After work, late that night, feeling unbelievably crappy but fearing that unless I tuckered myself out, I was going to do something foolish like get drunk and kiss my neighbor again, I caught the final yoga class of the day. Again I encountered the turbaned gang of four.
I took a deep breath and unrolled my mat. This time, the pajama-clad elders had been conversing when I entered. I discreetly listened to their strange Engskrit chatter: “When he wished me a happy birthday, my Buddhibuddheh latched onto my Anaditvam with his own Abhinivesa . . .”
During a pause I asked one of the older women, “Do you think Kundalini can be used to combat injustice?”
“Absolutely,” the other woman spoke up. “After all, it was originated by the warrior class.”
“Is there anything I can do to develop this skill more quickly?”
“One is always one’s own greatest hindrance,” one of the males said. I couldn’t tell which.
“How do you mean?”
“The ego is always an obstacle,” said the Renunciate axiomatically. He had entered the room without me noticing.
It must’ve just been a meditation class, because the next sixty minutes were mainly taken up with mantras and hyper shallow breaths. Nevertheless, when we chanted our three final Oms, I was so exhausted and covered in sweat I just lay there trembling and twitching like a freshly hooked fish. The others thanked the Renunciate and left, but he remained seated as I finally peeled my mat off the floor.
“On one hand, I wish you could find peace with where you are instead of only focusing on where you want to be. On the other hand, it’s so rare to see such enthusiasm from a weekend practitioner.”
“What you want is called Shaktipat—it’s the transmission of power from one person to another.”
“You can pass along Kundalini?”
“Some say it can be transmitted in a breath, others say with a flower, but in your case Grinlik has offered his inspired services.”
“Is he a Sikh?”
“They all are. But he’s also a swami, and from time to time he has performed Shaktipat.” A swami sounded to me like the equivalent of a captain in the yogi police, and a Shaktipat sounded like a good exorcism.
“Let’s do it.”
“The thing you should know is that it is probably going to seem a little disappointing. It’s not that dramatic, and it doesn’t always take.”
“We can only try.”
“You’ll be working alone with Grinlik. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Does Grinlik have any priors?”
He misunderstood. “Oh yes, he’s done this many times.”
“Fine.”
The Renunciate stepped out and a moment later the oldest male yogi in the group, the great Grinlik, entered. He’d been in tonight’s class; his tight turban looked like a brain tourniquet.
“So does this mean. . .”
“Shhh.”
Over the next twenty minutes or so, he instructed me to perform fire breaths—deep and intense inhalations—with my eyes closed. When I finally thought I was going to collapse, I felt his cool hand on my sweaty back. Slowly he pushed me back and forth, swaying me in my seated position, like a buoy, and directing me to take short shallow breaths. After about ten minutes, when I was about to pass out, he gently smacked me across the face.
I didn’t feel any different.
“Try it again,” I whispered with my eyes still closed. “A little harder.”
After a long, suspenseful minute, I opened my eyes to discover I was all alone in the darkened room. When I rolled up my mat and went out, I could hear the Renunciate talking with the others, but I didn’t want to bother him. Either I had been Kundalinied or I hadn’t.
I staggered home and opened my front door just as my phone rang.
“Hi,” Noel said. “I just wanted to say goodbye before leaving. I’m going to LA tomorrow.”
“I wish I could run off with you. I’m having a hell of a time here.”
“Why?”
I explained that another victim had just been found and her head had literally been twisted off.
“Yuck,” he said softly. “And yesterday you got assaulted by some guy.”
“That was nothing much. A veterinarian from Texas was just looking for a little human companionship.” I paused and added, “He went back to his hotel afterward and hung himself.”
“You know, I played a police captain in an episode of Law and Order who was suspected of abusing perps. It turned out my character was suffering from post-traumatic stress due to a shooting.”
“I never heard of a captain having to draw a weapon, except in movies. They’re usually administrators.”
“I’m only saying it sounds like you might be suffering from it.”
I didn’t answer. I was depressed enough that I thought his diagnosis might actually be right.
“I’m sending a car to pick you up,” he said.
I told him I’d come in on my own, but I couldn’t stay long. I showered, put on a sexy dress, then touched on some make-up and perfume. I grabbed a cab to his apartment, which was at Seventy-sixth and Central Park West, ten blocks north of Miriam’s mansion.
Noel greeted me at the door wearing a burgundy satin robe that revealed a chestful of curly black hair. He handed me a dirty martini and gave me a tour. It was one of those prewar luxury apartments with spacious rooms and unobstructed views to all four points of the compass. If I wasn’t already drawn to him by his celebrated good looks, I could now worship him just for his place. It was the kind of apartment that middle-class characters in the movies live in.
When he led me out to his balcony, I looked westward over Jersey. He offered me a cigarette. Though I feared cancer, my greater concern right then was of possibly losing the romantic momentum, so I snatched it. He lit it with the derringer cigarette lighter he had given me earlier. I must’ve left it at Miriam Williams house.
Soon we were seated on his divan. Without any prompting he started telling me how one time when he was a kid he had wound rubber bands around a cat’s front paws.
“I really didn’t mean to hurt it. I swear, it belonged to my neighbor. I was just teasing it, watching it trying to shake them off. Well next thing I knew the cat ran off. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was a dumb kid. A few weeks later, my mother told me the neighbor’s cat had to have its front paws amputated.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Guilt,” he said. “To this day I feel awful about that poor kitty cat.”
If that was the worst thing he had done in his life, he was still better than most.
His voice grew fainter, as his touch became more substantial. His fingers stroked along my arm and shoulder. My heart fluttered as he kissed his way up my neck. When his sharp but delicate lips reached my jawline, he backed off. I remembered what Maggie had told me. He was hooked, but I still had to reel him in—and this was usually where I lost them. Before he could yawn or say it was late, I leaned forward and kissed him.
Just like I had practiced with Maggie, I pretended I was some he-man and he was a shy little schoolgirl I had just picked up. A moment later I had him backed up against the armrest and was darting my predatory tongue into his scared little mouth. The next moment, I grabbed his thick shock of hair and led his angular face down to my non-cleavage.
Taking the cue, he unbuttoned my shirt, popped open my bra and proceeded to lick and nibble my eraser tips. Then, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I pushed away all my instincts as I lowered my panties.
He gently pushed me back on his over-upholstered sofa, parted my legs and took charge. Unlike O’Ryan, he knew his way through the untamed forest. Gradually, I found myself rushing down a stream of licks. By the time I collapsed over the frothy falls, I had enjoyed my first orgasm ever administered by someone other than myself.
“My God!” I said, leaning down to kiss his slick face. It was hard to believe: one of the hottest actors alive had just gotten me off.
Although I was nervous, I decided now was not the time to retreat, and reached down to reciprocate. He took out his cock and began to move his hips toward my exposed position.
“Why don’t we just . . .”
I desperately wanted to lose my virginity, but I suddenly decided I didn’t want it to be like this, a hit and run followed by him dashing off to LA. I delicately took his bowed flesh in hand and said, “Let’s wait till you get back.”
“Oh,” Noel groaned, and in an amusingly agonized voice sang the opening lines of “Don’t Leave Me This Way.”
I lowered myself and slowly tried to take him in my mouth, but found myself choking. I closed my eyes and heard the Renunciate’s voice instructing me how to achieve self-control through breathing. As he rocked back and forth, I was able then to suppress my gag reflex and service him until, after several minutes, he reached liquid nirvana.