by Young
My rigidity grew in response to his tenderness, yet I did not stir. We stayed unruffled. I felt his erotic energy emanating from his comforting palms. Our hardness throbbed incessantly, yet we made no effort to dispel this sensual connection. Our minds’ lips kissed in conflated exhilaration. Aroused by our mental foreplay, we caressed our sinewy physiques to fervent ecstasies, while our bodies remained motionless except for the palpitations below our waists. There was no sign of physical copulation – yet, the intensity of our passion enveloped us within the confines of our unsheltered minds.
My teacher’s avidity bobbed against my lips as I suckled his bountiful agility within my consciousness. His gaze never left my mind’s eye, staring at my grasping nudity as we amalgamated into lustful nakedness. He’d unveiled my darkest secret, exposing my vulnerability to his heedful resolution. I’d lost my sobriety to this beguiling Zentologist. My pensive rumination transformed into hypnotic sexuality. This rapturous ecstasy had unshackled my guilt-ridden sanctum to effusive saintliness.
The exotic cry from his drumming propensity expelled the remnants of my aching turbulence as streams of delirious amorosity coated my receiving hollow. He had reignited my passion, liberating me from my guilt. I’m made anew by his magic potion. Like the songs of the chirping crickets and croaking frogs, his thrilling ebullience had left its subliminal mark upon the lips of my succulent mind. I spewed my deposits onto my belly as we sat in contemplative silence. The one physical connection we had lay in our consolidated palms. Our hands had not parted throughout our Zentology session.
By the time we opened our eyes our physical excitements had long subsided. Our lips bonded in a lingering kiss when we regained our individuality as student and mentor. I left the professor’s boudoir at the stroke of midnight.
Chapter Thirty-One
A Passage To India
“The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing intemperance. And men and women know from birth that in excessive indulgence is found all sensual delight.”
Charles Baudelaire
2012
My Message to Andy
Since we are on the topic of the Oneness of Being, I have several questions for you:
a) What are your thoughts on the “Eternity of Life”?
b) What about on the Oneness of Life in relationship to its Environment?
c) Last but not least, how do you define “Advaita”?
Andy, please do not construe this as a test. I would simply like to know your perspective on these issues.
Do you remember our time at the Khajuraho Monuments, when we encountered the Maharishi and the Sādhu during our “Sacred Sex in Sacred Places” photo shoot?
1968
A Passage to India
Early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast at the RAJ, our entourage packed itself into five jeeps, together with several chests of photographic equipment. We headed towards the rugged Vindhya mountain terrain where the Khajuraho temples were located. Whereas today, these groups of sacred monuments are India’s biggest single attraction after the Taj Mahal, in 1968, this venue was largely forgotten and unvisited by international tourists. Overgrown with tropical vegetation, these sites resembled film sets from the Indiana Jones movies.
When we arrived at the Black Pagoda, more commonly known as the Konark Sun Temple, a large gathering of Hindu pilgrims together with wandering yogis were being steered away by uniformed guards, whom the Indian authorities had allocated to cordon off the vicinity for our shoot. We were unaware that within a week, the ‘Shivaratri’ (‘Great Night of Shiva’) celebration would take place at this hallowed location. This festive celebration was to honour the Hindu God Shiva’s marriage to Parvati, the Goddess of love, fertility and devotion.
As we approached these ancient temples, built between 950 and 1050 CE by the Chandella dynasty and dedicated to India’s two major religions, Hinduism and Jainism, I was awestruck by these Negara-style architectural wonders. These holy places suggested a tradition of acceptance, respect and tolerance for diverse religious beliefs among Hindus and Jains. The intricately carved sculptures detailed images of couples locked in a variety of sexual embraces. All forms of copulation were represented, regardless of gender. Besides the erotically charged carvings, a variety of animals were also represented, especially elephants and cows. These beasts of burden were depicted on similar pantheons as the revered deities.
Suddenly, two trumpeting elephants, a cortège of chanters, and several musicians headed in our direction. Atop one of the exalted beasts sat the finely dressed Esquire Snow and his protégé. The other elephant carried a yogi, whom the esquire introduced to us as Bal Brahmachari Mahesh.
My teacher and Valet were wonderstruck. They prostrated in front of the holy sage as soon as he alighted, while Count Mario and Jabril bowed and kissed the yogi’s hand. The four men acted as if one of the temple’s deities had manifested in our midst. Aziz, Andy, Albert and I, along with the four models, looked on in bewilderment, wondering what had befallen these four sanctimonious gentlemen.
Before my turn arrived to greet the yogi, Andy whispered, “Do as I do.”
Before I had time to respond, the sage was already in front of me and my big brother. Andy held his palms together and touched his thumbs to his forehead between the eyebrows before putting them to his heart. He uttered, “Namaskār.” I followed suit.
The holy man put his palm on my head and muttered a Hindu invocation before moving forward to bless the person next to me.
The Temple of Love
Our entourage followed the convocation to a temple where erotic figurines lined the outer walls. Against a backdrop of drummers and sitar players, the yogi recited a lengthy incantation, while his followers purified the surrounding area with bushels of burning incense and aromatic essential oils. Our group was stirred to heightened erotic euphoria by the fragrant aromas, the ritualistic chanting and the hypnotic music. By the time the sage had finished purifying the temple’s inner sanctum, Vishnu’s Lakshmana had become an erotic haven of human copulating maithunas.
Mario and Aziz clicked away at the vivacious thespians, who were now in varied forms of unbridled amatory arousals. Sandwiched between Andy and Philip (one of the male models), my supple limbs and limber caresses resembled the images depicted on the outer peripheries of this holy sanctuary. At times, I was the divine Shakti, at others the beatified Shiva. These paradisiacal shifts between Yin and Yang parlayed me into a trance-like state as I moved between the terrestrial and the celestial realms. Was it the intoxicating essential oils, the hypnotic chanting, the mesmerizing drumming, or the bushels of burning hashish? Whatever the stimulant, my lubriciousness had conquered my temperance. My sobriety had disappeared; in its wake came wanton anticipation. Caution was thrown to the wind.
I straddled Andy’s immensity as his palpitations stroked my yearning hallow. He lifted my buttocks away from his throbbing hardness before impaling me back onto his towering lustfulness. My whimpering dexterity served only to heighten Philip’s succulence as he eased into my core with my lover’s thickness already buried deep within. My mouth opened to receive my lovers’ luscious tongues as they drove into every crevice of my longing cavern. Their lascivious motions triggered within me an illicit decadence I had not known I possessed. I backed onto their engorgements. Time had forsaken us as we rocked to the rhythmic sounds of the strumming sitars. We had defied time and space with our tantric trinity, elevating our precipitous penetrations into perforated moksha, the transcendent freedom from Saṃsāra, the cycle of death and rebirth. We were at one with the cosmic soul, the ‘Brahman’. This pleasurable erotic sensation, along with its emotional fulfillment, is but one of the four healthy essentials of human existence. Lost in euphoric tryst, we oscillated into ‘Kāma’.
I embraced both enormities with the ‘sutra’ of Oneness before Philip could no longer withhold his affection. His exhilaration engulfed my being, coating my tenderness to overflowing cap
acity. His heady masculinity permeated my nostrils as he slumped against my back. His manly hands clutched my sinewy physique as he devoured my slender neck, shoving his remaining deposits deep into my core. His tokens of affection were his territorial markings through which he’d laid claim for future assertions.
After Philip left for his next encounter, Andy sank deeper within my opening, claiming my enclave as his own – but before I could fully perceive this new delirium, a pair of hairy arms reached around my waist as the lusty art historian enveloped my semi-vacancy with gusto, swallowing me whole. His muscular hands pulled my pelvis toward Andy and his pulsating stiffness, compelling my twitching devotion to comply to their unrestrained inhibitions. He, like Philip, gyrated into me. I prevailed in this munificent ‘mukti’, this transcendent liberation, to be pleasured and to pleasure, to be satisfied and to satisfy. This debaucherous blissfulness had consecrated my lover and my sanctification. Our mystic bond had solidified within Vishnu’s holy refuge, even as we forged our sacred reunion with our own world. This supreme preserver and protector had smiled upon Andy and me.
I recall words of Charles Baudelaire: “The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing intemperance. And men and women know from birth that in excessive indulgence is found all sensual delight.”
Swirling sensual energies within and without these temple walls echoed our group’s sentiment as well as our individual ‘atman’. Our respective essence had amalgamated into a unified whole, the cosmic soul, the ‘Brahman’ - the eternal essence of the universe and the ultimate divine reality, the life source of all that has been, is and will be throughout the entire universe. The primal ground of all being and existence laid the foundation throughout our artistry at the Khajuraho monuments.
Jabril and Andy’s atmans surged through my being, awakening my profundity as they slid effortlessly into my orifice, urging my release. Despite its tantalizing urgency, I held my stance. Delving into my tantric practices, I prolonged this overwhelming sensation. My body writhed in synchronicity to their titillating gratifications. It was only a matter of time before our erotic sentiments drove the Levantine across the threshold. He unleashed his bounty into my receiving crevice, filling me and Andy with overflowing copiousness as his masculinity gripped my heaving torso. Jabril’s warm intensity pulsated within my big brother and me. Andy resumed where he’d left off, grinding his enormity against my twice-coated wetness. Although Andy’s liberation was close at hand, he, like me, had no desire to forgo our rhapsodic ‘vimoksha.’ We continued rocking to the rhythmic beat of the strumming sitar until Monsieur Dubois snapped us out of our hypnotic trance. Only then did we reluctantly relinquish our coitus reservatus.
These sacred temples provided the perfect synergies required for our tantric Kāmasūtras, and the photographers were overjoyed by the stunning images they had conceived.
The Delhi Golf Club
That evening, Esquire Snow and the photographers treated us to a lavish Indian feast at Delhi’s oldest and most prestigious golf club. Needless to say, the English publishing tycoon, an honorary member of this colonial style establishment, was given special ministration. Under such affable attention, we were treated to a semi-outdoor savoir-faire dining experience, held within one of several classical-style Lodhi Dynasty structures, located within the grounds of the Delhi Golf Club, once known as the Lodhi Golf Club. Within the confines of this opulently decorated monument, we were all treated like royalty, served by uniformed staff as was de rigueur since the British colonial days. A band of Indian musicians played 1940s and 50s popular western music, only to be serenaded by the squealing peacocks that roamed freely around the golf course.
Monsieur Dubois and Zac sat on either side of the educated seer. Bal Brahmachari Mahesh, otherwise known to the world as Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, was the Beatles’ spiritual advisor and the founding guru of the Transcendental Meditation technique. The trio, immersed in their philosophical discussion, were oblivious to the other conversations around the rectangular table.
Count Mario and Jabril, who were situated across from me, were busy conducting a political debate with the esquire, leaving Albert in the company of the three models, Zentonia, Philip and Arian. I was sandwiched between Andy and Nesrine, a beautiful female Eurasian model of Indian descent. When the appetising Indian cuisine appeared, I was already salivating like a hungry bear. I gobbled every morsel off my silver platter, desiring more, while Andy, ever the politically correct gentleman, gave me unappealing glances. Like the locals, I used my hand to scoop up the scrumptious food. To me, that was the proper manner to eat Indian food, as per Malayan etiquette.
Not able to hold his tongue, my big brother reprimanded, “Young, mind your manners. Can’t you use your knife and fork?”
Nesrine jumped to my aid while I was chewing a mouthful of food.
“Andy,” she expressed smilingly, “the boy is obviously enjoying his meal. Let him be. That’s the way we eat in this part of the world.”
Since I couldn’t speak, she continued, “My family eats the same way. To us Indians it is a sign of reverence to the chef when we wipe our plate clean with our fingers. I’m known to do the same in the company of friends and relatives.”
“Ah! But not in dignified company such as this,” Andy countered.
Sensing she couldn’t win, the model changed the topic, asking me, “Where are you from, Young?”
Since I was munching on a piece of curry chicken, my BB answered on my behalf. “We are from England. We are participating in a cultural exchange programme to the Middle East.”
“How, then, did you guys end up in the photo shoot?”
Andy resumed, “We are assisting Count Mario and Aziz in their photographic project. Besides, this young intern is learning fashion from our Italian Vogue photographer.”
“In that case, I’ll introduce Young to my aunt, Miram. She’s a fashion designer and has several boutiques and fabric stores around the country. She dresses local celebrities and politicians. Indira Ghandi, our prime minister, is one of her clients,” declared the elegant female.
No sooner had Nesrine completed her sentence, I stopped in my tracks, chiming excitedly, “I would love to meet your aunt! Is she based in Delhi?”
“Miram commutes between Delhi and Bombay, where she has her sample room and workshop. She has a boutique in South Delhi. I’ll set up a meeting before you leave,” she recommended.
Just then, an Indian couple, introduced to us as Mr. Romesh Thapar and Mrs. Raj Thapar, arrived to greet Esquire Snow. The esquire and Mr. Thapar had met in England, when Romesh had been a student. When I met him, Romesh was the director of the India International Centre, an artistic and cultural organization and meeting place for the various aesthetic and intellectual offerings of Delhi. One of the Centre’s cultural streams was performing art – dance recitals, film screenings, and drama. The organization also administered intellectual seminars, symposia, meetings and discussions. It boasted a well-stocked library and periodically published papers and articles relating to India’s social, economic and political stance. In addition, the Centre offered a hostel and catering facility that gathered intellectuals, artists and performers together to exchange ideas and information.
The meeting that evening had been specially set up by Snow so that we could meet the director and his lovely wife.
Before dinner was over, Mario and Aziz had agreed to visit the International Centre when they had finished shooting, while Mrs. Raj Thapar, who knew Nesrine and her aunt, had invited the model, Andy and me to join her at Miram’s boutique. I was elated with this opportunity to see one of India’s premier fashion designers in action.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ecstasy & Jealousy
“It is never wise to seek or wish for another’s misfortune.
If malice or jealousy were tangible and had a shape,
It would be the shape of a boomerang.”
Charley Reese
1968<
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Fashion Shoot
On the final day of our Sacred Sex in Sacred Places shoot, Count Mario had brought with him a selection of haute couture designer gowns. We had travelled first class by train to Orchha, a town by the banks of the Betwa River within the county of Madhya Predesh. As if frozen in time, the palaces and temples within the vicinity had retained their original grandeur. This medieval city was once the capital of Central India’s largest and most powerful kingdom, founded by the Bundela Rajput chieftain Rudra Pratap in the 16th century. An extensive fort enclosed the three palaces within its compound.
Raj Mahal acted as the backdrop for our morning shoot, followed by Jehangir Mahal, and last but not least, Rai Parveen Mahal. Besides being the photographers’ assistant, I was also looped into the shoot as part of the naked posse of male models used as adornments to complement the couture-clad females.
Raj Mahal
This magnificent palace was built in the 17th century by Madhukar Shah. Crowned by arresting chhatris (elevated, dome-shaped pavilions), the otherwise plain exterior soon gave way to vividly coloured murals depicting Hindu religious scenes on the inside.
Philip and I were assigned as naked ‘slaves’ to the sophisticatedly clad Zentonia. Our nakedness was barely concealed by her ethereal outfit as she posed this way and that. I was aroused by Philip’s occasional touch as we grazed our limbs over one another during our joint poses. When Mario requested we stare into one another’s eyes, we became fully erect while the female contorted this way and that for the camera.
On the rear side of the Count, Aziz was capturing our nakedness with his shutters. We did our best to behave professionally while he seized the opportunity to capture our erotic arousal. As much as we craved to make out there and then, our erogenous sensuality only served to heighten our lustful desires. Droplets of excitement formed at the tip of our erect phalluses as we posed like marble statues within these ancient halls, surrounded by ornate Indian deities. Our manhood throbbed uncontrollably.