already started warming-up and I kind of snuck in, rolled out my mat in a non-snapping manner and joined in.

Soon after we partnered up and I was sitting near Gumbi, a hyper-flexible yogi, and her and I became partners. I remember in college being paired in Physical Comedy class with this guy whose feet really stank and the partnering involved me leaning back while holding his hands and his rancid feet made themselves comfy on my thighs. I started to tear, not from the cheesy onion smell of his pediments but out of frustration and upset.

While Gumbi was not my hypothetical ideal, she was definitely not unpleasant to smell, that is, until a later date when I was to discover that her vagina was just as rubbery as her body and while I might be able to put up with the looseness factor, the smell of burnt rubber from the friction of my He-Man power sword was a little noxious even for one who likes to go bobbing for sewer logs in the underground.

Whether it was posed or not, not only was her body hyper-flexible but her cheer seemed to be a bit hyper as well. I lay on my back and lifted her up onto my feet like a seal with no thought that I would later be given her tuna taco as my fishy reward. After the class, I gave her a card of mine with the info for a couple of yoga gigs I had coming up, including info for the Boots & Barefoot boot camp and yoga class with Herbert [See “Herbie Handcock” at http://rebelyogi.com/herbie-handcock].

After I left the classroom, I didn’t think much of Gumbi, except for the occasional wondering where her horse companion, Pokey, was. It wasn’t until she contacted me that she was going to come to the Boots & Barefoot that I considered giving her a little “Pokey” myself. Have her ride my Pokey. “Me pokey and suckee you long time.”

It was early evening in Central Park and, as usual, no one showed up on time. Even I had to bring my pace up to a mild sprint in order to make the 5:00 meet time, to only find Herbert sitting around the fountain alone. It was just Herbert and me. With just two people even a circle-jerk feels kind of square.

Soon a couple of people started to show, including Gumbi. We talked a little. She voiced her frustration and difficulty in a recent Restorative Yoga workshop we took, which focuses on setting the yoga student up with pads and blocks and having them lay in a single position totally supported for several minutes so that they can fully relax their nervous systems. At one time I taught a Restorative class. I was fired from that studio when one class I brought tampons to try instead of pads.

Gumbi appreciated my saying how some people can’t just sit down and still their minds, that the more active may need to do some burnout activity beforehand, like dancing or yoga or chasing after blacks in Howard Beach, instead of that she was a failed meditator. Osho specifically designed a lot of meditations that incorporated both an active component and a passive one specifically with the Westerner who can’t still his mind without either drugging himself out or beating his wife up.

Class went fine. Because I had all levels there, from the 300 lb. beginner to Gumbi the superwoman yogi, I did my best to offer something for everyone. I gave Gumbi some physical challenges to explore and told the fatty to just sit by the tree and eat a tub of Bon-Bons. One time I challenged Gumbi not to let her attitude get that she thinks she has to do something more advanced and she commented back in what seemed like a slightly disagreeable way that she doesn’t. I thought to myself, “Easy there, Sparky,” and longed for my old school days of martial arts training where if you talked back to the teacher he would beat you senseless. That was before lawyers and child abuse were the legal fashion of the day.

After class she and Herbert were walking and I was like, “I think I’m going to catch the sunset” and I blew them off. I am very into sungazing and if she had offered me a blowjob right then if I would only forego the sun, I would have refused. If Herbert offered this to me I would have taken him up on this, but this is not because I’m gay. I’m not. I just like a good suck job and Herbert’s among the best.

Gumbi sent me a text message the next saying that she really liked my energy. As I didn’t have her name in my phone, I assumed it was from the Con Edison guy who hasn’t stopped harassing me since I answered the door with my shirt off. If I had a nickel for every person that told me on meeting me that they “like my energy” only later to seem to hate my energy, I could probably afford one of the rip-off raw food supplements that David Wolfe sells.

Cutting the story with a “yada, yada, yada…” Gumbi and I started to hang out.

She was clearly interested in me. She was another text-message douchebag [See “The Text-Messaging Douchebag” at http://rebelyogi.com/the-text-messaging-douchebag.html] whose favorite form of communication is the text-message and started emptying my phone balance with stupid one-word texts. I decided to up the ante in our text message communication, partly to see what would happen and partly in the hope of saving my phone balance.

She told me that she was on her period and I wrote something back like, “Well, then I can blow my load in you and we won’t have to worry about you getting preggers.” You see, when I “up the ante” I don’t just say, “I see your two dollars and raise you two dollars,” I am more of an, “I see your two dollars and put the mortgage to my house as well as my first born in the pot,” type of guy. In my defense, due to a high-propensity towards Tay-Sachs in my family, it is more likely than not that my first born will be mildly retarded and I’d rather give that little dummy child away than have him run around the house making a racket banging wooden spoons against everything.

She came back with, “Exactly!” and I knew that not only was she a sure thing but that she was a whore as well.

She came to another Boots & Barefoot and we walked and talked afterwards. I found her pleasant enough company and I figured it’s probably good that once in awhile I walk with a female that doesn’t have four legs and a full body covered with hair. I took her to this public/private garden in Hell’s Kitchen and we lay down together, in the non-Biblical sense, which means I wasn’t sticking anything inside of her at the moment. We intertwined bodies and I might have fallen asleep on her. Waking up, I noticed that I had a nocturnal emission of sorts. Luckily it came from my mouth and not my Johnson. Still a wet stain is a wet stain. I tried to save face by telling her that her breast was leaking. I’m not sure if she believed me but she did make an appointment with the gyno. That could have also been scheduled because of the head lice I gave her.

Gumbi talked about her desire to meet her soulmate and I felt like a guy who had just fucked a prostitute who then asks him, “Are you planning to put a ring on my finger?” For the record, the only ring I ever put on a prostitute’s finger was the ring of my rectum.

I knew we were not soulmates. We were not even littermates. Nor were we two people who would occasionally litter together. There was an implication in her discussion of “Oh, I want to meet my soulmate” and “Oh, I like you” that maybe I could be the one. I bit my tongue as usually when I say something charming like, “I’ll fuck your pussy but I ain’t touchin’ that soul of yours,” people clutch their children to their chest and run from the room screaming.

I hung out a few times with Gumbi and we mostly just did the walking, sit somewhere, lie down in each other’s arms and I would fall asleep and drool. It reminded me of was sex, which for me usually involves about ten seconds of vigorous activity followed by a nice slumber while the girl cleans up and then takes care of herself and thinks, “Sure it’s huge but it would have been at least nice if he got it inside of me before cumming!”

I finally went to her place and sexed her. While I could wrap her leg around my neck around four times and do the asphyxiation thing without having to risk the undignified death of being discovered hanging in a closet with my pants around my ankles like David Carradine, she essentially just lay there like a corpse. It’s strange… Gumbi, Duck and the Red-Haired Devil all played dead when it came time to do the nasty—and, believe me, the term “nasty” barely even scratches the grate of the sewers on those girls. Perhaps they knew I liked dogs and thought that this was what I meant when I asked to “do it doggy.” Had I known we were role-playing “dog and man,” I would have had them “fetch” me a beer and “play dead” while I watched the basketball game.

A woman’s satisfaction means little to me, so I don’t really care if she’s moaning and screaming or lying quiet like a stiff. It’s just that after working the graveyard shift at the mortician’s for seven years, I’ve fucked so many dead bodies that after I would cum with these “living” dead, there was always a moment of confusion when I would search for the door to the drawer to push them back into their chamber.

The only positive to the experience was now I could report back to Ninja, who had told me like a priest concerned for my soul’s damnation on more than one occasion, “Good luck finding someone who is 29 to fuck,” as if life after Ninja was going to be dismal. I’m still waiting for the party to stop after being done with that lunatic. I even carry around a party favor unfurly blow whistle wherever I go in case the urge to blow it comes to mind. If I only blow it once a month that is more than she ever blew me.

Gumbi was 30 and I figured that was close enough. When Ninja said this the first time, I just kept my mouth shut because I knew what I was thinking would probably only lead to an elongated tantrum from her. When she said this the second time, I couldn’t help myself. “And good luck finding someone who is mildly conscious who will put up with a complete psycho like you.” Seriously, how would anyone spar with a verbal samurai and not expect to be beheaded?

Gumbi had booked her schedule completely full and had hardly anytime to lay like a dead fish for me to stuff with my cream sauce. She worked from 2-9pm every day and on weekends she was anally training in a million different sports and athletics, from running to biking to Scottish log tossing. We would communicate via email and sometimes Instant Messaging, but if we ever actually managed to see each other it was a miracle of the level of the virgin birth of Jesus, only in our case it would actually be true. For the record, in my past life I fucked Mary and let me tell you, she wasn’t any virgin before me and she certainly wasn’t a virgin after me. To her credit, she didn’t lie there like a dead fish but flopped around like one pulled out of the water. Ah, I miss banging that little nymph!

For reasons I don’t want to get into now, I hadn’t cum for three months prior to the laying of the dead and I chose not to cum then. It’s a longer story but let’s just say that while there have been no double-blind studies on the topic, my proctologist thinks that keeping a piece of uncooked corn up one’s ass for a week straight might have a deleterious effect on the circulation to the prostate. I’ve only shoved cooked corn up there since and it’s been a sheer delight.

I could be a bit blunt and even mean in my responses to Gumbi but finally I somewhat apologized and realized something about myself. I’m mean. If someone says something that seems to indicate that she is a dummy, I often don’t speak with compassion but with disgust. I’m not defending this behavior. I’m just saying that it is what it is. I’m thinking that maybe if I hang around a bunch of New Age flakes who constantly throw around words like “compassion” and “heart centered” and “gratitude” that maybe it’ll rub off on me and I’ll give a shit. But in the meantime… Gumbi said her share of dimwitted comments and I lashed into her like a slave owner does a runaway.

Later I found out that she was a pothead and perhaps that could explain her lax attitude of, “Yeah, we’ll meet like whenever we meet. Maybe we’ll be, like, on the same block at the same time, man, this is good shit!” and some of her other cloudy comments. Now I’m part-hippie—the part that doesn’t shower that often or comb his hair—but I ain’t no stoner. Some hippies smoke pot but just because you smoke pot that doesn’t make you a hippie and, frankly, I’m a little tired of these stoners trying to associate with us poor hygiene folk.

I once asked her, “You supposedly do yoga and meditation. Can’t you bring yourself to a similar place as you do with marijuana without smoking a doobie?” There was a little confusion regarding my question, as in her racist years she had offed the one black member of the Doobie Brothers but we got through this.

.

“Well, yeah. I just like smoking pot,” she said. Uh, okay.

It’s funny, I’m a longhaired, dirty hippie with liberal views bordering on the anarchical and everyone seems to think that I smoke dope. I don’t. I think it should be legal and it’s completely hypocritical and a puritanical oppressive lie that our society accepts alcohol as a legal drug, while it is directly involved in thousands of bar fights, driving accidents and broken homes, and we make marijuana illegal which is directly involved in people creating music, making up new popular catch phrases and movie titles like, “Dude, where’s my car?” and substantially increasing the sales of Doritos and other bags of snacks from the time period of 1:00 and 3:00 in the morning. An alcoholic will go out and piss in your car tank, puke in your flowerbed, punch a cop and hit on a nun. A pothead will smile happily at the color of your car, notice patterns in your flowerbed that probably only exist on some burnt out dimension, kiss a cop, and oil a nun’s dry crack like Dorothy did the Tin Man.  I still don’t smoke. I don’t need to be high to oil a nun’s dry crack. “Oil. Oil!” says the rusty vagina (a little preview from my upcoming children’s book.)

I finally turned over a new leaf and decided if their were any snails over it I would just make a poor man’s escargot. I realized that because I knew that she was not the “one” that I had closed off myself, which is a bullshit way to live. I’ll rag my ass off about how most people are in a cocoon of conditioning so tight that they can’t spread their wings and fly. Well, being a bitter douchebag because someone says a few boneheaded things or is not my fairytale Cinderella is just as cocoon-y and just as douchey. But unlike most of the New Age fags who are being little Obama robots and “making change” for the better of the world (by working at McDonald’s and other fast food cashiers across the country), I decided to make the change for me—because I don’t mind associating with dirty hippies but I will never join the douchies. So I tried being <gulp> nice. And it wasn’t so bad.

Gumbi and I got together for the first time in awhile. I’m guessing she was high, not only because she was always high but because to just meet at a simple cross street became a total clusterfuck. I didn’t even question why she left the meet-up location to wander a few blocks uptown. Maybe there was a flower garden she wanted to observe.

We went to the Riverside Park and lay on the grass. She started babbling about her 3½-month solo trek in India, covering day by day. I just stared up at a star and wished for death. After about an hour, which only covered about three days of her trip, I rolled over onto her, preparing for my daily drool. Feeling and enjoying my closeness she said something like, “I guess that’s enough of India” and suddenly the heavens opened up and 300 angels sang in harmony “Hallelujah!” For a moment I thought I might have been high. It might have been a “contact high” from touching her THC-ridden skin.

We started to kiss and, which I won’t get into totally here, my total dried well of sexuality by being sickened by it suddenly filled up and it was not only my cock that was engorged but also my wellspring. She has a pretty sick body, meaning that there is not an ounce of fat on it, besides in her stoney-switchy-ony pot-riddled cholesterolized brain. But all concepts of love and sexuality are produced in our own minds. This is the reason how you can feel all gooey over someone for a minute and then want to bash his fuckin’ skull in with a Louisville Slugger the next. Most of what we call “love” is nothing outside of our own creations. What I allowed to open was my own crack in the dyke, rather than keeping my finger in there like a priest does an altar boy’s asshole. And I felt something release. Luckily for me it was not a load in my underwear, as I had only worn these five days in a row and was hoping to make it a fortnight.

By the time we left the park it was dark. We walked hand in hand, which is something I like to do and haven’t in a long time. We seemed to feel close that evening and I didn’t let a small thing like, “She’s not the one” get in the way and allow myself to shut down.

At my subway, she rather abruptly was like, “Okay, bye” and there was not even a quick kiss or handjob. I watched her walk off and was a little confused. I wrote it off as her coming down from her Mary Jane high and needing to go home and change her soaked panties.

We had talked about her coming to the next Boots & Barefoot on the coming Sunday and that we would hang out after that. It was a rainy Sunday at 4:49 p.m., just 11-minutes before the class when I received a one-word text-message from Gumbi: “Raindrops.” I wrote back that I didn’t need a weatherwoman, that I was outside.  The next text of hers read: “Peace. Have fun”.  This cost me sixty cents for four words from her. The last time four words cost me so much money was when I was Client #10 at The Emperor’s Club and said, “I’ll have the blowjob.”

I called her up on the phone, partly because I have free calling on weekends and partly because, call me old-fashioned but I still like to talk with voices and not fingers once in awhile. I’m not a friggin’ deaf freak!

“I take it from your text-messages that you’re not coming?”

“Yeah. No. Not into it.”

“Uh, okay bye.”

“Bye.”

Looks like she hit the bong early that night.

That was it. That was the deal-breaker for me. Now you may read this and say, “Big deal, the stoner just got high and was unable to get off her couch. I’d still tap that ass!” But this action and her lame words spoke a lot more to me.

Her schedule was such that at best we would probably be able to see each other only once a week on weekends as it was. Believe me, on a rainy Sunday morning it took me an effort to get my cottage cheese ass to the park for only a few people for some piddly donations that would be completely devoured immediately on groceries from the health food store. I charge clients $100/hr. if they buy a package and I am treating people to 2 ½ hours of my presence for $25. Nigga please!

She was basically saying, “It’s raining and I rather wrap my lips around a bong than your cock,” which in non-perverted speak translates as, “To make a little effort beyond entropy is not worth seeing you for at least another week.” Homey don’t play that.

But also, I had put up with reading an occasional boring blog entry of hers and listening to her whine on about her bullshit interpretation of Jesus the Lord and Savior of all our sins while she had an opportunity to be with Jesus himself.  Yes, I tap into Master energy when I teach and the teaching that day contained teachings of Zarathustra, Osho and, yes, Jesus—but not from books but from the source themselves. She is like a barbaric Muslim who would kill Allah himself if Allah burned the Koran.

I was actually willing to allow myself to open more to her, knowing full well that our time together was not going to be eternal. It was more for me than it was for her. Now I’m not, which is still more against me than against her, for to shut our love off to even a doped-out spiritual child is a crime against humanity—despite the fact that you will never hear this from the U.N. because according to them all the world’s problems are due to little Israel, the size of Rhode Island.

And, an item that I don’t want to discuss in depth here, sex does not have a hold on me at the moment that will drive me to effort myself for someone who cares more about being high than being with me.

I’ve grown very cynical, ‘tis true, but I am still a romantic at heart, even if I replaced my heart with a lump of coal long ago. I remember being so excited to see someone again and wanting to talk with her, touch her, kiss her, be with her that even multi-hour train rides wouldn’t stop me from seeing her. A little rain? Please! I value myself too much to allow for me to expend any amount of energy on someone who is not willing to walk into the magical with me. Of course if the girl is smoking hot I’m willing to value myself a little less!

It’s been over a week and I haven’t heard boo from Gumbi. It is approaching October, the month of Halloween, so maybe I’ll be surprised by a sudden “Boo!” from behind me. If it is her, I may just punch her in the crucifix, not because I hate her but because I hate Jesus. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KY6eFD-KSU], [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZWq6k5TA7s]