On the verge of prostration by Michael Small

M I C HAEL S M AL L, W RITER THURSDAY, 6 OCTOBER 2011

ON THE VERGE OF PROSTRATION While waiting for the sex worker, Declan was jittery as a hooked jewfish and full of self-loathing. Why had he allowed Baz to talk him into it? Why had he even ’fessed up to feeling lower than a snake’s belly, desperate for some sort of intimacy after all these weeks? Still, he’d managed to make over his quiet room into a more intimate space, as Baz had suggested, dispensing with the colour poster of the Kangaroos AFL premiership team of 1999; back numbers of Wellbeing he’d recently bought up and was currently devouring; a rickety, old desk; crates of dog-eared books going back to uni days; and comfy old vinyl armchairs. Replacing them with scented tealight candles in metal cups; bottles of natural oils, jasmine, ylang-ylang and lemon-scented tea tree, for the coffee table; soft sheets and fresh plump pillows for the single bed; and a pair of Zen loungers with quilted stitching to hug the corners. Naturally, he couldn’t ask his wife for favours while he lay helpless in this crippled state. It was bad enough that she forced herself to empty the bag every morning as well as readjust the ties on his leg so the catheter wouldn’t slip as he limped and shuffled and cursed, occasionally wincing at the slight tug on his penis which might cause some damage. To what exactly, his mind didn’t wish to venture. And when early one morning she was in the fiddly process of emptying the bag, she didn’t realize the tube wasn’t secured and spilled a puddle of urine on her tawny shaggy rug. That indelible stain, a scrubby gingery yellow, acted as a pin-prick on the air-cushion of their relationship as well as constant reproach to his ineptitude. He shrank to infantilism, cranky and bloody helpless. So as for hoping to try again for sexual intimacy, it was out of the question, however much he yearned that they would or even could. His surgeon warned about inevitable leaks, no question. Possibly for several years. It didn’t bear agonizing over. But what else could you do, just lying there like a beached porpoise? Even his weight had ballooned. Yet that might be the least of his problems. For a start, he could barely

alter position without discomfort. When he did so, he must calculate a tentative move, gentle in easy stages, so as not to stretch or aggravate that still-tender pelvic area. Fortunately, the catheter had been removed after three weeks; otherwise, he would never have listened to Baz’s urging. As his best mate had done years ago, with disastrous consequences. It was at the heart of the Cross, Declan celebrating his eighteenth birthday with a Saturday night on the town, getting an eyeful of the birds in their off-the-shoulder gaudy tank tops, short skirts, waterfall braid hairdos and splashes of Prisma glitter. Even to this day that scene from the dawn of the eighties returns as nightmare, showgirls flaunting outrageous costumes with feathers and cheeky flashes of flesh, gender crossers recently coming out and usually content with just the price of a drink for their services. Go into the Venus Room on Hughes Street and it wasn’t just love that was in the air. You were bound to pick up something in that dive. At least, not AIDS back then. No, but laws against street soliciting had just been repealed, so the Cross was oozy with sleaze and sex. What a buzz for young Decky and Baz in their funky denim jackets. Typical, always seeking the limelight, his daggy mate would apply designer Metal paint that simulated leather, stitched on sequins, tassels, ribbon roses, rhinestones and, on the back, some natty freehand lettering. As for Declan, a dual track of nail heads running down the front was a ripper. But working the streets was a tad dangerous, what with a spike in knife attacks, pack rape and police harassment. Many of the prossies and drag queens hung out for drugs, but then again the trans-gender ‘girls’ had little chance of any straight work. The element of risk and hustle, outrageous gear and shocking colour, hubbub and traffic-snarls, drunks, druggies and stoushers, tourists and strippers, voyeurs, all sorts in the sozzle-eyed mix that made for an atmosphere of simmering excitement. The Cross and Darlo were the places to be at, no worries. Loitering on the corner of Darley Street puffing a ciggie, a prossie was slowly trolling back and forth, staring for a few seconds in each direction, brazen in low-cut velvet camisole and fluorescent micro-skirt that hardly covered the half-moons of her buttocks.

‘C’mon, Dec, let’s check out the old shag-bag. See how much she knocks us back for a bang. Say, man, you have eyes like cod’s ballocks.’ To his shame, Declan recalls his own gormless sniggering, his heart-pumped daring fuelled by lurid curiosity and sexual arousal as he tagged along behind Baz, who bold and brassy as a booferbox started negotiations. Snatching at breath, palms moistening, Declan was still holding back, eyes skittering about, lest they’d be spotted by a familiar face. ‘Lise says make it twenty-five bucks for a quick hand-job, mate.’ Declan swallowed hard, breathless excitement leeching away fast, a wave of nausea suddenly gathering in the pit of his stomach. ‘Nuh no, you go ahead. I’m just fine.’ ‘Say, man, it’s your birthday, for chrissake. This is my shout.’ ‘No, really . . . ‘ ‘Hey, c’mon, man, I’ve set you up,’ Baz nudging him in the ribs then grabbing an arm. ‘Her pad’s less than five minutes away, just round the corner. Betcha London to a brick, it’ll be all over in a jiffy.’ ‘Is youse comin’or ain’t youse?’ The girl, a hard-bitten forty at least, had a flat voice of rusty nails. ‘Make up yer bleedin’ minds, yer tossers.’ ‘Sorry, love, it’s his first time.’ ‘Jerst follow me, no messin’. Faint with fear, Declan allowed himself to be steered along by Baz to a dimly lit apartment block. He still remembers that prolonged stare of a watchman or joe bonce in the front office next to the porch steps as judgmental, but over the years that stare becomes more pitiful: another despicable sucker. He finds himself in what may have been a bed-sitter with tizzy clutter. Certainly, the roughly made bed dominates his mind in bitter recall.

‘Sit down over there.’ Somehow the pro ground out words from a slant in her livid mauve lips and powder pancake cheeks smudged rouge.’ She was shrewdly sizing him up without giving anything away, but for the contemptuous tone in her hardshut face and the watery grey eyes. ‘Take yer pants off first.’ Clenching teeth, toes and sphincter almost uncontrollably, he’d known he was going to hate the trip as soon as the cow had opened negotiations on her patch, way before the laying on of insensitive maulers brown-mottled with care-worn age and neglect. Nor was she going to strip off one scrap of clothing, for which he was much relieved. He could sense her potential for rough stuff in the tatts on her upper arms and the dark blue and faint yellow of vicious bruising. Even her brittle lacklustre hair, twisty with side ponytail mussed up like a deserted bird’s nest, a dyed ginger, repelled Declan, who in many ways had remained an idealistic adolescent, fascinated with the variations of girls’ hairstyles, the texture and sheen, flowing tresses or treacly curl, above all the light jounce of a traditional well-kempt ponytail. The stony, slightly pitted oval face hovering before him couldn’t mask her boredom, her look-away quick-rubbing motion merely aggravating her unresponsive client lying prostrate. ‘Ave youse bin drinkin’? she rattled after a couple of minutes of mindless tedium. Thankfully, her abrasive voice had cut through the still-born silence. ‘Nuh, nuh, no way,’ he squeaked. Only a couple of jars, he groaned within. Not nearly enough. ‘Well, this is a fucking waste of time.’ Though she was still going through the motions, her distracted air spawning a tetchy impatience. Abruptly she signed off as if stricken with palsy, having made not a jot of difference; in fact, if anything, his member had shrivelled to a periwinkle Some of the tension immediately drained from his body, he breathed more easily. He’d been tempted to quit before he’d entered her den, put the after-burners on and scarper back to the hostel to drown himself in a hot bath. So besmirched did he feel,

he might have retched any moment.

The prospect of new clients - she preferred to regard them as patients and herself as ‘enabler’ or ‘facilitator’ or ’provider’, as much as she disliked the impersonality of those words - always made Shani apprehensive. She couldn’t be sure of their motives, their attitudes, their real needs, their mental health. And if these guys were disabled, she had to negotiate behind their defences, adapt her techniques to their physical and/or psychological limitations and persevere with re-building their confidence and self-esteem. Ultimately, their belief in the possibility of finding a caring love tendered unconditionally. How odd, given that in her other life she’d been sickened by the penetrative force of the male ego. In her new role she knew that if her relationship with handicapped men hit the mark, both parties would be satisfied. Chances were, though, in some sense she’d be rejected. In her teens Shani had been a sexually open person, not a superfox hooking up, but not afraid either to experiment without forming attachments. Prematurely, she’d been made to feel aware of her physical attributes and knew how to keep a straight back and confident posture, even at the cost of wolf whistles from building-sites. But she was wary of giving her heart; in fact, she was disgusted whenever she caved in to a powerful emotional release, knowing how vulnerable she was, especially when sighing and shuddering in rapture. Okay, she did derive some pleasure from hostessing at Delilah’s, the tips she’d provocatively tuck into cleavage or garter often amounting to more than her base wage, for she was invariably singled out by lonely hearts trying to win her sympathy with malicious sob-stories of faithless or fruitless wives; or a herd of shickered footy players chiacking at the end of season; or silvertails up themselves flashing big bucks for a bucket of champagne on ice which she hardly sipped, all for a harmless canoodle over sweet nothings in a private alcove. Ah, those poor bastards with leaking dicks. No swot in her green cord and jumper schooldays, but a bit of a smart arse in theatre studies and art, Shani was unlikely to impress future employers with her c.v. except those in the exotic dance industry. Well, she could certainly jitter, easy as pee-thebed-awake, knew she really really wanted to go for it. Access was all too easy. The

great rage was pole dancing, which required an instinctive feel for the music, a lack of inhibition in the glare of spotlight, intertwining seductively with a giant symbolic phallus, handling, fondling, pouting over. To cope with all those oglers and pervs out there in the subdued lighting, gawping and drooling, hands clamping down their erections, she morphed into a head-tripper, capable of spiriting herself off to some desert island in the South Pacific or gliding gracefully through blue skies and fleecy clouds on a ginormous spread of wings, a pure white wandering albatross. Well, not exactly pure white. There was a black tip to her tail. Once she had witnessed a flock of hundreds of these magnificent birds feeding at Malabar, one of Sydney’s sewage outlets. But more than capable of soaring above and beyond. During a sexology course, Shani was confirmed sensual with keen kinetic intelligence. Growing resentful of being just a nerd magnet, she found her sensitivity to touch gratified in day-time tactile therapy courses. Like most participants, she felt her heart chakra deeply touched, for her whole body intuitively moved into the right positions, rhythms and applications of energy through her hands as she rowed up a partner’s back, briefly rocked her weight on the trapezium before gliding more lightly down and finally outwards to the base of the ribcage and a gentle squeeze of the waist. In particular, she enjoyed rowing up the back of the thighs, where her palms could apply firmer pressure on the belly of bigger, more resistant muscles. But you could also learn from participants who were more fidgety listening to instruction or awkward about removing outer layers of clothing or who applied too much or too little pressure at various parts of the anatomy, so that the receiver was no longer soothed with pleasurable and relaxing sensations but irritated by a rough, jarring invasiveness that held no awareness of rhythm or a partner’s needs or certain sore spots or areas such as the spinal cord that had to be avoided. There was no heartfelt feeling behind the strokes, no lightness or fluency on the transference of weight from one foot to the other round the massage table, no rhythm smooth and seamless. Whereas she leaned into her strokes and glided, savouring the warm sensation from human touch, the two-way transmission of pure white energy, as if Graeme Murphy had arranged her choreography.

If Daphne was awkward about bedroom procedures – ‘Can I do something for you?’ she’d offer in an aseptic tone of voice, scarcely daring to look him in the eye, then bite on her lower lip, Declan in turn durst not risk asking for any favours, even if he’d surprised himself by a nocturnal stiffy that was quite involuntary – but she was much more at ease, albeit more dutiful than cosseting in her manner, at preparing appropriate meals for a prostate tragic: plenty of cooked tomatoes and strawberries; seafood for selenium; red meat without the fat for zinc; plenty of soy-based products, like tofu; and vitamin E from whole grains. Green tea might help; or might not. In reality, their new diet came years too late; the congestion of seminal fluid had already inflicted insidious damage on the prostate gland. ‘Hey, mate,’ inquired Baz in Tigers top and camouflage shorts, lobbing in to mow Deck’s lawns one breakfast time, trying to be cheery, ‘What’s with all this fuss about oats? You’re supposed to sow ‘em, not eat ‘em.’ Declan continued masticating dead solemn, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘How’s the old prosty?’ ‘Oh for chrissake! If you don’t belt up, I’ll show you my scars!’

If truth be known, Daphne had been awkward about bedroom procedures since menopause. Six years older than Declan and well into second marriage, her irregular sleeping patterns and doubts about the efficacy of wrinkle creams made her irritable. Those itchy sensations and anxiety over vulval hygiene led to her taking at least three showers a day. Even the unsuspecting Declan became aware of her vaginal dryness when he’d detected a precautionary measure of jelly or cream. Their infrequent sexual coupling was becoming painfully inhibited and gucky. Even at courting they’d been chary about letting go, seldom holding hands in public, perhaps the fear of failure out-running their good luck at finding a soul mate a second time. Lovemaking these days was seldom blessed with a warm smile or ironic chuckle over ridiculous contortions of not-so-taut flesh or a long sigh of smug rapture emitted toward the bedroom ceiling.

So that deep and meaningfuls were diddly-squat. It wasn’t as if Daphne didn’t talk to him. On the contrary, her button-holing about work at Jade Beauty Products had become obsessional. The same old saga about self-serving loafers amongst the sales team she managed, who failed to return customer phone calls promptly, invented excuses for sickies, barely met sales quotas and evidently went moonlighting at the company’s expense. Whatever happened to the notion of loyalty to bosses who provided you with a decent livelihood? And it wasn’t as if she ran a tight ship, pulling rank. Somehow her resolve not to get outwardly flustered at such malpractice was wearing her down. And the lax behaviour of these skivers didn’t change; the saga dragged on. The division leader urged her to take a stronger stand, but once Daphne had been accused of bullying she was reluctant to create a scene and get summoned to mediation. In trying to be supportive when she drove home from Jade Beauty emotionally drained and at wit’s end, Declan would automatically mix her a stiff gin and tonic, prepare a strong cuppa for himself and a bowl of seaweed crackers, then plump himself down for the latest episode of confrontation or dereliction of duty. ‘I ask you, is it right that the company should shell out five thousand bucks for a week of surveillance, ten hours per day?’ she ranted. ‘We’d need camera footage, time sheets and a plethora of documentation to stand as evidence if Jade were to move on these guys.’ Declan perked up at one point, wondering if any of the male reps would be sprung by a private dick for visiting another skirt, either at a brothel or on a casual fling. Which added another layer of hypocrisy to his own curriculum of impending guilt. Increasingly hobbled by this repetitious monologue, he anticipated that if she asked, ‘How was your day?’ she’d respond dully, ‘That’s good’, whatever he said. No longer was she attuned to him. Gradually he ceased to tell about his own anxieties, essentially the state of his health, the imminent termination of his own career and the bleak prospects of life after radical prostatectomy. Just shrugged out token replies. ‘I’m okay/fine/not bad.’ The crusty cripple neither desired nor expected pity, but was decidedly testy at the quickening pace of time leaking from mortality.

In the early days of courtship their conversation was full of the delightful surprises of confessional intimacies in getting to know the other. While Daphne was struggling with divorce and nurturing two teenagers through adolescence and a disrupted home, she was more than ready to divulge her feelings to a sympathetic and understanding listener. Nowadays she was sounding shrill or frumpy and he couldn’t bear the loss of such intimacy that had brought them close together. Desire was pricked and discarded like a used condom. He’d grown more attached to his other codependant, his mobile phone. As a result, sexual practice had deteriorated into a weekly, if chancy, short-term release from nervous tension. The clincher had landed late one Friday afternoon. Daphne had arrived home from Jade in a foul mood and ordered a second gin and tonic. Here we go again, thought Declan. Occupational depression. ‘Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough?’ Staring straight ahead at the wall, she held out her glass. ‘I’m dead,’ she said. ‘You’re dead.’ He had no idea what she was muttering about. When he did rumble her meaning, it was too late to bring the matter up.

For her therapy work, Shani rarely applied any make-up to her face, sometimes some blush if she was looking a little wan or tired. But in the case of sex therapy she would wear her smoky eyes, a full-on deep navy metallic eye shadow, not merely to look sexy and sensual but also to present a more other-dimensional mystique. A strong burgundy lipstick created a sultry effect and she’d add a slick of clear gloss on eyes and lips. She’d become hauntingly beautiful, Pharaonic like Cher. A black lace top was the most suitable in the circumstances, alluring but not too sexy. Jewel-coloured palazzo pants and espadrilles. And mustn’t forget the glass necklace with seahorse pendant. Would this guy see me as an over-amped lush, though? Or surrogate partner? I’ll have to square it with him from the outset that he should have counselling on his sex

functioning, personal and family history, intimate relationships et cetera, before we explore sacred territory. Nuh, wake up, Shani, I’d best wear something demure that shows off my radiant health, my transparency.

It was Baz, who could never be accused of selling one of his mates, who’d heard it from a mate’s mate, a tradie with Hire a Hubby, about a chick that occasionally did a job on crippos or guys with sexual hang-ups. ‘So you see, Dec, you’ll need aids, like a VED to pump yourself up, literally and figuratively,’ he chuckled awkwardly, trying to make light. ‘Either that,’ he continued professorially, ‘or twenty-five grams of Viagra every other day. Lucky you,’ he chortled. ‘If that doesn’t do the trick you could insert a suppository into Joe Cocker, and/or have injections into his side. Ouch! Or you could go the whole hog and get a penile implant. Or you could use another oral medicine or . . .’ ‘Just give it a rest, Baz.’ ‘Sildenafil, vardenafil and tadafil,’ ‘Sounds like snow maidens from the fjords of Norway.’ ‘Well, use it or lose it, eh, man?’ chuckled Baz. ‘You’d make do with a snow job, wouldn’t you?’ ‘Not necessarily. Just to experience one more time that lovely warm glow suffusing your nether regions unlike any other sensation would be divine.’ ‘You will, mate, you will. You won't have any trouble getting it up again.’ Spoken like a true sweaty jock, Declan thought, a red-blooded male like you. 'Apparently, some men don’t experience the return of spontaneous erection for three years.’ ‘Patience is the name of the game. Always look on the bright side,’ replied Baz, bursting into the Monty Python song and doing a little jig suspiciously like a mariner

with a wooden leg humping a hornpipe. At least Declan appreciated the importance of psychological resilience. He chose not to remind Baz that the surgeon’s skill in sparing the nerves round the malignant walnut was a key factor in recovery. In attempting to preserve natural potency, some surgeons cut much closer to the gland or replaced native nerves with nerve grafts from the foot. Well, that’s what they’d explained at Pre-Admission. Once the visiting nurse had popped the catheter out, Declan was aching to test the ruins of sexual prowess. The pathology report sounded encouraging, though he was not entirely continent. Fingers crossed, it appeared likely there was no need for radiation, hormonal treatment or chemo. His plumbing was bound to shaft him, though, absolutely humiliate him before the sex worker. Nor was there any guarantee he would experience - one could hardly enjoy - an erection, especially if he was agitated. Besides, for some men erections never return and most require aids. Nevertheless, he was desperate to know whether his juices were simply all in the head. All the while he was beating himself up over neglecting to have regular check-ups of the prostate, both digital probe and PSA test with the GP. He was further aggravated by an article stating that riding a bike could be linked to impotence, making prostasis worse if you wear skimpy shorts and set the wrong saddle configuration. Being positioned close to the saddle, the poor old prosty suffers every bump and pothole. Okay, he sighed, so he should have worn padded bike shorts or invested in a gel pack seat. Why was it that ignorance of the obvious grew with age? ‘Yer know, you were a bloody idiot not to go for a check-up,' said Baz. ‘I did warn you about your percy prosty.’ Yeah and half the time he’d refer to the fearful gland as prostrate percy. And now Declan was that all right. ‘Yes, I know, he replied wistfully. But he remembered when Baz told him the first time in vivid detail and exaggerated sound effects about the physical probe with lubricated surgical glove. Reluctantly, perhaps naively, and ready to wince, he’d asked him what it felt like being so hideously invaded.

‘Oooh, the most delicious sensations,’ Baz had slurped in his Kenneth Williams’ metallic nasal accent. ‘Unreal, duckie. Could’ve begged for a repeat dose next day.’ Declan’s revulsion was justified at Billy Connolly’s stage re-enactment, the comedian standing with legs spread wide apart, bowed over and looking round anxiously at the medico about to take a run at his derriere. ‘You’re too squeamish,’ Daphne snapped. ‘I kept telling you to run along to a men’s shed. Just be grateful you’re not a woman. We poor sods have all sorts of dreadful speculums and scopes poked up our vagina. Or a gynaecologist on the prod.’ Which didn’t console him one jot.

Broad-minded as she was, Shani resented being tagged a sex worker. She’d never sell her own crack. Even when she placed her weekly advertisement in the local paper under Massage Therapy (strictly non-sexual) clearly stating her accreditation, she’d still receive kooky phone calls from hesitant or hard-breathing or spaced-out or drunk-rotten jerks plucking up courage to shock or sully her with requests or demands for some form of sexual gratification. She would matter-of-factly refer them to Personal or Adult Services columns advertised alongside the bona fide health practitioners, ads that satisfied erotic lust with tantalizing promise: Ladies, Trannies, Bi-Guys + Fetish; or Tranni Danni or Tantra with Amorantha. However, she did make allowances in best practice therapy when occasionally a client, not necessarily the youngest, experienced an erection during a strictly relaxational massage. Forewarned by her teachers, she would unfussily gather the indiscreet member in a fold of the covering sheet and deftly place it over the other leg that she wasn’t about to row up. They’d waited till Daphne announced a weekend residential course on marketing, ‘How to Sell Yourself’, in a function room at Wrest Point casino, before his mate made the necessaries. Even so, Baz was waiting for the bomb to drop over inviting a sex worker to Declan’s joint without Daff’s knowledge. He was also choked by the memory early in his own marriage of phoning on the sly for a fly-by-night prossie. A few days later his home was done over like a dog’s dinner. The cops asked a few

curlies about possible suspects. Of course, he couldn’t come clean. His wife would have cut his balls off with a carving knife. When Nettie returned from work, she shuddered at the news of a break-in and the gut-wrenching sight of upturned drawers, stripped bed, papers, books, CDs, cushions strewn all over the floor, dirty washing scragged over the laundry lino. ‘We have to wait for the finger-print boys,’ was all he could mumble. ‘O god, what did they take?’ ‘Oh er . . . just my Pentax, my silver christening bowl, my Swiss Army knife . . . There may be one or two other odds and sods.’ Suddenly, it dawned. ‘What about my wedding dress and my two evening gowns?’ she quizzed in a shrill voice. In the drawn-out silence, she glowered. ‘And Mum’s gold wedding ring?’ Baz could only look down at the carpet as defence against burning anger, as if she held him responsible. ‘And all my lovely shoes!’ Never would he blot out the pain in that hysterical shriek that broke up in bitter sobs and tight little fists pummelling his open chest.

She was beginning to doubt whether she was doing the right thing. Tania, one of the girls in tactile therapy, had said, ‘You must love yourself, Shani, before you can love others, but also look after yourself. The spiritual path is fraught with danger where sex is concerned. The Tantric way promises sexual fulfilment, but can you be sure that genital urges or neurotic emotional needs aren’t disguised beneath an aura of spirituality?’ Intimacy with a stranger was indeed a scary thought. Was she dealing with a predatory male with an obsession about the Big O? And on his own turf too, away from the security of her own space with the aligned energies of feng-shui and the

scent of lovely flowers and heavy incense. What’s more, she hadn’t acquired a licence or degree to practise Tantric sex therapy, though she did possess a certificate from an intensive in Maui as well as confidence in her erotic intelligence. And the notion of expanding consciousness, of finding a holistic philosophy by whose values she could live, of awakening sexual energy to attain an exalted state of being not dependent on the act of sexual union, why, these were liberating aims. And being of service to those crippled without being servile, wasn’t that a crusade?

Homo dysfunctionalis, that’s what he was – urinary, bowel, erectile . . . you name the disability, he fretted over it. He knew now the torture of sense-deprivation. And in his helpless, childlike state, yes, being caressed and held was more desirable, more essential than full conjugals. But Daphne seemed even more embarrassed and edgy about the new configuration of their relationship than he was, unsure whether to reach out a hand to steady him or even to show sympathy, whereas his act of reaching out for her was like holding a mirror up to his own helplessness, his utter dependency. I can’t even get myself into the right position, he groaned. Besides, he’d never liked the idea of having to arrange or plan for sex, unlike Baz. That was so unnatural. Then again, he hadn’t completely scrubbed the memory of that ugly old cockchafer at the Cross. And yet . . . it was just that his libido was ebbing back to normal just a few weeks into rehab.

She closed her eyes, tensed her shoulders, let them slump with the breath forced out, began to inhale deeper, more slowly. All the while paying attention to her breathing. ‘You are a powerful Divine Goddess. As such you have always dwelt in the sanctuary of my heart. Once more it is time for my Goddess self to manifest.’ Her inner vision conjured her safe sanctuary on Maui amongst the proteas of deep red and magnolia pink; the slender boles of palm trees calmly bowing over white sandy beaches; the dune-binding shrubs with half-flowers whose fruits had colonized the Pacific Basin; the still, shady quiet of a bamboo forest that brought back memories of the cathedral at Cordoba, those thousand pillars of granite, onyx, marble and jasper that supported its Moorish arches; the Seven Sacred Pools in Kipahula, waterfalls rushing down to the ocean; up on the rim of the volcano of

Haleakala, sweeping over peaks and the soft, silvery hairs of silversword with spikes of purplish flowers and bog greensword; slipping down from the trailhead of Sliding Sands into the crater, spinning down sharp drops and switchbacks into the vortex faster and faster toward the valley floor. Where gradually she invoked the image of her teacher, Ramon, sixties-something and bald but with youthful, supple skin and gentle but slightly disarming smile, average height and ramrod-slim, naked but for loincloth, serene, quietly dignified in sacred ritual. Saw herself as an initiate in white robe shuddering with apprehension, attacks of nerves, grave doubts swelling to panic outside the sacred space. There’d still be time to break the connection, her hand held light in his palm. Next moment, bathed in an aura of calm, as if something of his essence had channelled through, for there they were, nestling in the centre of the bed ringed by big fluffy pillows. In the Yab-Yum position, Ramon was cross-legged and she, astride, sitting on a cushion to facilitate pressure, her own legs wrapped round, the soles of her feet touching. And she called up those rituals of breath-work that had made such an impact, matching the rhythm of her breathing to that of her teacher. Facing each other, a hand on each other’s heart and feeling each other’s breathing. Then Ramon would change or reverse rhythm, so she had to keep in sync or exhale when he inhaled. So many hours of practice till it became intuitive, timeless. Then embracing, chest against chest, stomach to stomach, pelvis to pelvis, breathing in sync, sensing the rhythm of the other. Next she could feel Ramon’s breath on her neck, her ears and face, then on her lips, without the slightest touch or hint of kiss. Gradually, she could tingle with his energy, their connectedness, a sense of the life force itself, a sense of being at one with the cosmic energy as if falling through a galaxy of stars. Some time later Shani grounded herself, took three deep drawn-out breaths and when steady opened her eyes. Smiling, because she recalled her gathering acceptance of the course, for even sacred ceremonies can revel in a sense of fun. A mood that may seem childish to outsiders or those who swear by the primacy of reason, but the individual imagination does have a role to play. She remembered in a body-painting session how her partner, Johari, a dab hand at finger-painting, a girl from Sacramento, had inscribed her back with designs of the Sacred Serpent, all bulging fiery eyes and tongues of flame, warty scales of malachite green and claws of mango yellow - the mango tree is a Hindu symbol of love, the girl had declared - requesting

Shani in turn to devise a ritual for their Sacred Bath Ceremony. Ah, those were the days, my friend. But what to do about this Gaz’s pal, Declan? Firstly, there were ethical concerns. No way could she pass herself off as a guru with the wisdom, knowledge and experience to awaken sexual energy in others. Certainly not initiate Baz’s friend into the the Tantric way. In his delicate post-operative condition, he certainly mustn’t attempt the ‘pelvic floor’ exercises. Besides, it sounds like he’d be devastated if he couldn’t experience an erection, let alone an ejaculation. No, both body and spirit must be carefully prepared over a period of time by yogic disciplines, not rushed, lest the patient suffer adverse physical effects, such as intense heat or cold, diminished sexual desire, crawling sensations, strange visions, whatever. Pity, though. I know the valley of bliss from giving and receiving sexual pleasure without climax. So what can I do with a couple emotionally estranged? Okay. Talk straight. This is a once-off. Advise couples counselling with health pros, even though they'd frown on this guy's relationship with a therapist who dared suggest sexual exercises. He's got to do some work on himself, later with his wife. Blindfolded at first, otherwise grievances and bitter recriminations might surface. Then hopefully fall into each other’s eyes and not stay blind to the promptings of ego. Surely they can't let intimacy fade away like it's not worth a cracker. For now, though, gentle massage on skin and soft tissues to reassure. Perhaps a guided meditation. Which should rebalance his energy and get rid of some tension in body and mind. Yep, right on.

Imagine you are walking through a rainforest . . . Notice how intensely green the rainforest is . . . How many different shades of green can you see? . . . Look at the unusual shape of the trees . . . how their branches and lianas bend over you as if they are giving you shelter from the sun . . . Can you feel the warm rays of the sun? . . . How stippled in shadow is the path now? . . . Run your fingers over the different textures of leaves and barks and stems . . . Give yourself time to notice the detail of their diverse forms . . . Now you are walking down to the banks of a river . . . Can you see the river through the trees . . . or hear the sound of water? . . . Notice all the various coloured flowers springing up along its banks . . . Breathe in deeply to appreciate their heavenly perfume . . . You enter the water, splash yourself and dunk

your head . . . Notice how fresh and soothing it is . . . Take a few steps towards midstream . . . till you feel the current loosening you up . . . Allow yourself to flow with it . . . Just relax because you know you can simply float . . . you feel so buoyant . . . Listen to the babble of the water and the birds singing . . . What kinds of birds are flying around you? . . . Keep the rhythm of your breathing nice and steady as you are borne along by the current . . . Just floating along, relaxing and enjoying the different sounds and scents . . . How many types of butterfly can you see with their brightly coloured wings? . . . Listen carefully and you will become aware of a louder sound like the rush of water . . . Can you make out the bubbling white water of Kundalini Falls twenty metres ahead? . . . How do you feel now? . . . Don’t be alarmed, for you have the strength to overcome any obstacle . . . So prepare to leap out of the water to avoid the big boulders . . . Tense your arms and legs to feel their strength . . . You’re fast approaching the whirling eddies, so get ready . . . and jump as high as you can into the clear blue sky . . . Hang in mid-air for a few seconds and look around . . . An enormous white albatross is gliding beneath you . . . Already you feel the breath of wind from the beat of her very wide wingspan lapping your face . . . Now you are falling, slowly buoyed by that wind beat . . . so prepare to hitch a ride on the albatross’s back . . . Carefully does it, yes, you’ve landed safely . . . Give the albatross a gentle pat on her shoulder in appreciation of her ride . . . Feel the texture of her thick white feathers and the stream of warm wind in your hair . . . Look down at the river meandering below . . . Can you make out a circular recess in the bank marked out by small boulders? . . . Its still blue waters possess the calmness of a sacred pool . . . Yes, the albatross is circling, lower and lower . . . until she finally sweeps down on the water to land with a splash . . . Slide down from the albatross into the water . . . Do you feel refreshed by its warmth and buoyancy? . . . Check out the sensations in your own body . . . Is there any residual tension? . . . Or are you calm and relaxed? Just lie there for a few minutes. And when you are ready, open your eyes.

After Shani had slipped away into the ether like the wraith of some guardian angel, Declan slipped back into light slumber, embalmed in vinyl, warm and snug and strangely at peace, too fuzzily relaxed to stir a finger, floating, drifting across the tides of memory. Then suddenly bumping against seawrack or driftwood of that river. 'And when you are ready,' reached out an echo of that caressive voice from over the palmy horizon, 'open your eyes.'

Readily, he obeyed, though flaked out in flummox, casting around. Daphne, my god! Did he still want to keep her sweet? Or even sour? In a twist of facial muscles, No, really! . . . Well, do you? One thing for sure: he wouldn't be chewing it over with Baz, no way. Michael Small September 7, 2011-October 4, 2011 P O S T E D B Y MICH A EL A T 17:59 NO

COM M EN TS :

EMAIL THISBLOGTHIS!SHARE TO TWITTERSHARE TO FACEBOOK

Newer PostsOlder PostsHome Subscribe to:Posts (Atom) FOLLOWERS

BLOG ARCHIVE

•

► 2012(4) o ► September(4)

•

▼ 2011(37) o

► December(1)

▼ October(1) 

ON THE VERGE OF PROSTRATION

► August(1)

► April(1)

► February(33)

ABOUT ME

MI C HA EL V IEW M Y CO M P LETE P ROF ILE