Satisfaction Ashram

As I stood outside the entrance to the old British colonial-style Windsor Hotel in Nuwara Eliya, Sri Lanka, in the shadow of Mount Pidurutagala, waiting for someone to take me up to the ashram, I couldn't believe how far—and how far back in time—I had moved from Teddy's cabin in the Catskills. From the moment Teddy's business partner, Mort Whitley, had driven up to the cabin and told me how remorseful Teddy was over the fight we'd had and that he wanted to make it up to me by letting me go on that yoga retreat I'd wanted to do for some months, it had been one long, swift journey on progressively more primitive modes of transport.

I was surprised that Mort was being so helpful in acting the go-between like this. I'd always thought that he saw me as competition with Teddy—not in a sexual way, but for Teddy's attention. There was always an edge in the way he responded to me of me being a gold digger and wanting to move in on their partnership in the manufacturing company. More than once I'd wanted to let him know that I didn't need Teddy's money, I had money of my own, and that the sum total of my interest in the company was my interest in Teddy's happiness.

Mort said that Teddy had arranged everything: the luxurious flight in the company jet from New York to Mumbai, India, followed by the two-night ferry cruise from Mumbai down to Colombo, Sri Lanka, with me not completely understanding Mort's explanation why the company jet couldn't fly me directly to Colombo, but not making an issue of it as I didn't want to appear ungrateful. Then an open taxi ride to the Colombo train station and the two-and-a-half-hour train ride to Kandy. A hanging-on-to-the-sides rough ride on an ancient bus from Kandy to Nuwara Eliya brought me into the shadows of Sri Lanka's highest peak, Mount Pidurutagala, on the slopes of which, on very short notice, I had been booked for a two-week stay in a yoga ashram. The jitney ride from the bus station to the Windsor Hotel was probably the most harrowing travel experience of it all, and, once in my hotel room for a one-night stay, I simply showered under a drizzle in the bathroom, not complaining because I was sure I had the most luxurious room in the hotel, and fell, naked, on the bed to sleep the sleep of the innocent dead.

The entire journey I reassessed my relationship with Teddy, who had become quite possessive of me. The argument had been over that and his taking me for granted, and, I'm afraid, it had become quite violent—at least on my end—involving the Bette Davis-style melodrama of raised voices and thrown crystal vases. I'd left the apartment in quite a shambles. I hadn't driven half way to the Catskills in Teddy's Porsche before I realized that I had gone overboard and that most of this was because of the not-so-favorable medical report Teddy had received. But it had been far better than we had expected. We thought that he perhaps had no more than a few months to live, and the doctor had talked to him in terms of years—but years of living more carefully.

Once out on the open road and climbing to a higher, cooler altitude, I was able to see how much of the argument had resulted from both of us being frightened of what "years of living more carefully" meant. Did it mean Teddy couldn't bed me each night as he'd been doing for three years? I had asked, not knowing how that would touch on Teddy's own fears and how well it reflected my selfishness. Teddy had exploded rather than telling me what the doctor had said—but asking me if I was seeking permission to take a lover who would satisfy me daily when and if he couldn't. At that point I had blown up and started screaming the building down around our ears. Mort had arrived just then to speak with Teddy about business but had beaten a quick retreat.

Then Teddy had said just the worst thing, asking me if I wanted to cut and run now, whether, being young and highly sexed, whether I had no stomach for staying around to care for the man who had taken care of all my needs for three years. That had set me off at even a higher decibel level then, because it wasn't in the least what I was thinking. What I was thinking, no matter how irrational, was that Teddy was deserting me—slowly dying on me. And not that he would leave me with nothing substantial to show for letting him exclusively possess my body for three years of the prime of my youth, but that he was slipping away from me and wouldn't be there for my old age. We had planned so much for his retirement.

We were both frightened by it all, and I fled the scene, needing to get space between me and our problems. When Mort came to the cabin with Teddy's apology two days later and his pledge of trust by offering to let me go on retreat—to prepare myself for the hard year or more ahead—I was recovered and understanding enough to say that the gesture wasn't necessary. It was only Mort insisting that it was what Teddy wanted that won the day—and the fact that Teddy already had it all mapped out, the ashram reservations and all.

It didn't occur to me until I was jetting over the Atlantic that it wasn't like Teddy to be able to put together a travel itinerary like this this quickly. This was more in line with Mort's accountant personality. But if Mort had done this planning for Teddy and given Teddy all the credit, it seems I had been misjudging Mort.

As I stood outside the entrance of the Windsor Hotel and watched the bustle of Sri Lankan activity out on the street, my attention was drawn to a pony-drawn cart flanked by two young men as they approached. The men were notable because they were dressed identically, in loose white cotton trousers and a long-tailed white cotton long-sleeved tunic with a V-cut almost down to their navels, showing that they were both in very good condition. There the similarities ceased, however. The taller and bulkier of the two appeared to be European—probably Mediterranean. Olive skinned, darkly handsome, and hirsute, with curly black hair. The other one, shorter and thinner, appeared to be of northern Indian origin, light-skinned, also handsome but carrying himself with more reserve than the other man.

I was surprised as they came right up to me and the European queried my name. "Are you David Kane?"

"Yes," I answered, only now realizing that this was my welcoming committee from the ashram.

"I am Benito and this is Ravith," the European—evidently Italian based on his name—said. "We have come to fetch you to the Sanasuma Ashram on the mountainside. Please excuse me, but I can say no more. We cannot speak to the initiates until we have known them."

"Thank you," I answered, looking dubiously at the pony cart and then up at the brooding mountain where I thought I could see the ashram teetering on stilts and projecting out on a steep slope nearly two-thirds up the mountain.

The two seemed nonplused, though, and simply handed me and my suitcase into the pony cart and turned back the way they'd come. I saw that they were both barefoot and the way their tunics and pants hung on them gave a feeling that they otherwise were naked—and that they were both well built. They walked beside the pony cart in silence, although each turned from time to time to give me a shy but also appraising look, as we ascended the mountain. Neither seemed to get out of breath in the climb and both walked with the grace of dancers or gymnasts.

I realized I should not be surprised at this. Yoga was all about developing, maintaining, and controlling your body.

We were met at the door by an older Indian man, perhaps in his forties, in a white dhoti, his well-developed barrel chest and muscled arms bare, his arms crossed and his eyes assessing me as we approached.

He gestured for me to descend from the cart at the gate to the ashram compound and follow him inside. The two young men who had escorted me followed us into the central courtyard but then disappeared. A dark-skinned servant of some sort of indeterminate age, but apparently of Sri Lankan ethnicity, took the reins of the pony and led it and the cart back down the narrow trail we had ascended. The ashram was a double-storied wooden building on a platform projecting on stilts out from the mountainside, set among massive boulders. It pushed into the surface of the mountain itself on the side facing the slope. As we passed into a covered passageway with iron gates on both sides, we emerged into a central courtyard dotted with gnarl-trunked trees, supporting lush, perfectly shaped canopies, set in a regimented pattern in large box planters that bathed nearly the whole atrium in dappled shade. Windows around all four sides overlooked the courtyard, which made me aware that there hadn't been any windows that I could see on the outer walls of the structure.

The older man led me to a door in the wall facing the slope of the mountain, where he paused briefly, to say, "I am Acharya Ahitharan, abbot and instructor at Sanasuma Ashram. 'Acharya' is a title meaning teacher, not my given name. There are stages of your entrance into the ashram. Sanasuma means 'satisfaction,' and total satisfaction is the end state we move toward—in stages. For two days, you will remain in the room I am taking you to, where you will meditate and read and absorb the yoga studies you find in your room—all in silence. Your meals will be brought to you. Do not try to talk to the one bringing your meals. He cannot speak to you inside the ashram until he has known you. After the two days, you will come to me for your first interview, during which I will tell you more of the ashram experience and will inform you of the next stage. There is no more to say now, so a two-day period of silence will now commence. I can only speak to you at designated stages of your initiation until I have known you too."

While I mulled over what the Acharya had said, he took me inside the wooden structure, which looked ancient. The structural supports of the building were obvious, as the beams, made of a polished, darkly stained wood, were left exposed. The walls between the beams were mostly of some sort of ochre plaster, but when I had an opportunity to run my hands over them, I could feel that they were solid and substantial. The room he led me to was on the second floor and had the feeling of a monk's cell, although it was fairly large, probably twelve by twelve feet.

Besides the door from the corridor, the only other doorway opened, without a door, into a primitive small bathroom with a toilet, a sink and a metal pan with a drain in the center and a shower head above. On the wall opposite the entrance, the wall that would face the slope of the mountainside, was located what seemed to be a window enclosure about four feet in width and three feet high. But it was covered by sliding shutters that met in the middle and were locked by a bolt requiring a key that was not, as far as I could tell—or discover later—provided in the room.

The furnishings were limited to a cot with a mattress, a chest of drawers, a straight chair, and a small table, serving as a desk. There was a small stand next to the cot, with a lamp on top of it. Another lamp sat on the desk. Neither was to prove to emit much light, and when they were on, the light wavered in both. It was enough to read by in the evening, if I held the books close. There was sufficient light for reading during the day, though. The corridor outside the cell door ran along the outer wall overlooking the courtyard, included many windows, and was bathed in sunlight. And there were windows high up on the wall of my room on the wall facing the corridor. The daylight from the courtyard filtered into my room through these high-set windows.

And there were books. They were sitting on the desk. Acharya Ahitharan gestured to them, making clear I was to read them over the next two days. He then opened the chest of drawers and took out a pair of cotton trousers and a tunic—just as Ravith and Benito had been wearing—and made clear that they were what I would wear too. Digging deeper, he pulled out a saffron-colored silky robe, which he showed to me, wagging his finger to convey that I should not casually wear that, and replaced it reverently in the drawer. Then he moved to the door to the corridor and departed.

I looked in the drawers and beyond several pairs of trousers and tunics, under the saffron robe, I found a couple of thin-material cotton briefs, which, unaccountably buttoned at the hip with just one button on each side.

I changed into the cotton trousers and tunic, leaving my own briefs on, and set my suitcase beside the desk. I had taken the inference that I wouldn't be wearing my own clothes while I was on retreat in the ashram. Then, with a sigh, and still exhausted from my fast trip out from New York, I tried out the mattress. It was a bit lumpy. That didn't matter. I was out like a light. I woke when Ravith unlocked the door—until that moment I hadn't realized I'd been locked in—and brought a tray of food in, placed it on the desk, turned and gave me a little smile, and then exited the room and relocked the door.

It was simple fare, limited to fruits, vegetables, and nuts. For drink, there was cool water in a jug that contained enough to easily last me into the next day. There also was a strange plastic bottle of something set to the side and a brochure. The brochure explained that the bottle contained a douche, and that I was to clean myself out twice a day, that purifying myself this way was part of the preparation for participating in the ashram. Strange, I thought, but I had no idea what was involved in an ashram retreat, and purifying oneself seemed to make sense.

I intended to start reading the yoga studies that night, but I was still exhausted, and went back to sleep after I'd eaten the food. Sometime in the evening I was aware of the tray being cleared away and later than that I had a vivid dream of hearing the sounds of moaning and groaning, as with the sex act, but by many voices—all male voices. I thought I awoke during this, but the sounds continued. Groggily I reasoned that I already was missing Teddy. We had sex every day—I needed almost constant attention—and it had been, what, two or three days, since Teddy had fucked me. I already was missing it. But I had wanted a retreat to an ashram, so this was my own fault, I told myself, and I just covered my head with one of the two thin pillows on the cot and willed myself back to sleep.

The next day, after eating the meal that had been left for me and showering and douching, as instructed, I sat at the desk and read over the yoga studies—somewhat in shock. They covered quite a bit of the standard principles of yoga and of the ashram tradition, but they also were rather explicit on the sexual practices within the Hindu tradition, primarily the positions of the Kamasutra. The illustrations of this included heterosexual couples, but they also included same-sex couples, both female and male. Being in somewhat of a state of want already, my attention naturally gravitated to the illustrations of male couples practicing the positions of the Kamasutra. I felt myself in arousal and realized after several moments that the sounds of my dreams—the male sounds of moans and groans and from multiple sources—had commenced again. And this wasn't a dream as I had thought it to be the previous night. This was a real sound of something happening beyond the shuttered window on my wall facing the mountain slope.

I rose and tried to discover a way to open the window, but could not. Then, fully aroused by the combination of those sounds and of the illustrations in the yoga studies, I collapsed into the chair in a slouched position, pulled my hardened cock out of the waistband of the loose cotton trousers, and masturbated myself to ejaculation.

I barely had time to make it into the bathroom to spill my seed into the toilet when I heard the door to my room open. Ravith carried a tray with my dinner on it to the desk, turned and smiled at me, as I stood over the toilet in his side view, and left the room. I entered the room to hear the rasp of wood on wood and looked at the door, the directional source of the sound. It was only then that I realized there was a window in the door, covered by a sliding panel controlled from the corridor.

Had Ravith been watching me masturbate?

* * * *

"The Sanasuma Ashram is one of providing a men only tantric journey toward enlightenment and fulfillment," Acharya Ahitharan said to me on the morning of the third day as we sat across from each other, each in the cross-legged lotus position on a platform in a small room with light coming into it from high windows on the courtyard side of the wall.

"Tantric?" I asked. "Isn't that—?"

"Tantric relates to sexual techniques that will channel your erotic energy, unlock your creativity, transform your sexual experiences, and significantly alter all other aspects of your actively homosexual life."

"My homosexual life?"

"Yes, this is a men-only ashram. Homosexual men only. And there are certain, ah, attractiveness requirements. We received instructions about you and your needs before we accepted you as an initiate into the ashram."

"Instructions about me?"

"Yes, we were assured that you needed constant sex. We are in the need of young men who will fulfill the needs of those adherents who retreat with us on a temporary bases. We also received photographs and a record of your statistics, and I must say—"

"I don't understand."

"It's really quite simple. You will be trained in the positions of the Kamasutra through the practice of tantra. Tantra alone is a very energizing experience, but blending the benefits and principles of yoga with tantra sexual practices will transform all aspects of the years you will spend with us?"

"Years?" A chill raced up my spine. What have you done, Teddy? I silently cried out.

"Young men coming to us as you have are initiated into the Tantra and service to our adherents in stages. You have started into the stage of self-denial, which will develop into uncontrollable need, upon which you will be initiated into the training stage by Siddha—the enlightened—Satyanarida himself. 'Siddha' means just that—the enlightened one. And only Satyanarida has reached the level of total tantric sexual enlightenment in this ashram. After the Siddha has marked and accepted you, you will be trained in the Kamasutra by our sub Acharyas, such as the two young men you have already met. Then you will become a sub Acharya yourself and will instruct men who come to us on retreat. Upon reaching the age thirty, if you are still deemed desirable and among us, you will move to the Acharya level until the age forty and—"

"Excuse me. I'm only here for a two-week retreat. I'm only twenty-three. Age thirty? That's—"

"Seven years from now, yes."

I stood, trembling, almost unable to control myself in my anger and confusion. "I . . . will be going . . . now . . . I cannot stay."

"I think not," Acharya Ahitharan said in a calm voice. He clapped his hands, and Ravith and Benito immediate appeared in the doorway. "I have been told of you and I observe it is true. You cannot exist without the sex. Your need and your lack of self-denial have already been in evidence here. But we will train you. You will embrace the journey to tantric sexual satisfaction. That is what we provide here. That is what Sanasuma promises—satisfaction, tantric sexual satisfaction."

He waved to the two men standing on either side of me and holding me tight, and they muscled me, screaming and cursing, back to my cell. They dropped me on the cot, left through the door, and locked it.

I lay there agonizing and seething, throwing my body about and muttering in frustration. He had done it, completely fooled me. Teddy had said he was doing what he knew I needed for me—sending Mort to tell me that it was a peace offering. Not coming himself. I should have known. He was punishing me, not just sending me away, and also having me imprisoned. Getting his revenge for what he thought I was going to do to him—desert him in his time of need.