Chilli Heat

by Carrie Williams

  I lie down at one end of the row, beside Marigold, who is one of the oldest of the group. A hippie who never left the 1960s behind, hair hennaed bright red, she is a quiet soul and strikes me as one of the more amenable of the group. She turns her head to look at me as I spread my towel beside her.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ she crackles, voice wrecked by too much weed over the course of decades.

  ‘Thanks.’ I pause, casting around for a conversational gambit. ‘So,’ I say at last, ‘are you enjoying the classes?’

  She nods. ‘They’re not bad,’ she replies.

  ‘But you’ve had better?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’ve been doing yoga for thirty years, so I’ve encountered some of the world’s finest teachers in that time, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Of course. But you obviously rate Christopher, to be here on this course.’

  She looks at me, one hand shielding her face from the sunlight. ‘He’s fine,’ she says. ‘But let’s face it, no one’s really here for the yoga, are they?’

  I eye her nervously. ‘Then what are they here for?’

  ‘What are you here for?’

  ‘The yoga.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  I blush.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says, placing one hand on my forearm. ‘You don’t need to be coy about it.’

  ‘I … I didn’t come here for that,’ I say.

  ‘You didn’t? Then you’re the exception.’

  ‘You mean …?’ I can’t finish my sentence.

  She nods, eyebrows raised a little in provocation.

  ‘How many?’ I say, voice faltering.

  She looks round at the line of tanned naked bodies stretching away from her along the sand, and I sit up and peer around her. It’s like a line of doll parts. All shapes and sizes are here, a variety of ages. None are unappealing – these women all look after themselves, and all have good firm boobs. Pussies come in different guises – wholly shaven, bushy and proud of it, dyed, pruned into little tufts. From some glint piercings. It’s easy to see why Chris can’t keep his hands off them. But why take the trouble to keep it a secret from me: that he works his way through them, that he’s a sexaholic? Why pretend fidelity when losing me would barely impinge on his sexual intake?

  ‘Pretty much everyone,’ says Marigold.

  ‘But when?’

  ‘Afternoons, mainly. Sometimes early evening. He’s got a special touch, in class – a signal – that lets you know to turn up at his room. That you’ve been chosen.’

  ‘But … but how does he do it all? I mean, logistically? Time-wise?’

  ‘Two by two, sometimes more,’ she says. I think I see a flare of schadenfreude in her face as she tells me all this, watching me for my reaction.

  ‘Have … have you?’

  ‘Just once,’ she says, a little ruefully. ‘Me, Daphne and Roberta – we got the summons a few days ago.’

  I pull a face. ‘The summons’. The same as me, when he tells me at dinner what time I am permitted to visit him later that night. In some ways I suppose I should feel honoured to have him to myself at these times, given what I’ve just found out. But it’s scant consolation that I am, for whatever reason. Knowing that he has a parade of women through his room every day – and that’s not even counting his acolytes, whatever he gets up to with them – makes me feel cheap and used.

  I rest my head back on the sand and imagine him in his room, cross-legged on his bed, coming out with his spiel about sacred breath and the third eye and god knows what else. It made me laugh, all that spiritual stuff, but part of me wanted to buy into it. And in terms of sex, it did translate into some of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had. But now I imagine him doing the same things with all the other students, spouting the same lines about intimacy, and I feel sick.

  At dinner, I’m unsurprisingly subdued. The last thing I want is to talk to him. I just want to leave. But of course he can tell something’s wrong, and in an apposite moment he approaches and asks me to call by at eleven o’clock, the same as yesterday.

  I look at him, as if seeing him properly for the first time. His long lean face has something wolfish to it. ‘I’m tired,’ I say. ‘Can I come earlier?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I have some urgent admin to do.’

  ‘What exactly?’ I feel as taken aback by my own cheek as he looks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What is it you have to do?’

  Thunder steals across his face, and I’m intrigued by this evidence of a bad temper lurking below the surface. But he immediately recovers himself. ‘It’s the website,’ he says. ‘It’s not working right and I need to fix it straightaway.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, faux breezily. ‘I’ll just have to last. Did you have a nice afternoon, by the way?’

  He frowns. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Why the frown?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just – why the sudden interest?’

  ‘Oh nothing. Just showing a polite interest in your life.’ I stand up and head for the dessert buffet with my plate, trying to control the feeling of being a kettle about to boil. I have to control myself till later; this is not the place to confront him.

  I look back over my shoulder and he’s staring at me, a perplexed look on his face. When he catches my glance, he looks away, down at his hands in his lap, and for a moment or two he’s lost in thought. Then, seemingly resolute and focused again, he gets up and strides purposefully from the room.

  Going back to my room and twiddling my thumbs until 11 p.m. is not an option; I’ll go crazy if I do that. I decide instead to go the internet station in the reception area and email Nadia, see how she is getting on, find out where she is and if she has any plans to come back to Goa. Her anger must have died down by now, and even if she hasn’t got over Chris, she can stay nearby. She doesn’t have to see him.

  As I log on, I wonder what is going to happen tonight when I confront Chris with my knowledge of his philandering. I’ll rage at him, of course; I’ll ask him what the hell he thinks he’s playing at. But I’d be a liar if I denied that there is some part of me that thinks I might talk him round. I’m curious to know why I was singled out for special treatment, why I could have him to myself while the others had to share. And our nights together, three in a row, must count for something. Is it too much to let myself hope that he has feelings for me despite his dealings with the others? Feelings that might mean I can persuade him to stop fooling around and commit himself to me.

  There are no emails from Nadia and I have a panic feeling when I think that I have no idea where my little girl is, who she’s with, what she’s doing. Of course, at eighteen she makes her own decisions in life, goes her own way. She’s capable of looking after herself. But lately I’ve sensed a fragility to her, perceived something lost to her – a look in her eyes, a confusion and vulnerability. Nadia, for all her beauty, or perhaps because of her beauty, doesn’t yet know who she is. I’m hoping India will help her to find out. I send a short email to her, telling her that I love her and hope all is well, that I’m sorry and that I hope to hear from her soon, and then I read one from Ravi – a practical one about the cats needing to go to the vet – and finally I log off. For a moment I remain seated, unsure what to do with myself. I look at my watch. It’s still only nine. And then I can’t stop myself – I stand up, head out of the reception and along the corridor that will take me to Chris’s room.

  I halt outside his room, and immediately I hear a woman’s voice inside, two women’s voices, and from time to time Chris’s too. Like before, it’s hard to make out anything that’s actually being said, and I realise that they are consciously speaking in hushed tones. I press my ear against the door, hold my breath.

  ‘Hello,’ says an amused voice beside me. In all my concentration I hadn’t heard anyone approach, and Jasmine is right beside me, clad in a long kaftan-like robe made of such thin fabric that it’s pla
in to see that she has nothing on beneath.

  ‘I –’ I stop at once. Any attempt at justification is pointless, there’s nothing else I could have been doing but spying.

  She smiles, a little archly, smugly. ‘You might as well come in,’ she says. She reaches past me and gives three little raps on the door. ‘Chris won’t mind.’

  I stand, frozen, terrorised. There’s no time to get away now, and Chris will know that I’ve been eavesdropping, and will despise me for it. There’s no chance our affair will withstand this. Although I’m not going to try to flee, I recoil from the door, wondering what I’m going to say.

  The door opens, and for a moment Chris does look a little stunned to see me there with Jasmine. Then his face relaxes into a restrained smile and he pulls the door back further. ‘Well, you might as well both come in,’ he says.

  Jasmine’s hand on the small of my back urges me into the room ahead of her. Chris still stands with one hand on the door, beckoning us in and waiting to close it after us. I avoid his gaze as I walk past him, and I almost flinch when I feel his hand on my arm, gentle, trying to reassure me. My breath catches in my throat when I see the two women on his bed, each of them secured, with bound wrists, to one of Chris’s bedposts.

  I turn, ready to plead with Jasmine to let me go, but already she has pulled up her kaftan and is strutting naked across the room. She has the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen: pale as milk, with creamy-beige nipples, everything in perfect proportion. Clambering onto and over the bed, she places her face between one of the women’s legs. I hear deep sighs escaping from the woman in question and, as she starts writhing on the bed, pulling Jasmine’s face into her, ever closer, ever harder, her shoulders turn and I catch sight of the telltale butterfly tattoo. It’s Kat. I can’t see who the other woman is, though I hear her cry out too as Jasmine reaches out, her mouth still on Kat’s pussy, and slips her fingers inside her.

  I spin around, straight into Chris’s waiting arms. ‘You’re not thinking of going, are you?’ he says, and I burst into tears. He pulls me in closer. ‘Don’t cry,’ he says, running one hand over my hair. ‘I hate to see you cry.’ He catches my tears on his thumb, brings it to his lips. ‘This is supposed to be a joyful time,’ he says. ‘We are here to share joy.’

  ‘Joy,’ I almost spit, pulling back from him. ‘I … I … you let me bloody well fall in love with you, and then I find out you’re shagging just about all of your students. That this –’ I wave my arm back at the three women making out on his bed ‘– is how you live.’ I ball my fists up, start pummelling his chest. ‘You dirty, dirty fucker. How do you think I feel?’

  I’m crying again now, but he stops trying to quench my tears, steps back from me, arms raised. ‘Whoa,’ he says. ‘Take a deep breath and calm down, Val. We never once talked about love, about this being an exclusive thing.’

  ‘No, but all that crap about intimacy, building trust, taking things slow. You … you misled me. You’re just a sex maniac who can’t keep his hands off anybody.’

  He smiles, and again I see the wolf in him. ‘Why should I?’ he says. ‘Why should I resist all the lovely creatures who parade themselves in front of me everyday? Who present themselves to me? Why deny myself all the pleasure that is offered to me on a plate? That would be like turning away a plate of lush tropical fruits, ripe and ready to eat. What a waste that would be. All that trouble and effort they took to grow, only to be rejected.’

  ‘But what about love, commitment?’

  He shrugs. ‘Commitment to earthly things is a no-no for us,’ he says. ‘That’s what the meditation is all about – loosening oneself from the here and now, renouncing all the bonds that tie us to the Earth and to earthly pleasures.’ He makes a tsk-tsking sound. ‘Haven’t you learnt that by now?’

  I point at the women on the bed. ‘And are they not earthly pleasures?’ I say. ‘You’re full of shit, Chris. You’re a walking mass of contradictions.’

  He shrugs, sits back on the chaise-longue behind him. ‘Maybe so,’ he says. ‘I am only human. But let me just say this, Val – don’t knock something till you’ve tried it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He jerks his head over towards the bed but doesn’t say anything. I look at the women, at Jasmine’s beautiful bare rump raised in the air, pink and proud.

  ‘Sex is sacred,’ I hear Chris murmur, his voice hypnotically slow and low.

  ‘You don’t mean for me …’

  I turn back to find him naked now on the chaise-longue, cock in his fist, massaging it slowly with one oily hand. He looks at me intently, then back at it. ‘The lingam,’ he says, ‘or wand of light is an instrument of energy and pleasure. And as such it is my duty to fulfil its honourable destiny.’

  ‘But why not just give pleasure to me? Why do you have to sleep around?’ I realise that I’ve stepped closer to him, as if his cock is exerting some kind of force over me. I don’t take my eyes off it. The knowledge of the pleasure that it has given me so far is causing me to froth between my legs. I step closer, let myself fall to my knees. He is right: his cock is a holy thing, and as such it must be worshipped. I place my hand over his own, assume the rhythm he has set up – slow, measured. I put my other hand beneath his cock, to where some of the oil has pooled, and begin rubbing his balls and perineum.

  Chris places his free hand on my head, puts his own head back as if in surrender. The sounds that escape from him are echoed by those of the women on the bed, and I look over and see that all eyes are on us. Jasmine, who is sitting up now, loosens the ties and Kat and the other woman, who turns out to be her room-mate Dionne, rise. After studying us for a minute, Kat rolls over and climbs on top of Dionne. She begins kissing her deeply, all the while mashing her groin into hers. For a moment Jasmine watches them, smiling, her hand running up and down Kat’s leg. Then she looks back at us, lets her hand drop between her legs and, opening them wide, starts bringing herself off on the edge of the bed, eyes still trained on us.

  I’m caught in her gaze, a rabbit in her headlights. I feel exposed, and yet I find that a curiously pleasant sensation. Realising suddenly, however, that I’m the only one who’s still clothed in the room, I let go of Chris for a moment, letting him continue to massage his sacred lingam, and strip off. My nakedness spurs me on. These girls are beautiful, I realise, but I am too, otherwise why would Chris have fucked me in the first place? I may exceed them in years but I can still hold my own.

  Jasmine stands up, fingers still moving up and down between her lips, and walks towards us, slowly, resolutely. ‘Look into her eyes,’ she says in a commanding voice, and Chris opens his eyes as if awaking from a dream and does as she says. He lets goes of his cock and I take it in my hand, continue the slow but firm massage. I meet his gaze and I feel all anger, all resentment burn away like smoke. Perhaps he’s right, I tell myself: why try to hold onto things, when everything, ultimately, turns to dust? Why not embrace change, surrender to the chaos of the universe instead of trying to impose order?

  Jasmine is kneeling beside me now and I feel the soft skin of her upper arm against mine. Reaching out, she places her hand over mine, falling into sync rather than contradicting my momentum, and we continue the massage. Then she lets go, reaches over for the oil and, kneeling before us, begins to massage Chris’s chest and nipples, flat belly and thighs. When she’s done that, she cups his balls and, coating them with the excess oil, massages them gently, followed by his perineum again.

  ‘The shaft,’ she says in a hushed voice, turning her head slightly to me. ‘Concentrate on the base of the lingam now and start to vary the speed and pressure. Squeeze it gently at the bottom, that’s right, gently does it.’

  Behind us I can hear Kat and Dionne rising to meet their orgasm, welcoming it with strident cries, but I focus on Chris’s cock, edging the sounds out of my mind as if it’s the only thing that exists in the world right now.

  ‘Pull up now,’ says Jasmine, ‘and slide your hand right off a
nd then do it with your other hand. That’s right, well done. Now do the same again with the right hand, then the left, and carry on alternating.’

  She rises to her knees, hangs over Chris and watches his face as I carry on these motions for several minutes. His eyes are closed, his breath almost imperceptible; he seems to have entered a state of relaxation so deep it resembles meditation, perhaps even death. For a moment I am actually afraid. Then Jasmine turns back to me.

  ‘Change the direction,’ she instructs me. ‘Squeeze the head of the lingam, then slide your hand down and off, still swapping hands.’ As I obey her, she explains to me: ‘It’s said that a lingam massage such as this can cure many ailments. It’s a bit like reflexology – some of the nerve endings on the lingam are believed to correspond to points on the rest of the body, and problems there can hence be treated by massage here.’ She smiles, showing small white regular teeth. ‘See, it’s not all about sex. Or should I say, there’s a hell of a lot more to sex than most people think.’

  As she talks, I notice that Chris’s cock is softening then growing hard again, over and over, as if he is riding a wave. Sometimes he seems as if he is approaching orgasm, then he grows flaccid again. The changes don’t seem to correspond to exactly what I am doing with my hand, and I know that, despite his profound relaxation, he is using the power of his mind and his breathing to control what is going on between his legs.

  ‘Open your legs wider,’ Jasmine whispers, and Chris does as she bids. ‘Now,’ she says to me, ‘I’m going to show you the sacred spot. Here.’ She takes my hand and guides it between his legs, to a spot roughly midway between his balls and arsehole. ‘You feel that small indentation, about the size of a pea? Push it with your fingertip, ever so gently, while I carry on the lingam massage. When you feel him about to come, push in a little harder. The Taoists call this the Million Dollar Point. It has the same effect as when you stick a finger up a man’s arse.’