ALL FOR THE LOVE OF A TANTRIC BIKER
Due to life’s habit of throwing unexpected circumstances one’s way, I haven’t managed to blog for a while. I hope you pined for me as much as I missed sharing the quirkier episodes of my life with you. Believe me, it’s extremely therapeutic to blog about the more unusual scenarios one finds oneself in. Somehow, the resulting, internal confusions that can plague a sensitive person, are miraculously resolved in the act of attempting to convey one’s thoughts articulately enough in order for the reader to be a)sympathetic and b)captivated enough to read to the end of a piece. As a writer this is surely the fundamental motivation. What’s the point of taking time to write any composition, even the most academic of essays, if the intended audience isn’t compelled to read on?
The last time I put pen to paper, or slut-red nails to keyboard, I was single, celibate and seemed to have the luxury of a fair few hours in the day to devote to reading, writing, staying in touch with my friends and calling my mother. I realise of course that if you were to have read the last blog, entitled ‘The Best Gifts Come in Small Packages’ it would be difficult to imagine that it was written by a celibate. But have another look...there’s no mention of sex whatsoever. Bondage rope, yes...implements of pleasure and pain, yes...supersonic vibrators, yes...but the kind of sex that can lead to babies? No.
I have to tell you that I was very happy bobbing about on the ocean of singlehood, enjoying a sabbatical from relationships. It was an important year for me, considering the fact that I’ve been attached to a bloke in one way or another since my first french kiss, aged eleven. I had boyfriends, who overlapped with lovers, who morphed into partners. I’ve even had a real husband. I heard that sharp intake of disbelieving breath from certain corners, but I’ll have you know that as much as I appear in my blogs to be all Self-Obsessed Tantric Sex Goddess, I was, in fact, a good wife for nine, domestic years and have been a devoted mother for nineteen! Which leads me to the story I want to share with you today.
Just like a book that has been wrongly judged by its cover, I am often perceived by others as lucky or stupid, courageous or dopey, inspired, confident, ditzy, promiscuous... Admittedly, I have been all of these things at various moments during my life, but each personality aspect is not ‘me’. Of course, all kinds of labels are pinned upon one, the minute one declares oneself publicly and there is no more public a forum than blogging. But isn’t it easy for the reader to think they know the author based on a few snapshots? I write about sex, therefore I must, by definition be engaged in sexual activity every day of my consistently erotic life. Huh? Do medical writers spend their every waking hour sharpening scalpels and playing with stethoscopes? Do authors of crime novels spend their time away from the computer plotting their next gruesome crime? We write about a subject that interests us (hopefully) but we are probably less inclined to be participating in that subject’s related activity than many others, simply due to the sheer number of exhausting hours we spend sitting in static and inhuman positions in front of a computer screen in order to produce the written material! So yes, I like to get out occasionally and have some fun. I throw the odd tantric party. My wardrobe is eclectic. I believe in moderation and excess. If you’re interested, my motto (alright, one of the many) is “The key to a happy, healthy life is excess in moderation.” Just to put the record straight though, I’m often leading a quiet and low-key existence in a conservative, Hertfordshire village.
Anyway, Valentine’s this year brought with it an exciting turn of events, well worth blogging about. I was leading a spa retreat in Somerset, unaware that one of the men in the group was ‘interested’ in me. When I’m facilitating an event, my main concern is in giving everyone their money’s worth and I tend to be fretting about things like whether the next meal is going to be to everyone’s approval. Try running a retreat which has to cater for carnivores, all the way through to breatharians! So, obviously I would never notice if a participant might be eyeing me up, sexually or romantically. Had I known at the time what this man’s intentions were (mainly to get to know me intimately, on every level imagineable, leaving no stone unturned really and then spend the rest of his life with me...) I would have been unbearably self-conscious. Fortunately I was oblivious.
He and I wound up in the ‘smoking temple’ on the last night. This is where the renegades end up after the hard-core, more dedicated spiritual warriors stride purposefully off to do their bedtime meditations or asanas or enemas. We suddenly found ourselves discussing a mutual interest in bondage. He knew more about me than I did about him (well, I’d never come across his website and he doesn’t blog) but it soon became clear that we had rather a lot in common. A love of magic and mysticism, a passion for ritual, a devotion to our kids and all in all, a mammoth appetite for life.
Everyone enjoys a good love story, even the most hardened cynic, and I expect you all to be delighted to hear that we became heavily intertwined shortly after the group. Shocking the neighbours with his grand arrival on an overly noisy motorbike he proceeded to sweep me off my feet in a startlingly short amount of time. He then stepped courageously off the deep end, diving recklessly into my rather less than normal life.
I will call my hero Harley Biker for now, or Harley for short, or even H for shorter, as he’s not convinced about going entirely public. It’s a miracle he’s letting me post this blog. My new boyfriend does indeed ride a Harley and is yang in all the ways I was yearning for. He’s learning to enjoy the more dungeonish form of BDSM (my previous exposure was limited to indoors), involving chains, equipment and lots of latex and leather. I am learning to enjoy the more woodsy side of BDSM involving trees, rope and chilly breezes. He is also a total sweetheart and as soft inside as the centre of a belgian truffle, although I’m not supposed to go on about that as it’s not so good for the image, especially around the bike club...
One assumption H came with, which has taken a while to dispell, was that I must be an expert on tantra, having written a whole book on the subject. I think he was a little disappointed to discover that the old adage holds true in my case – ‘teachers teach what they most need to learn’. It would have been nice to provide the fast track to spiritual enlightenment for my beloved but ironically I’m more questions than answers myself. My life is really one, big query, posed in various ways – “What happens if I try this?”, “What would this person do if I said this?”,”What’s going on here and what does it mean?” I’m like a nagging, four year old with a constant stream of irritating and unanswerable questions.
So, my new boyfriend has had to face the fact that when we’re not in some satori moment, merged as one in the Great Tantric Union, it’s really a case of the blind leading the blind when it comes to the theoretical side of tantra. The disappointment he’s had to face in coming to terms with my reluctance (or inability) to answer his perfectly intelligent questions has been so acute at times I’m surprised he hasn’t got on his bike and ridden off somewhere in search of a real tantric guru he could sit at the feet of, who would, no doubt have some solid information for him. He is a deliciously intellectual man and adores answers, whereas I tend to be more comfortable drifting about in the free-flow space before the answer arrives, as if the question was like a good book that you don’t want to reach the end of...well, they say opposites attract and it’s certainly true in our case.
Anyway, this gradual dawning of awareness around who he’s actually ended up with here and how human I really am, culminated in an hilarious interchange recently.
We had been planning a holiday for weeks. The flight was booked, but nothing else. I had been envisioning a quiet, secluded villa or studio, dripping with bougainvillea, in a casual environment where we could make love, wander about naked and generally enjoy a kind of honeymoon in the sun. Over the years I’d heard about Cap d’Agde, a large naturist resort in southern france. I was picturing a utopian hideaway, full of floaty, tantric types, spreading the lurv...I had been angling to go there for a week, imagining us in a little cottage within the safe confines of a supportive environment. Little did I know, while I was jumping up and down with enthusiasm for a visit at last to this earthly paradise, that H knew exactly what Cap d’Agde was all about, and although he wanted desperately to go to france with me, he was secretly dreading ending up in what he suspected was heaven if you were a rampant, hedonistic swinger and hell if you were a newly-in-love, monogamous ‘honeymoon’ couple.
The day before setting off on our magical, mystery tour, I phoned my mate who had just returned from the very place in question. She’s a writer and had been on a research trip for her new book. In one fell swoop she shattered my illusions.
“Darling! It’s a concrete jungle.” Her damning critique carried on for a while, ending with, “You’ll hate it!” She was most vehement.
I’ll be forever grateful to my friend. Because of her timely advise, we ended up on an island that is a bona fide Garden of Eden, but I’ll save that exciting story for another blog. Just to say that it was only when I told H I’d made a phone call and found out what Cap d’Agde was really like and was horrified and had lost any desire to go that I realised he’d thought I’d known all along and had just quietly assumed I’d wanted to check the place out, regardless of its reputation!
It goes to show – never assume anything, especially about your partner – if your relationship is in any way alive they will generally continue to surprise you, sometimes frighteningly but if you’re lucky, mainly pleasantly...
The last time I put pen to paper, or slut-red nails to keyboard, I was single, celibate and seemed to have the luxury of a fair few hours in the day to devote to reading, writing, staying in touch with my friends and calling my mother. I realise of course that if you were to have read the last blog, entitled ‘The Best Gifts Come in Small Packages’ it would be difficult to imagine that it was written by a celibate. But have another look...there’s no mention of sex whatsoever. Bondage rope, yes...implements of pleasure and pain, yes...supersonic vibrators, yes...but the kind of sex that can lead to babies? No.
I have to tell you that I was very happy bobbing about on the ocean of singlehood, enjoying a sabbatical from relationships. It was an important year for me, considering the fact that I’ve been attached to a bloke in one way or another since my first french kiss, aged eleven. I had boyfriends, who overlapped with lovers, who morphed into partners. I’ve even had a real husband. I heard that sharp intake of disbelieving breath from certain corners, but I’ll have you know that as much as I appear in my blogs to be all Self-Obsessed Tantric Sex Goddess, I was, in fact, a good wife for nine, domestic years and have been a devoted mother for nineteen! Which leads me to the story I want to share with you today.
Just like a book that has been wrongly judged by its cover, I am often perceived by others as lucky or stupid, courageous or dopey, inspired, confident, ditzy, promiscuous... Admittedly, I have been all of these things at various moments during my life, but each personality aspect is not ‘me’. Of course, all kinds of labels are pinned upon one, the minute one declares oneself publicly and there is no more public a forum than blogging. But isn’t it easy for the reader to think they know the author based on a few snapshots? I write about sex, therefore I must, by definition be engaged in sexual activity every day of my consistently erotic life. Huh? Do medical writers spend their every waking hour sharpening scalpels and playing with stethoscopes? Do authors of crime novels spend their time away from the computer plotting their next gruesome crime? We write about a subject that interests us (hopefully) but we are probably less inclined to be participating in that subject’s related activity than many others, simply due to the sheer number of exhausting hours we spend sitting in static and inhuman positions in front of a computer screen in order to produce the written material! So yes, I like to get out occasionally and have some fun. I throw the odd tantric party. My wardrobe is eclectic. I believe in moderation and excess. If you’re interested, my motto (alright, one of the many) is “The key to a happy, healthy life is excess in moderation.” Just to put the record straight though, I’m often leading a quiet and low-key existence in a conservative, Hertfordshire village.
Anyway, Valentine’s this year brought with it an exciting turn of events, well worth blogging about. I was leading a spa retreat in Somerset, unaware that one of the men in the group was ‘interested’ in me. When I’m facilitating an event, my main concern is in giving everyone their money’s worth and I tend to be fretting about things like whether the next meal is going to be to everyone’s approval. Try running a retreat which has to cater for carnivores, all the way through to breatharians! So, obviously I would never notice if a participant might be eyeing me up, sexually or romantically. Had I known at the time what this man’s intentions were (mainly to get to know me intimately, on every level imagineable, leaving no stone unturned really and then spend the rest of his life with me...) I would have been unbearably self-conscious. Fortunately I was oblivious.
He and I wound up in the ‘smoking temple’ on the last night. This is where the renegades end up after the hard-core, more dedicated spiritual warriors stride purposefully off to do their bedtime meditations or asanas or enemas. We suddenly found ourselves discussing a mutual interest in bondage. He knew more about me than I did about him (well, I’d never come across his website and he doesn’t blog) but it soon became clear that we had rather a lot in common. A love of magic and mysticism, a passion for ritual, a devotion to our kids and all in all, a mammoth appetite for life.
Everyone enjoys a good love story, even the most hardened cynic, and I expect you all to be delighted to hear that we became heavily intertwined shortly after the group. Shocking the neighbours with his grand arrival on an overly noisy motorbike he proceeded to sweep me off my feet in a startlingly short amount of time. He then stepped courageously off the deep end, diving recklessly into my rather less than normal life.
I will call my hero Harley Biker for now, or Harley for short, or even H for shorter, as he’s not convinced about going entirely public. It’s a miracle he’s letting me post this blog. My new boyfriend does indeed ride a Harley and is yang in all the ways I was yearning for. He’s learning to enjoy the more dungeonish form of BDSM (my previous exposure was limited to indoors), involving chains, equipment and lots of latex and leather. I am learning to enjoy the more woodsy side of BDSM involving trees, rope and chilly breezes. He is also a total sweetheart and as soft inside as the centre of a belgian truffle, although I’m not supposed to go on about that as it’s not so good for the image, especially around the bike club...
One assumption H came with, which has taken a while to dispell, was that I must be an expert on tantra, having written a whole book on the subject. I think he was a little disappointed to discover that the old adage holds true in my case – ‘teachers teach what they most need to learn’. It would have been nice to provide the fast track to spiritual enlightenment for my beloved but ironically I’m more questions than answers myself. My life is really one, big query, posed in various ways – “What happens if I try this?”, “What would this person do if I said this?”,”What’s going on here and what does it mean?” I’m like a nagging, four year old with a constant stream of irritating and unanswerable questions.
So, my new boyfriend has had to face the fact that when we’re not in some satori moment, merged as one in the Great Tantric Union, it’s really a case of the blind leading the blind when it comes to the theoretical side of tantra. The disappointment he’s had to face in coming to terms with my reluctance (or inability) to answer his perfectly intelligent questions has been so acute at times I’m surprised he hasn’t got on his bike and ridden off somewhere in search of a real tantric guru he could sit at the feet of, who would, no doubt have some solid information for him. He is a deliciously intellectual man and adores answers, whereas I tend to be more comfortable drifting about in the free-flow space before the answer arrives, as if the question was like a good book that you don’t want to reach the end of...well, they say opposites attract and it’s certainly true in our case.
Anyway, this gradual dawning of awareness around who he’s actually ended up with here and how human I really am, culminated in an hilarious interchange recently.
We had been planning a holiday for weeks. The flight was booked, but nothing else. I had been envisioning a quiet, secluded villa or studio, dripping with bougainvillea, in a casual environment where we could make love, wander about naked and generally enjoy a kind of honeymoon in the sun. Over the years I’d heard about Cap d’Agde, a large naturist resort in southern france. I was picturing a utopian hideaway, full of floaty, tantric types, spreading the lurv...I had been angling to go there for a week, imagining us in a little cottage within the safe confines of a supportive environment. Little did I know, while I was jumping up and down with enthusiasm for a visit at last to this earthly paradise, that H knew exactly what Cap d’Agde was all about, and although he wanted desperately to go to france with me, he was secretly dreading ending up in what he suspected was heaven if you were a rampant, hedonistic swinger and hell if you were a newly-in-love, monogamous ‘honeymoon’ couple.
The day before setting off on our magical, mystery tour, I phoned my mate who had just returned from the very place in question. She’s a writer and had been on a research trip for her new book. In one fell swoop she shattered my illusions.
“Darling! It’s a concrete jungle.” Her damning critique carried on for a while, ending with, “You’ll hate it!” She was most vehement.
I’ll be forever grateful to my friend. Because of her timely advise, we ended up on an island that is a bona fide Garden of Eden, but I’ll save that exciting story for another blog. Just to say that it was only when I told H I’d made a phone call and found out what Cap d’Agde was really like and was horrified and had lost any desire to go that I realised he’d thought I’d known all along and had just quietly assumed I’d wanted to check the place out, regardless of its reputation!
It goes to show – never assume anything, especially about your partner – if your relationship is in any way alive they will generally continue to surprise you, sometimes frighteningly but if you’re lucky, mainly pleasantly...
posted by Tantra Tantric massage @ 15:51
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