When Dudaka returned, we began again. There had most certainly been a break in the energy, but we recommenced, moving together in a dance of sensual exploration, to build up the energy again. I called up the passion of the great Egyptian couple – that most transcendent love between god and goddess, husband and wife, and brother and sister – and it was there between Dudaka and me. At one juncture, I leaned back in a precarious pose, and I relinquished myself completely in trust to the man who held me in his muscular arms. I felt myself falling back, back, back... and it was a feeling of falling back through time. James captured the moment, and it became the painting “First Couple.”
Because of our dance experience, Dudaka and I wrapped our bodies around and through each other – in constant pursuit of sensuous discovery. I caressed his lingam, he squeezed my nipples, we licked and kissed to the beat of the music. James clicked away and coached us, according to what he observed through the lens. A time or two he put the camera down and joined in. I felt adored and honored by these two beloved men.
Eventually the camera was cast aside, and we went on a while together, diving into the flames of passion. James kissing my neck from behind while I kissed Dudaka’s chest while he kissed my forehead... our bodies writhing in the fires of physical discovery. We pulsed together in a cocoon spun of erotic electricity. As I slid back and forth over two sweaty bodies, my yoni homed in on James’ hard lingam, drawn irresistibly to its consort. We made love in slow tempo, feeling every inch of pleasure. Dudaka held me above James and began urgent whispers into my ear: “Come! Let go! Flow!” Slow as tropical humidity, coaxed by Osiris, God of Moisture, my orgasms arose and flowed, one after the other, like the floodwaters of the Nile.
After who knows how long, I caught my breath and turned my eyes, half-closed with desire, to Dudaka. I slid on top of him, hungry for him. Then, suddenly, I got a flash – with the image of a lightning bolt – of warning. For a few minutes, I felt myself overcome by desire to fall into him, and alternately yanked back by some self-protection mechanism. I could not ignore it.
Gasping, I said to my new lover, “Not now.” Those two words staked a claim, with which I pulled myself up out of the Venusian force field that was already melding me with Dudaka.
Puzzled, he opened his mouth to say something. I kissed him, saying, “Not now. Now is not the time for us.” Since we had laid ground rules about only doing what each of us felt we could do, that was all I had to say.
I snuggled in between my two men, smelling their masculine aromas – outwardly peaceful but inwardly wondering what had just happened. Tenderly we embraced each other good night.
We had begun in the afternoon, and it was after 1:00 in the morning. Exhilarated and at the same time exhausted, we fell asleep. Before slipping into darkness, my mind was filled with flashes of lightning, and the roars of a beast from the depths of a primeval forest.
Fire and Ice
The obstacles we encounter in relationship are less obstacles than they are catalysts in drag.
Catalysts for what?
For waking up.
~ Robert Augustus Masters
After the photo shoot, our relationship with Dudaka rolled into rough terrain – like a craggy lava field of black boulders ejected from the volcano of our mutual attraction. James and I wanted more intimate time with Dudaka, as the session together had indeed fueled our desire, and we wanted to advance our relationship. But Dudaka retreated into introspection, feeling bruised by James’ directorial control of the timing of our sexual interexchange in the photo shoot.
James bristled at the fact that I had been swayed more by Dudaka’s inclinations than my own partner’s artistic vision. This was the betrayal of him and Venus and Her Lover that he mulled in the subsequent months. In addition, since slipping on the rocks at the beach, his knees were tormenting him, and he refused to do more painkillers or anti-inflammatories. Surgery, we discovered, would cost tens of thousands of dollars – way out of our reach.
I still saw Dudaka regularly, as I attended his Trance Liberation ecstatic dances. In the free-form ritual, our bodies flamed and steamed. Yet, he seemed more removed, wearing his mask of allure as we frolicked through our sensual choreography.
I began to think that Dudaka answered to a Dionysian archetype – one that jumped into dramatic transformations, relishing his dance in the flames. Could that have been the warning I received about him, to keep me from getting burned?
While Dudaka and I did a hula through an emotional lava field, James felt once again left out of the process and disappointed by Dudaka’s refusal to continue our more intimate relationship. James was bending over backward to keep the three of us together while in his internal cauldron bubbled questions of trust and betrayal. Instead of calling up my compassion, this frustrated me. While on the surface we were all “handling it,” I saw myself in the middle between two pacing, growling male tigers. Well, if the Warrior God Mars in James and the Ecstatic Destroyer Dionysus in Dudaka had been activated, I wanted no part of it. I must admit that I was growing impatient with James: amid the stresses of our work and uncertain future, he had withdrawn more into his studio... not to paint, but to watch incessant news programs and poker tournaments on TV, listen to music, and pace around. Well, actually he limped. Because of his knee injury, he was not even swimming, much less surfing. The painter was not painting, and the surfer was not surfing. On top of all that, he was smoking again. I could not stand the fact that he was falling into his old addiction.
Early autumn brought more vog (volcanic fog) onto our damp, verdant mountainside, as winds shifted with the tapering off of the rainy season. Like a vog haze, an oppressive grey feeling crept into our relationship, constricting our breathing.
One evening in the kitchen we got into an argument, which began innocently enough. Alex was on a sleepover with his surfer friends. I began by telling James my schedule for the following day. “Tomorrow I am going early to help set up the dance, so I won’t be home for dinner.”
“You’re meeting Dudaka again?” he asked.
“Well, of course, I’ll see him. So what?”
“I’m so glad you two make time for each other,” he said sarcastically. “Don’t you think you should pay more attention to us as a team, and our work?”
I was astounded at his reaction. “Why James, I think you’re jealous!”
“Jealous? Oh please! Me, jealous? Are you crazy?” he retorted.
“Yes, you! You sound like a jealous man! I can’t believe it!”
“I am not a jealous man! I am pissed off! Note the difference!” he yelled.
“James! Calm down. I can’t take your anger,” I replied, trying to de-escalate the scene.
“Oh c’mon, Becca! Do you want me to make nicey-nice, pretend everything is all peachy keen? It’s not. I’m angry – I’m not attacking you. Note that difference. Don’t overreact!”
“You’re the one overreacting!” I countered.
“Is it overreacting to name boundaries? To say that you’ve crossed a line? My anger shows I care about us and our work, and I am pissed off!” James bellowed, and disappeared into the bedroom. He slammed the door so hard, it knocked a picture off the wall.
He soon re-emerged. I confronted him, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”
“Why?!” he yelled, shooting me an icy glare. “Could it be because no one wants to acknowledge the betrayal that happened in the photo shoot? Could it be that no one wants to acknowledge that I know something as artistic director? Even you won’t stand up for Venus and Her Lover!”
“James, that night...” I began.
“No, not just that night, Becca! You haven’t even told your parents about our project. They don’t know what you’ve been working on all these years.”
“I can’t tell them,” I explained. “Erotic art – sexual liberation – it would give them he
art attacks, for real! You know they both suffer from high blood pressure. My sisters would never forgive me for doing that to them.”
“Oh, are those your reasons?” he argued. “Why am I not hearing anything about needing approval from authority figures? How about your fear of standing in your power? Don’t you think those are the real reasons? When you play small, Becca, it undercuts our efforts to get Venus and Her Lover out there. Why do you think we aren’t getting the support this art project deserves?”
I was shocked. “Oh, so now you’re trying to blame me for Venus and Her Lover not being supported?”
James roared at me. “Blame?!? Becca, don’t go into reactivity! You and I have an agreement to speak the truth to each other. I’m speaking the truth here. Listen, you know the Patriarchy counts on people to be intimidated, to not rock the boat, to play it small. Well, from what I can see, you are holding up that dysfunctional structure within you – the Patriarchy is in you! You won’t stand up for what you believe in ‘cause you’re afraid your parents won’t approve. Are you going to live your life based on someone else’s reaction, or are you going to act out of your own free will? To be an artist takes courage... Where’s yours?”
His accusations were shattering my reactive trance. The Warrior had taken aim and nailed me with arrow after arrow of truth, and I was pinned to the wall. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the words would not come.
James continued. “No wonder I feel alone holding up Venus and Her Lover! Of course, I should be used to this – I’ve gone my whole life without really being recognized for the artist I am! Shit, the last time with my family, they so much as said, ‘Why don’t you get a job?’ From my own family! But then we are living in this stupid country that thinks that if you’re an artist, you’re a bum. Now more than ever! Everyone in the US is so terrorized, they’re not noticing the world is going to hell! In Alaska, they have to evacuate towns on the coast ‘cause the ocean is rising and the permafrost is melting. But – climate change – what’s that? Who cares? People are starving in Sudan, and they’re blowing each other to pieces in Iraq, all over control of the oil and the land and each other. Control! The Patriarchy is going full-blast and destroying our world. Is anyone noticing?! And now you’re worried about me being a jealous man! Ha!”
Slam! He was back in the bedroom. I put my head in my hand. Oh no... Mars the Warrior was swinging his sword at anything in his path. I wanted to run out of the house and leave that door-slamming ass to stew in his own juices. Why was I putting up with this man who yelled harsh words, smelled like an ashtray, belched after drinking Coca-Cola – Coca-Cola, for crying out loud! – and was constantly fighting battles just to stand up? Did I have the strength to continue on a Tantric odyssey with James?
But wait... take a breath... See if I can stop reacting and defending myself long enough to think clearly. When he accused me of not standing in my power, he really pushed my buttons: a clear sign of validity. If it were not true, why else would it bother me? And what did he mean about me betraying him? Maybe I need to walk in this warrior’s boots for a minute. He was, after all, defending Venus and Her Lover. And where is my compassion? Granted, he was forceful, but maybe his ranting was also bracketing his pain. Obviously he has been suffering physically since our arrival to Hawai’i.
Trudging over to the bookcase, I pulled out Nonviolent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg. Even though I had read the book and reviewed it several times, the heat of our argument had fried Rosenberg’s guidelines to an unrecognizable crisp in my brain. Now what were they? I read: “Nonviolent Communication is founded on language and communication skills that strengthen our ability to remain human, even under trying conditions.”94 Rosenberg’s Four Components of NVC:
Observation
Feeling
Needs
Request
Instead of running out of the house, I turned to look at the shut door. I took a deep breath. Armed with the four steps, I walked into the bedroom. James was leaned against the bed, head down.
“James,” I began softly, “When you slam doors in anger, I, um, feel helpless to witness what seems like ranting and raving, and then I get impatient with you, especially when you retreat from me. I need to feel like we are a team, like we’re in this together, so we can help each other. Could you please talk to me like I’m your partner? Could we please get focused again on the power of our love?” Funny, I just asked him what he had asked of me. In the silence that followed, I reviewed that I had covered the four steps: my observation without judgment, my feelings, my needs, and my requests for him.
James lifted his head. He clenched his jaw.
“Oh James,” I reached over to him. “What is going on with you?”
Letting out a sigh, he spoke. “It takes so much strength to hold up Venus and Her Lover in this fear-based, self-serving, money-grubbing, war-mongering society...”
“Well, watching the news all the time only beats you down,” I interjected.
“Stop shaming me, Becca!” he shouted.
Stunned by the prick of yet another arrow of truth, I shut my mouth.
“It takes so much strength,” he repeated, “especially when I don’t feel you standing next to me. It’s bad enough that hardly anyone recognizes what we’re doing – and look how hard it is to find real support! – but it’s just too much if you’re not there... if you don’t understand where I’m coming from.”
Suddenly I understood what he had meant by betrayal. And he was right about my cowering before authority figures. I cringed to see this Dominator construct within me. He was right about my not recognizing his decisions as artistic director. Then – Oh my Goddess! – I deflected these facts by shaming him. My own weaknesses had betrayed us.
I finally saw how this had hooked into years of his not being appreciated as an artist – all the hurt, loneliness, and persevering till his last ounce of might was exhausted. My gaze reached into his eyes and grabbed ahold of the weary knight in battered armor. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Please accept my apology.”
“I accept your apology, Becca. I love you. Fortunately, our love for each other has never been an issue.”
“I just didn’t get it, that this had sent you into such a funk,” I said.
“But there’s something else,” he said softly and paused, gathering his words. “I’m not painting. It’s driving me crazy, Becca. This is the longest I have ever gone without painting. I haven’t picked up a brush in over a year. I want to paint! I have to paint! But I can’t!” He pounded his fists on the bed. “Do you know what it takes to paint Venus and Her Lover? I can’t just walk up to the canvas and start painting. It’s like warming up an enormous engine. It takes time, it takes energy, I have to stoke it. The feelings have to come over me. I need to know that once I start, I can finish, that we’ll be here long enough. I can’t gear up to paint just one or two pieces. But since we’ve been here, all we’ve been doing is working on our business. I am not a businessman! I am an artist! I am an artist!” He was hollering now.
My face must have shown alarm because he stopped and reached to hold me in his strong arms. “I don’t mean to yell at you. Of course you are my partner. That is never in doubt. Now, more than ever, I need you to pay attention to us, and not put so much energy into relationships that take away from us.”
“James, I have to dance. Dance is a spiritual practice for me,” I said.
“I’m not saying anything about you giving up dance, or even your friendship with Dudaka. It’s just a hard time right now. And I realize you’re the one getting the brunt of my feelings. It’s not fair. You are dealing with all the stresses of our life – like I am – but then you have one thing more: me to deal with. It’s not fair.”
“Is life supposed to be fair? I haven’t been so fair with you, lately in particular, when I know you’re hurting. Sometimes I just need a break,” I countered, f
eeling ashamed.
James went on. “These past couple months I have felt left out of your relationship with Dudaka – this exciting dancer with a French accent – and it’s like the two of you did not recognize who I am. I felt you stepped away from me and our baby to tend to Dudaka. Especially now, when we’re really up against it. I’ve been worried about how we as a family are going to survive financially. I wonder how we’ll ever finish our project. I can’t stand all the suffering going on in the world, and people being oblivious... But the main thing is – on top of all that: I am not painting. That’s it.”
Thus we faced a dismaying reality. As wild and beautiful as the Big Island was for us, it had not allowed us the free space to do our creative work. James had not painted one painting. I had not written one poem.
James looked me steadily in the eye and said, “Becca, we cannot afford to be here anymore. And I don’t just mean money.”
“Are you saying... leave Hawai’i?! We moved halfway around the world to be here! And Alex is so happy here! And we have our ohana here. And the dolphins are here...”
“And we’re not doing our work here,” James said. “Yeah, yeah – we’re busy enough. You know what I mean – we’re not doing our dharma. After all we’ve invested, you know we have to finish Venus and Her Lover. Period. Support or no support.”
I nodded. What he was saying was true, but I could not face the idea of pulling up roots and moving again. Moving again. In fact, I had been avoiding the obvious: that we had to do something before our money ran completely out. “Where would we go?” I asked.
“Someplace peaceful and cheap. The Third World.” James stated. “Or our patron steps in. Now.”
Later that night, I left my wounded warrior sleeping in bed and walked outside. The night sky over Hawai’i is a cosmic light show. In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, the farthest away from anyplace else you can get, this volcanic cluster rises toward the sky: the tallest mountain in the world at 33,500 feet, underwater base to summit. The astronomical observatories at the 13,000-foot elevation of Mauna Kea offer the clearest stargazing in the world, and the Big Island complies with regulations muting street lights and other light pollution. With the naked eye alone, you can see over 3000 stars.
Venus and Her Lover Page 4