From Chapter 5 Night Life
“It’s natural, isn’t it? Having sex or at least orgasms?” she said.
Natural, Krishna thought. Yoga is part of, beyond, opposed to nature? How far back does a person need to go to live a natural life? Is natural living a cave in India where it’s warmer and easier to ask, who am I? Isn’t sex more natural than riding in cars and planning a life based on the artificial divisions of a battery powered clock and something called a career? Plastic is evil, skin is divine. Dine on divine.
Radha smiled at Krishna and pulled away as if nothing was happening. Adults play through sex, she thought. Play balances out the serious work of ending samsara, the endless cycles of birth and death. People serious all the time get fixed in the head, fundamentalists. Waiting and praying for the world to blow up, they never finish their yoga. Then they’re born again and have to start all over in an even more fucked up world. Life is serious and a big cosmic joke. Both need different kinds of work.
“We should stop,” Krishna said, between sighs. “We could lie here with our clothes on. Swami would say we’re just getting energy from each other. We get energy by just getting close and breathing together.”
“I can stop right now,” she teased. “I have perfect self control. A yogi you know.”
Krishna reached a hand inside her shirt and felt her soft warm chest. He put a hand inside her loose fitting pants and explored the place just below the base of her spine.
“Feels too good,” he said. “Jewish yogis really spin my chakras. None of you wear bras? Do you only wear natural cotton underwear?”
Clouds of cold mist drifted up from the lovers’ mouths and disappeared into the darkness of the old wood barn. Krishna placed his hand over her breast and pulled gently until she moaned and moved closer.
“I love it when you touch my tits,” she sighed. “You have strong hands from work.”
“I could stop now,” he said, rubbing against her thigh. “Shit, it’s too late!”
Body tightening, he moaned pulled her closer and the warm fluid flowed on her naked leg. After a minute of silence and holding tight she took a ripped scrap of cloth from her bag, wiped herself, and offered him the cloth. She strained in the dark to watch his hand wipe the fluid then melting against his body.
Comfort and warmth, she thought. Not like a romance novel. But mine, my lover. Short but nice, a boy God with a little linga thinga. He really loves my peaches, wants to shake my tree, the song went.
“We should lie here a little while,” she said. “No one will miss us in the bungalow. They’re all asleep.”
“Out of practice, rusty,” Krishna began, with a nervous laugh. “Takes practice to get the parts and juices working again. I can do better next time.”
“Cocks get rusty too? Like machines? How does a guy keep that thing working? Do you put oil on it?”
Rusty, next time, she thought. Kalyana, his lecture on the rust eating tools left outside. “Only ignorant people leave tools outside to rust,” he said. “Sometimes they don’t know any better or they just don’t care. Too much beer, jerking off and eating dead cows keeps people asleep. You can’t be a real yogi if you don’t take care of tools.” Time the great illusion eating people, cocks, metal tools, anything with form. Next time, a next time? Is the lovemaking what Sivananda calls, “sex like an animal?” Don’t animals have any fun at all? Is sex really just to make babies and bring us all back? What about just getting close and having fun? Are all swamis and monks gay after a while?