Enlightening Nonsense

When I was in Florida, Yogini Pea, besides arranging for my teaching gig, also provided a few extra-curricular activities other than blowing me. Unfortunately, because at the moment the only way I am known in most households is on the bottles of poison (“XXX”), “being provided for” still meant that I had to pay for everything. She took me to lunch at the one raw food place in Florida and made me pay for my measly nori rolls filled with some cold vegetable paste and dessert, so when she finally made me lunch at her place the first thing I said immediately following the afternoon blowjob was, “Is there a discount for the lunch and blowjob combo?”

One night we went to an event billed as “TranscenDance,” a trance dance arranged by the local spiritual community. I like dancing; I like music; I don’t like “spiritual community.” I thought maybe if I could get a Yogini Pea blowjob before the event, I wouldn’t be going out with a “loaded gun” and I would thereby reduce the risk of causing some casualties when the first “spiritual” douchebag asked me, “Are your chakras balanced tonight?” and I punched him in the face and then when the next yoga poser came up to me and said, “Hey brother, we don’t believe in violence here,” and I smacked her silly and said, “Then don’t believe in your bruised and battered face, bitch!” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gw2Y1mzZRBk] I pinched my pennies together but because Yogini Pea was making me pay for everything, I only had about three cents to my name, which was two cents short of what she charges for head.

We had trouble finding the location and when we finally got nearby, the spiritual douche running the event flagged us down and pulled us towards a side street, similar to how I used to get blown by fags in the city. Looking at this guy, I didn’t rule out that the alley was going to lead to a blowjob, hopefully cheaper than what Yogini Pea was charging me.

I left my parents place without a dime in my pocket, partly because the allowance they give me is a nickel and I had just splurged on a pack of gum that gutted about three months of my savings. After getting smiled upon and Namaste-handed ad nauseum, we approached the front desk, which was a folding table set up, and were asked to sign-in with our email addresses. I thought, “Great, now I’m going to be put on yet another mailing list that I don’t give a shit about.” I considered putting a fake email address but didn’t; this would allow me to respond with: “Your event was gay. You are gay. Your mailing list is gay. Take me off.”

The Fag Flagger smiled broadly as he said, “That will be $10 each,” showing me that not only was he a New Age freak but probably a Jew as well. I told Yogini Pea that I had no dough other than my three copper Lincolns and she covered me. I paid her back the next day and she snatched it up, showing me that she is probably a Jew as well.

Some dude who looked kind of hippie, with a long, flowing colored see through shirt and baggy pants was standing right in front of me. He said, “You’re one of my Facebook friends, right?” I said, “No, dude. Only sell-out fags are on Facebook and I’m not a sell-out.” He left and I think I called after him, “Keep walking, sell-out!”

I asked Yogini Pea, “Who’s that douchebag over there, the one who looks like a flower child?” She told me it was Xavier Hawk, a musician and one of her best friends there in Florida [http://xavierhawk.net/]. I remembered seeing him briefly at the Raw Spirit Festival in D.C. last year where he, too, was a presenter. He opened the festival with a little talking and some drumming and, as much as I wanted to throw a raw tomato at him, I kinda dug him. Yogini Pea told me that while he dressed like a New Age hippie, he was not actually a poser, that he just liked to dress like a person confused about his sex and that he was one of the few really genuine people she new.

Xavier Hawk

I went up to Hawk and said, “Douche, sorry if I thought you were a sell-out. I’m still not convinced you’re not a fag but I don’t really care about that.” We talked a little bit and I my Authenticdar lit up that this guy was the real deal. And I liked him very much. Hell, I even thought about joining Facebook just so I could be one of his friends! I made a mental note to myself that it was time to bring my Gaydar in for a check-up, because while Hawk walked away I noticed that there was a guy sucking me off who I had sworn was straight when I entered the freak show.

There were about thirty people there and we were instructed to make a big circle and hold hands like a bunch of three-year olds, I suppose so we wouldn’t get lost. The Fag Flagger gave us some instructions, which were gay, and introduced some people. “We’re going to turn on music. You can dance if you’d like to,” would have sufficed for me. Instead he acted like he had just won the Oscar, thanking this person and expressing gratitude for the opportunity to blah, blah, blah. Perhaps it was rude of me, an out-of-towner and all, to interrupt him with, “Did we come here to dance or to listen to your limp-wristed speech?” Either way, he shut up, but not with first giving us the final instruction.

He instructed us not to talk in the dance room and told us that he would give us a few warm-up movements and that when he said, “The floor is yours” we could move and dance as we wanted. I laughed when he said that. “The floor is yours.” So dramatic! I like drama but if I want to see a gay drama I would go see Angels In America or Rent. We went through our warm-ups, he said, “The floor is yours” and after bursting into laughter again, I broke the no talking rule by exclaiming, “It’s about fuckin’ time!” Fag Flagger didn’t say anything; I think he went back to the alleyway to pick up guys.

I am a big fan of, “You gotta find your own dance” but if the music is lame, it is like a girl with a huge white-headed zit on her nose that at any moment is ready to explode like Mount Vesuvius, it becomes a lot harder for me to get my groove on. I suppose I could do her doggie style.

So for awhile the music felt pretty good and I was dancing away. But after awhile the music turned sour and I was like, “What the fu—?” At this point I was honoring the no talking rule, so instead of using my vocal chords to express my dismay, I used my extensive studies in Sign Language, picked up from fucking some deaf chick. I raised my fist in a Black Power salute and then extending the middle finger skyward. Since it has been awhile and my Sign Language is a little rusty, this either meant, “This music can go fuck itself!” or alternatively, “Turn me over and titty-fuck me!” Either way, the shitty music continued and no one fucked my tits.

I was trying, Ringo, trying real hard to be the shepherd, but I couldn’t get into flailing around to lame music. So I remained “the tyranny of evil men.” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fd4VSkj0Wks (at 8:54)] So I sat down against the wall and tried to find my inner groove; like after fucking a bunch of dried-out, skanky vaginas, I was resigned to jerk-off in the corner.

Eventually the music shifted to not-so-lame and I stood up and threw my hands in the air and waved ‘em like I just didn’t care and kicked my booty like Elaine Bennis dancing at her company party. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xi4O1yi6b0]

These dances are really about you letting lose and immersing yourself fully in the dance, becoming the dance, or in Caddyshack wisdom: “There’s a force in the universe that makes things happen. And all you have to do is get in touch with it. Stop thinking, let things happen and be the ball” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mo0baknLDdU (1:33)]

It’s not really about trying to get laid, despite the fact that this is what I am always hoping for at these fish fests. Some even hold these dances blindfolded, which I prefer, as this makes it that much harder to prosecute me for groping. But this doesn’t mean you can’t share some energy with another.

And so it was with Betty Rubble. I found myself dancing with her…sort of. She was in my vicinity and soon we were facing each other and making periodic eye contact. In a gay bar this would be enough to insure that you were going to get your dick sucked. But in these situations, it is a bit trickier. In a gay bar, if you pull a guy’s head down to your crotch, he doesn’t complain, he just takes it like a man. In a trance dance, if you pull a girl’s head down to your crotch, you have to listen to a fuckin’ lecture about feminism.

The problem with this situation, trance dance or not, is that if you want to get rid of the dead weight in front of you, it becomes a real challenge. You can work a spin into your dance repertoire and wind up facing in the opposite direction but you have to play it right so you don’t hurt the feelings of the other person, I mean, if you give a shit. I generally don’t but I’m just sharing this tidbit for those of you who do.

Back home, Ninja had already told me that if I stuck my dipstick in anyone, that her puss would be seeking an oil fill-up by a dipstick that wasn’t attached to my set of dirty rags. So what was the point of even dancing with this girl? Seriously, if there were no chance of getting laid, why would a guy even want to hang out with a girl?

I once met a girl, Chris, at the dog run and our dogs got along well and would play aggressively. I didn’t worry about this, as I just considered it an extension of the physical abuse I gave her behind the closed doors of my apartment. When I found out Chris was a lesbian, I said, “Nice knowing you,” not only because I knew I wouldn’t be getting any (I’ve given up the fantasy of converting anyone to the religion of Heterosexualism) but also because I noticed that Abandon would start humping on other dogs, which I think she picked up from the weekends where my formerly gay friend—still gay, just not a friend anymore—took care of her.

Abandon is an observer and probably one night while Chris was banging her girlfriend with a strap-on, she thought, “Hey, I wouldn’t mind doing that to a dog!” It took me years to get Abandon to stop squeezing her nipples while watching Valerie Bertinelli in One Day At A Time because of a minor compulsion of mine and I wasn’t going to go through that again.

Later, I found myself in front of Betty Rubble again and used my Sign Language skills to ask if I could touch her. She nodded that it was okay. I placed one hand on her mid-back and with the other I grabbed her hand. I was going to place her hand on my cock but it was as rough as if she worked a day in the rock quarry with Fred Flintstone and I didn’t need to have my pecker ground down to dust. A 14” cock without the girth starts to look like you have a long piece of linguini stuck to your pants and while this may be romantic in the cartoon movie Lady And The Tramp, when the dogs share a bowl of spaghetti and then both suck on the same strand until their lips accidentally touch, in the non-cartoon world, when you whip out a long limp noodle, it receives nothing but laughter and the courts frown upon smacking a girl for laughing. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5WxDdz-Anls]

The highlight of the night was when I became a Whirling Dervish. I was near the group of drummers who started to bang away, unheard over the loud bad music, which included my soon-to-be Facebook friend, Xavier Hawk, and just started to spin.

My last experience of Dervishing was in India at the Osho Meditation Resort, where I participated in a Whirling Meditation which consisted of 45-minutes of whirling followed by collapsing to the floor and remaining the next 15-minutes lying on your stomach and begging God to make the spinning in your head disappear. I had foolishly pigged-out at the dining hall right before this meditation and nearly made splatter art from projectile vomiting.

So after that nauseating experience, I am not really sure why I started to spin. But I did. And I was digging it. I figured I would just do it for a few minutes…then one song…then maybe the next song. I must have been spinning for about 20-minutes and started to get concerned. I even tried to stop myself from spinning but couldn’t seem to slow down the whirl.

I was spinning with my eyes open and not grabbing focus on a single location, like a dancer would do to avoid hurling. In dance this is called “spotting” and, contrary to what you may think, it has nothing to do with menstrual staining in one’s underwear. I found it entrancing to watch the combination of lights, people and throw-up all spinning around me. Yogini Pea told me later that I had created a vortex and when she got near me she found herself unexpectedly spinning. This is in stark contrast to the effect I have on people when I am not spinning, which is to make them say something stupid, to which I explain to them how much of a moron they are, to which they walk away from me thinking me an asshole.

The music finally ended and the removal of those lame vibrations allowed me to slow down and collapse and start my begging. Soon I felt a strong pair of hands starting at my bare feet and pushing their way up my legs. I thought it must be a dude, as there was some serious strength in those hands. When the hands pushed into my buttocks, I prayed that it was Yogini Pea, who had done some Thai massage on me the other day, as this was getting way too personal for me to be receiving from a total stranger.

I was brought back to the time after the Yellow Pages commercial had aired that told us to “Reach out and touch someone” and how many strange pairs of hands I had to pull off my body. Granted I was at an orgy at the time but still, I was more Rinso white than yellow. The muscle strength at least assured me that it wasn’t Fag Flagger, as he looked as if he were to hail a cab and instead of his mouth, it was a strong wind that blew, his arm would snap right off.

When the massager got to my back, I had to tense up to avoid breaking, as I had a recent kickboxing injury from a douchebag at my martial arts school that turned his hip fully into his kick during his belt test at which I volunteered to help out. I peaked later and saw that it was Yogini Pea, making a note to ask her if she lubed her finger before inserting it in my ass or if I was already juicy.

Fag Flagger took over the proceedings; apparently “the floor was no longer ours.” Everyone was to lie there motionless. I sat up. I did this in part because I have issues with authority and mostly because I had wanted to do some energy work on Yogini Pea.

I placed a hand on her forehead and another on her belly (by “belly” I mean vagina.) After awhile she opened her eyes and we did another thing that I wanted to do with her earlier in the week but never made the time to do, we had anal sex. Actually what we did was just to look into each other’s eyes without looking away and, like the whirling before, minutes passed by effortlessly without even being distracted by Fag Flagger gabbing away in the background. After awhile my contact lenses started to dry up and I had to blink a bit, somewhat losing the staring contest.

One of the most profound experiences I had in India was in the complex of a huge Hindu temple where a stranger and I looked into each other’s eyes and neither one of us looked away for about 10-minutes or so. I started staring with the thought of, “This scrappy little brown-skin ain’t beating me in a staring contest!” but that soon turned to a feeling of connection that didn’t need an exchange of words or bodily fluids.

What I was going to suggest to Yogini Pea if we had “planned” our little stare down, was to just look into my eyes but to not think about trying to connect with me. This would make it a meditation and not a fantasy about souls and union and all that New Age nonsense.

They say: “The eyes are the window to the soul.” They also say that you shouldn’t run with scissors and as a result of this I take a pair of scissors with me whenever I go out jogging. When you stare into a window behind which the soul resides, like a little boy staring at a woman undressing in her apartment across the street, it becomes not only transfixing but the connection is there whether you focus on creating it or not. In my case, the undressing woman needed to apply for a restraining order.

Yogini Pea is 6’ tall and has dreads and hairy armpits. She is also a strong woman, not only in odor but in stature as well. This is very intimidating to many men, for most men are too pussiated to feel comfortable slapping a woman across her face when she starts offering her “opinion,” especially if he thinks that she may be able to kick his ass. I had talked to Yogini Pea for some time before I came to Florida and in the Key Lime State as well and she had made it pretty clear that she wanted a guy who wasn’t afraid to slap her around.

Unfortunately, most of the guys she was meeting were pussies and the only non-pussy she met was my future Facebook friend Xavier Hawk—and he was married. I would still fuck him but apparently Yogini Pea had a higher moral standard. This is also why she was moderately attracted to me, besides my chiseled body and my dreamy blue eyes and my 14” manhood bulging in my skin-tight spandex shorts (yes, it’s true, I used to write gay porn.)

When I was dancing with Betty Rubble and her rock quarry hands, a thought came to mind that perhaps I’d like to fuck her. Being the self-reflective yogi that I am, I pondered why. Is this just the old programming that says, “What is a woman but a life support system for the vagina?” Or was this me coming from a totally new perspective after a venereal virus had destroyed all my computer’s old programming, which sought union with another and what better way to experience union than by fucking?

While I may lie to others, I am very honest with myself. Many fake spiritualists will bullshit themselves into believing that their nonsense is motivated by spirituality and not their dicks—and this goes for both the men and women. I tell you from personal experience that many of these domineering women in the movement pee standing up. If you cornered one of the countless swamis who came from India to teach in America and inevitably fucked everyone in sight, I’m pretty certain they would either flat-out deny it or justify their tomdickery as some bullshit spiritual lesson. If you cornered my swami ass in a room and asked me, I would answer, “Nothing spiritual, I just wanted to tap that ass.”

I concluded, for the time being, that what we all ultimately seek is union, connectedness and understanding with others and that, for most of us, the only way we have learned how to express this connection is through fucking, eating or buying something. And so it becomes difficult to not only figure out how to express your togetherness with another without an exchange of gifts, food or bodily fluids but also to feel satisfied without metaphorically “blowing your load.”

As a sidetrack that is not so Family Guy random, in Taoist and Tantric sexual practices they talk about the man retaining his semen. For years I would keep my jiz in a gallon Mason jar until I realized that this was not what they meant. I did pay for my rent that month by making a deposit at the local branch of my sperm bank. By making the goal not about “cumming,” which inevitably leads to “going” before the woman is fully satisfied, you start to realize that sex is not just about crossing the finish line but about enjoying the race with your partner. As a guy, crossing the finish line first doesn’t usually lead to cheers, a gold medal and a photo op with Mayor Bloomberg; instead you are rewarded with nags and an exhausted tongue and index finger.

When I first played with not blowing my load, I found it kind of interesting, that was, until I had a build up of prostatic fluid and needed some insensitive proctologist to give me a “massage” that, let’s just say, wasn’t so “relaxing.” I still remember the tears in my eyes after he threw some tissues at me and said, “Clean yourself up,” before leaving the room in a rush, as he ignored my questions, “Will you call? Will you write? Does this mean that we’re going steady?”

But as I have played with Tantric lovemaking more and more, I have become much more in control of my hose and whether or not it is time for me to put out my fire. This has allowed my partners to experience a much more roaring flame and has allowed me to explore other aspects of sex than just the biological.

Osho says that what people call kundalini energy is all the same sex energy that is just expressed differently. At the lower levels, it is expressed as horny. At a middle level it is expressed as love. At the highest level it is expressed as prayer. We all know what horny is—even the Catholic priest who to the public pretends that he has gone beyond horny, as he plows a litany of little boys behind closed confession booths. Many of us have convinced ourselves that we know what love is and I’ll just leave it at that. But what most of us consider prayer is nothing but negotiating with a made-up God in the sky. “Let me get this job, oh old man with a white beard sitting on a throne somewhere, and I will promise to love my fellow man—or at least be horny with him.” That’s not prayer; that’s business.

A better word than prayer is prayerfulness; a better word than God is Godliness; a better word than vagina is pussy. It is a state of BE-ing, not an act of DO-ing. Like meditation, it is not about the “technique” but about the state beyond the technique. The techniques, be it of meditation or prayer or even sex are all there just so you can get to the state where you reside in awareness or gratitude or union. And when two people are in the height of orgasmic pleasure, there is a complete dropping of all costumes, roles, defense mechanisms, philosophies, judgments and DO-ings and you reside there as two BE-ings, fully vulnerable for perhaps the first time in your lives…and yet feeling fully safe. All boundaries, all divisions between you, are not only crossed…but lost.

We have a bunch of idiots who call themselves “teachers” giving all these technical meditations, “You have to imagine a pyramid in this chakra and a square in this one and a 10-petaled flower in this one,” and other morons who call themselves “religious leaders” who tell us that a prayer, “Has to contain these words, spoken in this exact way, spoken to this particular deity only with the approval of our clergy.” Even the Tantric teachers can get a little dry in their teachings, for like an actor learning his lines, memorizing “Three shallow thrusts and then one deep thrust,” does not a great lover make.

The sharing of the gaze between us satisfied a lot of what Yogini Pea—and what all of us—truly desired: someone to be able to see her for Who She Is, not to be afraid or judgmental or try to change what he saw, and to not immediately convert it into, “So how does this translate into me getting my dick sucked?”

When I got home and told Ninja about this connected moment that Yogini Pea and I had shared, it made her pause and consider whether this had violated the Dipstick Rule that she had laid down. I had my Jew lawyer Finkelstein with me from Finkelstein, Finkelstein & Finkelstein and he basically told her that if she pursued this line of argument that he would see to it that she was Jewed out of all her belongings and that her vagina would also become my possession as well, which was designed more as a fear tactic than anything else, because I don’t really need any more crap and I already considered her pussy mine.

But Ninja was aware that a deep sharing such as gazing into someone’s eyes and being fully present was a lot more intimate than sliding your penis into her vagina and hoping that when you ejaculate she will just leave and not want to talk or, god forbid, cuddle.

Go ahead and try this, guys: stare at a woman who is with her guy and don’t look away and see if the guy considers this a violation. If he does, acknowledge that he is a very conscious person—that he is aware that to connect with another we don’t even need physical contact—and suggest that you would instead fuck his girlfriend or wife if that were more amenable to him. I can’t tell you how many men have let me fuck their wives hearing the situation presented in this way.

After Fag Flagger finished his closing remarks, which I couldn’t recite to you as I had a good high going from whirling and staring and didn’t allow any gay gratitude speech to kill my buzz, Yogini Pea said to me, “Thank you for being my yoga friend.” At first I thought, “Wait, does this mean that she doesn’t want to fuck me anymore?” as it is nice lying awake at night knowing that all across the country people are rubbing their nubs and sprockets thinking about the Sexiest Vegan Alive.

I then found myself in another reflective query about how one day it would be nice if I were just someone’s friend, not their “Facebook friend” or their “yoga friend” or their “fuck friend.” Because who knows, I may never join Facebook; I may stop doing yoga (but, truthfully, I will never stop BE-ing yoga); I may even stop fucking!

I don’t want to have any friends that only like me because of what sell-out website I belong to, or what physical exercises I perform, or because I stick my penis in their vagina or ass or mouth or ears or nostrils or between their boobs or under their armpit or between their neck and shoulder or in their hair or—but I digress. When we all accept each other for Who We Are and not what we do, then we will start being real friends and not just friends by association. Then we may have a friendly community…a friendly State…a friendly country…a friendly continent…a friendly world…a friendly universe.

Until that time we are going to continue to isolate ourselves with those people who share our interests or philosophy, while outcasting everyone who doesn’t, and decree this in the name of “God” or “Country” or “Religion” or “Spirituality.” We will spend our free time protesting others and calling them insulting names such as “Catholic priest!” as we continue to have wars because one country thinks their political system or made-up God is better than the other country’s and needs to drop bombs and kill people and brainwash children in order to prove the superiority of their personal fictions, and we will continue to have aliens shove probes up our asses, when a dick would feel oh so much better.

I guess the answer lies in removing not just the word—but the attitude—of “other.” As long as we see each other as other, our friendship—and our love—will always be inferior, just a notch above “horny.” When we reach to the sky where there is not a God sitting there in a location, but Godliness and Prayerfulness everywhere and in abundance, we will look upon our small little planet and laugh heartily that there was a time when we saw all the little specs of inhabitants on Her surface as being somehow separate.