Turpitude

by Young

  Come to my chamber an hour after the guests’ departure.

  I want to see you alone.

  F.

  In The Penthouse

  Andy insisted on chaperoning me to the doctor’s chamber, even though I assured him that Zac would accompany me. Unbeknown to me, during the course of our parlour causerie, Andy had arranged to swap places with my Valet.

  When the last guest was shown the door, the roguish Jabril, seconded by the libertine Count Mario Conti, had enticed a few enthusiasts, including the infatuated Albert, to come to ‘The Church’ – a twice weekly late-night GLBT sex party, held within a defunct protestant place of worship in the Red Light District. As Albert’s temporary Valet, Zac was left with little choice but to tag along. Although the adolescent would have preferred the Count as his chaperone, Andy would not allow his charge to venture alone with the playboy, even when in the company of trusted friends.

  Since I was to adhere to the doctor’s orders to rest and relax after my hospital incident, I was publicly excused from joining the overzealous party. In truth, I had a mission, known only to my temporary Valet and my summoner.

  I was surprised to find my teacher behind the entrance of the penthouse door when Andy knocked. He invited us in. “The doctor is in his chamber. He wants to see Young alone. Andy, will you wait with me in the lounge?”

  I entered the dimly lit boudoir. The sheik, dressed in a satin robe, had his violin beside him. He motioned for me to sit by him. He began a pensive melody, just as he had the first time I was summoned to his private quarters in Philadelphia during Prince P’s ‘Carousel’ project.

  The exquisite music wafted through my ears as wistful tears filled my eyes. I sat mesmerized by the enchanted melody. I could feel my ‘Master’s’ inner turmoil building through the strings of his violin. My heart reached out to the handsome man who had everything that wealth could amass yet had nothing to satisfy his inner chaos. He was pining for the prince, and I was there to lessen his pain. I was his trusted confidant, bringing temporary solace.

  When he finished his melancholic recital, he offered me a glass of wine, which I drank in a single gulp. The sheik’s evocative composition had stirred in me a pensive hankering for Andy’s love – the way it had been before Albert appeared on the scene. The wine flooded my mind as I swirled to the momentum of silence.

  I met my Master’s gaze and we recognized the yearnings we had for our respective beaus. I wasn’t sure if it was drunken haze or longing craze that brought on this injudicious melancholy, but by divine providence, our tenderness soon morphed to a fiery covetousness. I caressed my Master’s face, as our tongues met in a fervent kiss. I inhaled the muskiness of his sultry beard as he drove his pearly fangs into my tender neck. I, intoxicated by his masculinity, was at his mercy.

  I tore at his silken robe, exposing his muscular torso before burying my face into his luscious chest, nuzzling into his soft furry down. I felt safe and loved. All at once, his rousing maleness propelled me to delirious palpitations. He ripped away my flimsy thobe in a single stroke, uncovering my vulnerability with his roving eyes. He bore through my nakedness, stirring me to quivering ecstasy.

  He scooped me into his sturdy arms for a lingering kiss. His throbbing hardness bobbed against my backside as he carried me to the king. Our rapturous tongues surged to suckle each other’s craving insobriety as I held onto his sinewy neck.

  The pulchritudinous gentleman had transformed into a tempestuous creature. His lascivious stare never left my eyes. He had enslaved me into his turpitudinous lair – yet I knew I would serve willingly and thankfully. He’d seen through my gentility, knowing I desired his assertiveness.

  Manhandling me, he spread my hands above my head and planted amorous kisses on my body. This man of distinction responded to my euphoric squirming, which only served to heighten his avid dominance as he lorded over my youthful agility. I did not scream or resist when he cuffed me to the posts. This soulful demigod had appropriated my compassionate innocence. I had fallen into his irresistible web and become his boy toy, his plaything.

  I cherished both his masterly dominance and his childlike servility. When he wept against my lissom chest, he’d conquered my unfledged sensitivity. His ascendancy plunged into my tenderness, as if he was avenging his unrequited love for the prince he could not have. Our love-making was at once urgent and at times languid.

  Fahrib, like Ramiz (my Kosk Household tutor) was burdened with guilt and invasive social expectations to conform to an image of masculinity he didn’t feel. Sadomasochism, for both, was an erotic escape to salvation, if only a temporary one.

  I felt the contrast of my personal unresolved turbulence for the man I loved, who was so near and yet so far, separated by our intimate friend, whom my beloved had so gallantly volunteered to guard and guide. Andy, like Fahrib, was a man of principles; neither would forgo his chivalry for selfish gains.

  Tonight, the gods had bestowed a blessing on my Master and me as we comforted one another through our sacred union. No words were required, only willingness to liberate our souls from society’s conventional ideals. He whacked my bottom as he ploughed his thickness into the core of my being with absolution, liberating our pent-up emotions to the call of the wild. Our superficial masquerade discarded, I was his subservient vassal, and he my imperious lord.

  His enormity burrowed into the depths of my receptive sanctum, and I felt the yielding essence of his joyful pride. I was his chosen consort, to pleasure his carnality as he did mine. No longer able to withhold our feverish enthusiasm, he glazed my private sanctuary to overflowing capacity with pulsating vibrations, while I unleashed my pensive abundance, coating his athletic arms with my molten fluids.

  It was long past midnight before he dismissed me – and not before he’d lapped me clean in every crevice of my hedonistic juvenescence.

  In the penthouse foyer, I found Andy and Dubois in heated debate over the Oneness of Being. They had been at it since my entry into the boudoir.

  PART THREE

  India – Dilli (Delhi), Khajuraho, Bombay (Mumbai)

  Chapter Thirty

  The Power Of Oneness

  “To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.“

  Lao Tzu

  2012

  Continuation of Andy’s Correspondence

  Since I’m on the topic of Oneness, I had many heated debates on this subject with your ex-tutor, Alain Dubois. Unlike our material world, which is dependent on pairs of opposites, I believe that the place we originated from is devoid of dichotomies. In this other world, the concepts of up and down are void. The same applies to death and life. There is no north or south, no male or female, no right or wrong. In our current existence, we think in dichotomies and identify ourselves using opposites; we are opinionated about what we like, what tastes good, what feels good, and so on. These polar opposites express what we have liked and disliked among our experiences.

  Since we reside in a world of contrasts and contrast requires more than one element, the idea of Oneness is almost impossible to grasp. Therefore, we are constantly dwelling in a world of twoness. How then is it possible for humans to grasp the idea of oneness in the realm of nonbeing we occupied before we came into beingness?

  A fine example would be this: we don’t think of our fingers, legs, arms, toes, and eyes as separate entities from our person. Even though they have their unique qualities and character, we don’t refer to our fingers as being separate from ourselves. All these seemingly separate parts are a part of the whole, or oneness, we refer to as ‘self.’ We, the Source or God, were one before we manifested in this world.

  Therefore, the concept of Oneness means discarding all ideas of separation from anything and anyone. One of the ways we can simulate Oneness is through silence - where there are no names and no things. In the silence, we can feel our connection to everyone and everything: to the Tao, the Oneness that keeps universal order, where form is created from nothingness and vice versa. />
  Young, take a moment to imagine that you are free of all labels, separation, and judgments about our world and the life inhabiting it; you’ll then begin to understand Oneness. The Source of being is an energy field where anger or resentment toward anyone or anything are obsolete, since everyone and everything is Spirit. You are this Spirit: the Source/the God. The meaning of life will be revealed to you by easing into the silence, and you can find it without having to leave your body through death. You will be able to return to the Oneness and Nothingness while in physical form. Peace and your life’s purpose will flow easily through you when you are close to your original nature.

  I’m sure you are already aware of this without me carrying on about the Oneness of Being. I’ll rest at this juncture and I look forward to your response.

  Yours truly,

  Andy

  1968

  Arrival at Dilli

  These days, visitors can fly directly to Khajuraho Airport, but back in the 1960s, The Khajuraho Monuments were just being rediscovered by the artsy and fashionable elite. In 1968, there were over eighty temples at the Khajuraho Monuments, enclosed by high walls with eight gates, each flanked by two golden palm trees. Nowadays, only twenty-two temples remain, in disrepair.

  The name Khajuraho is derived from the Sanskrit word kharjur, meaning date palm. Therefore, Khajuraho literally means “the road of the date palms,” where a large number of these trees were found scattered over an area of approximately 21 square kilometers. These sacred monuments lie about 385 miles southeast of Delhi, India’s capital city, which locals call Dilli.

  Dilli was where the ‘Ship’ (Fahrib’s private plane) landed. As soon as I stepped out of the plane, whiffs of exotic India permeated my nostrils. Dilli smelled like a neurotic bird, desperately seeking paradise lost. This city was once the centre of cultural refinement; now, it held nauseating hordes of deformed vagrants. Their malnourished hands begged for alms from visitors who cared to provide. Never in my young life had I witnessed such extreme poverty, except when I had visited the rural Malayan fishing village, where I wept at creation’s disparity.

  Although we had travelled only a short distance between our arrival tarmac to a nearby airfield to board the two helicopters bound for Chhatarpur, the district where Khajuraho town was located, the pitiful crowd had surrounded our luxury vehicles. They smacked at our rolled up windows, beseeching for compassionate succour as if we were heavenly Messiahs sent to deliver them from their misery. Andy impetuously wrapped his muscular arms around my shoulders, as if protecting me from harm. Tears formed in my eyes, and I was afraid for our safety. Zac and Albert gave me disgruntled glances, as if I should man up to face this madding crowd. Our driver honked ruthlessly at the throng as we meandered at a snail’s pace towards the heliport. Andy comforted me to the best of his ability, much to his charge’s disdain. Remorsefulness washed over my person, as if I’d committed a treacherous act against Albert and Andy. I had little control, yet for unfathomable reasons, I felt guilty for coming between my friends.

  A temporary relief washed over me as soon as I boarded the helicopter with Zac, Aziz, Alain and Jabril. The other copter carried Andy, Albert and Mario. For the moment, I had a little time to gather myself from the culpability I had felt earlier as we zoomed towards rural Khajuraho – the religious capital of the Chandella Rajputs, a tribal dynasty that ruled this part of central India a thousand years ago.

  At the RAJ

  Our helicopters landed on the lawn of a large, walled-in estate. Acres of rainforest surrounded this secluded compound. Rising from the middle of the manicured lawn was a colonial-style mansion, restored to its former glory. I felt as if I had stepped back in time to the nineteenth century, when India was the jewel of the British Empire. This private residence belonged to Count Mario Conti’s friend, a wealthy Englishman of the landed gentry whom we addressed as Esquire Snow. The RAJ was his winter retreat, a tropical sanctuary away from his thriving publication business and the chilly dampness of the British Isles. This sultry haven was our home for the few days we filmed the Khajuraho segment of Sacred Sex in Sacred Places.

  Several uniformed servants transported our luggage to our spacious chambers. I shared a room with Zac while Andy roomed with his charge. Esquire Snow and a couple of male and female models were already awaiting our arrival at the drawing room. After formal introductions and some light beverages, we sojourned to our respective chambers to freshen up before dinner. Our host had assisted Mario and Aziz in obtaining the necessary filming permits with the local and Madhya Pradesh state authorities. Specific sections of the temple grounds were cordoned off from visitors during our photo sessions. The Indian authorities had granted special permission for our controversial project with flying colours, since funding was not an issue. They had provided a host of security guards to make sure that no unauthorized visitors were allowed into the temples where we were shooting on that particular day.

  Dinner Conversations

  The moment we entered the RAJ grand dining room, we were ushered to our assigned seats by a couple of uniformed footmen and the butler. Treated like royal dignitaries, we were attended to individually by young, turbaned servants. I was transported back in time to colonial India as described in the Raj Quartet: a four-volume novel by Paul Scott about the concluding years of British rule in the Indian subcontinent. Formal protocol was de rigueur as we dined on spicy Indian cuisine, scrumptiously prepared by local cooks at a nearby kitchen in a separate building.

  Jabril sat on my left, while my professor, Dubois occupied the seat to my right. During dinner, the art historian commented, “I didn’t have a chance to continue our discussion about Prince Aschwin.”

  Before I could utter a response, my professor remarked, “The prince has quite a history behind him, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s precisely the reason I want to know what he said to Young at the Falcon’s Den,” the Levantine gave me a derisive look, as if I was hiding a secret.

  “I had no idea Mr. Ernest Heinrich was a prince. He told me he was an art curator at the New York Metropolitan Museum,” I chirped.

  Jabril opined, “He is indeed an art curator at the museum, but he is also a strong Nazi supporter. During the war, he was a Wehrmacht officer and worked at the Museum of Art Ostasiatische in the Department of Chinese painting before he fled Germany for New York in 1945.” He added, “The House of Orange-Nassau has a sordid history with the Nazi party, and so does The House of Windsor.”

  My teacher declared, “I’ve heard that the abdicated Edward was a scapegoat for the Windsors, so they could claim an unblemished line to the British throne. Edward was labeled a ‘black sheep’ because he openly supported the Nazis.”

  “You are indeed correct, Alain. In truth, the British monarchy and the leading Crown bankers from the City of London enthusiastically supported Hitler’s party. They bankrolled the Führer’s election, helping him build the Nazi war machine for the purpose of Britain’s geopolitical war between Germany and Russia.” The Levantine continued, “The House of Windsor has always supported Nazi-style genocide; long before and after the abdication of Edward VIII, they’ve maintained direct Nazi links.”

  Mario, opposite us, declared, “The British and several European monarchies have been related to the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha since the days of Victoria’s Albert.”

  The art historian had spearheaded a heated debate around the table regarding the various European monarchies’ involvement in the Führer’s war. Andy and Zac snuck grim glances at me, as if I had started this politically incorrect dinner conversation. Albert, on the other hand, gave me a more severe look, as if I’d committed an unforgivable act. I was at a loss amid the monarchical tittle-tattle and the condescending stares directed at me by both big brothers and peer. I sat silent, wondering how I had gotten myself into such a mess.

  As soon as we had sojourned into the drawing room for our after-dinner inconsequential conversations, I found a quiet corner to contemplate w
hile our entourage mingled. Professor Dubois came over when I was buried in thoughts. “Are you alright, Young? Is something bothering you? You haven’t been yourself since we boarded the ‘Ship.’”

  I put on a congenial smile before answering, “I’m as well as can be, professor. How are you, sir?” In truth, during my time spent with my teacher, I had seldom asked about his wellbeing. He was surprised by my sudden inquiry.

  “Oh, I’m well. I’m concerned about you. You know you can tell me anything. I’m here to assist, and so are your BBs.” He paused. “We can meditate, if you feel inclined to search for answers to your dis-ease,” he expressed.

  “Thank you, sir. That would be wonderful. I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  Dubois suggested, “Come to my chamber in an hour, and we’ll have a Zentology session.”

  At My Teacher’s Chamber

  Alain had laid a small meditation altar out with burning candles and incense. A couple of decorative cushions lay on the floor for us. The sweet smell of damask rose wafted through my nostrils as we sat naked, facing one another. He extended his hand to mine before we closed our eyes in quiet contemplation.

  He muttered an Indian incantation and instructed me to release my thoughts to the stillness of the night. Except for the sound of croaking frogs, chirping crickets and the occasional call of wild animals, this walled sanctuary was silent.

  I had trouble calming my mind until Alain’s soothing hands brought me to a place of tranquility. As he guided my restlessness to serenity, I relaxed into his healing touch. Our minds merged. I heard his gentle reveries running through my thoughts as he gleaned my unsettling affliction through our telepathic conveyance. His loving compassion flowed through me.