Whereas after our first dance, I thought nothing of it, now Peder was in my awareness. It’s not that I felt attachment or the need to make anything happen, but something in me was definitely stirred.
So now I noticed whenever he passed me by and felt a rush of enjoyment and appreciation sweep through me one sunny afternoon, when I caught sight of him practising flow art on the lawn.
I sat down on the steps of the café to watch.
Taking him in this way – by the light of day – and from a distance, I felt admiration and attraction. His strong, lithe body. His colourful, funky leggings. The effortless, masterful way in which he blended his movement with the poi staff.
No wonder he was such a beautiful dancer and dance-partner. He had the gift of embodied awareness: such a rare and sexy quality in a man.
Not wanting to feast my eyes too obviously for too long, I looked around for my buddy group, with whom I was due to meet for our daily check-in, and sauntered off to greet them.
It’s amazing how nourishing and connecting it is to simply be witnessed without interference or judgement. There were 6 of us in our buddy group and, between us, we spanned 5 decades, 2 genders, 3 nationalities and all shapes and sizes.
Each day we met for an hour and took turns simply taking space and sharing from the heart. No fixing, no interruptions, no offers of healing. Just being received as we were.
We laughed, we cried, we got raunchy, silly, loud and silent; we did our best to bridge a language barrier. It was a relief and a balm, an anchor and a comfort. Tantra brings up stuff and here it was safe for each of us to reflect out loud and ask for what we wanted.
Living this way: in conscious community, really was such a gift.
I opted to give that evening’s tantric touch party a miss, but head on over for the ensuing dance. This wasn’t the kind of place to get glammed up (not that I’m into conventional glamming anyhow) but I changed into my turquoise flare pants and matching halterneck, feeling my energy rise in anticipation of letting loose.
As I left my shoes and climbed the stairs towards the top of the big barn, I met others on their way out. Pushing eagerly through the swing doors, I came upon a half-deserted dance-floor and the flat energy of a party that was fizzling out.
I stalked the space, absorbing the vibe and assessing whether I wanted to be here. Not with thought, but feeling.
After several days now of living in flow, I was relishing the delicious freedom of orienting myself according to my moment by moment sensing of yes or no.
In this moment, my body didn’t feel right here, so I headed back downstairs and over to the café, restless somehow. It was hot and crowded here. Live music. Chatter. Cosying up.
No. I needed more space. Less words. I wanted to move, to engage and connect, but not like this.
My body was powerfully drawn back to the barn. I could hear the music now. The beat had changed. It was calling me.
Rushing almost, I slipped off my shoes, skipped up the stairs and walked eagerly into the luminous dark and almost straight into Peder.
Ah! Yes. Here it felt right. Here it felt good. My restlessness evaporated. We smiled at one another and our dance began. Eyes, hearts and feet in flow: the effortless, exquisite poetry of two bodies entrained in the magic of being the music together.
This, for me, is perfection and sweetest ecstasy. This, for me, is heaven on earth. And I don’t want it to stop.
We drop ever deeper into togetherness. More contact – of body and eye. Tides of energy and passion that rise and fall. Desire awakened. Warmth and tenderness pulling us into one another.
We’re here until the very last dance and then as people start collecting up their things and leaving the hall, I sit with Peder on a stage at the back of the room and lean my body into his: our dance continuing though the music has stopped.
As our arms entwine and our bodies move a slow and sensuous weave, we finally get to talk. Gentle, languid talk. Of the now. And our desire to be together.
We arrange to meet in one of the massage tents by the sauna. It’s against the rules, of course. But they have mattresses in them and are empty all night. All we need to bring is some bedding.
I burst into my dorm to grab my pillow and duvet, hastily toning down my energy, when I notice a few of my roomies are already sleeping. Luckily, the sassy American lady across from me is still up and I excitedly whisper my news and ask if she has any condoms.
Sex wasn’t on my agenda for this summer, so I hadn’t come prepared.
Lenses out, teeth cleaned, bladder emptied and condoms and water bottle in hand, I hug my bedding to my chest and tip-toe out into the night, making sure not to slam the door behind me.
To be continued....
Note: The Flow Artist is my tantric counter-narrative to the short story, Cat Person, that was recently published in the New Yorker.
As someone passionate about love, conscious relating and sacred sexuality, I was deeply saddened to read Cat Person. To me, it represents pretty much the opposite of everything I teach and live by, and so much about what is wrong with gender relations, dating and sexual expression today.
A big part of what I am passionate about in my work involves facilitating groups and holding space for individuals or couples to cultivate the necessary self-awareness, self-love and communication skills to be able to relate and make love in a way which engenders real connection and deeply fulfilling intimacy.
My online courses in Awakening Your Ecstatic Potential lay the foundations for this level of embodied sacred eroticism.
To enquire about my one-to-one sessions, simply drop me a line.