I sat cross-legged, back against a bare stone wall, wishing I had grabbed more than the one cushion I was sitting on questioning my decision to come to join this Introduction to Tantra course at the Spirit of Life Centre. There were about forty of us sitting around the walls of a repurposed barn. We had all been Covid-tested and passed clear and found our accommodation – mine in an all-male dormitory. Now we were waiting for the workshop to begin.


 The workshop leaders, Annie, a woman in her later thirties who reminded me of my nursery school teacher, and Greg, a thin bearded man with pony-tail and sharply earnest face, conferred over a laptop and mixing deck. Gentle music swirled and rippled in the background. Next to me a woman in floral yoga pants, who might have been as old as my mother, sat straight backed, upturned open palms resting on her impossibly folded legs. On my other side was a man whose sleeveless vest and well defined muscles spoke of hours in the gym. Looking around the room I guessed the average age was nearer fifty than thirty. I was the youngest by a wide margin. I was feeling that I had made a serious mistake but dared not walk out.


I barely listened to the introductory remarks. ‘Tantra gives you permission to enjoy pleasure,’ said Annie, adjusting her microphone. ‘Tantra invites you to connect with truth and love. It invites you to discover and integrate your masculine and feminine selves. It gives you permission to say ‘no’. Tantra allows your spirit to connect with your body…’


I stopped listening. I thought Tantra was about saying ‘yes’ to marathon sessions of mind-blowing sex. Looking around the room was like trying to imagine my parents holding an orgy. I half listened to Annie and then Greg outlining our seven-day journey to opening heart and mind while scanning the faces and bodies of the women. The youngest was still a good five years older than I and had aggressively cropped dark hair and tattoos on her arms and legs. A few places further along sat a serenely composed woman of similar age who seemed to be distancing herself spiritually from us all: pity, she was exceptionally attractive. Two places further along was a youngish man, bearded, fit looking, surveying the room as if at an auction. He reminded me of the rowing and rugby boys at school who went on to Oxbridge and the City. The more I looked the more dispirited I became.


Then the introductions began. ‘Hi, I’m Karen,’ said the dumpy woman who had been on Annie’s right. ‘I’ve been to a few Tantra events, mainly festivals. I’m a physiotherapist and I want to learn more about Tantra because I think it will help me with my work.’ I recorded her name in my notebook. Then there was John, a plumber; Nathan an airline flight attendant; Jinny, mother and mature student studying Environmental Science and so on around the room coming ever closer to me. Then it was my turn. ‘Hi. I’m Marcus. I’m lost and trying to find my way out of the shit.’ That wasn’t what I had intended to say. I had been rehearsing something more opaque, but I spoke my truth and it was a relief.


***


That first session broke up just before ten with the request we all come to meditation in the room next morning at five to eight, remembering to bring blindfold, pillow-case and sarong ‘if we wished to be naked’. Why would I want to be naked for meditation? I wondered, my interest piqued. But Tantra was supposed to be about sex and the joining instructions had told us to bring plenty of loose clothes and a couple of sarongs. I thought I’d rather keep my clothes on, at least until I understood what was going on.


“Hi Marcus. Coming to the hot-tub?”


It was Karen, the woman who had introduced herself first. She didn’t seem so dumpy now. Her eyes were encouraging. I could not help looking at the swell of her breasts under the loose top and the prominent peaking of her nipples. I did not know what to say. I was excited and yet I wanted to run.


“Errr…” I muttered ambivalently.


“Good! Go and get a towel. Meet you here in five!”


I wanted to run and get my towel and swim shorts. Then I remembered the hot-tub was clothing optional. Could I… should I… would I? “Mmm… thanks… err…Karen… I’d love to… but it’s been a long day travelling…” That was a lie, Uncle Robin had driven me the few miles from their farm where I had been staying since last December.


“Pity,” she exclaimed fixing me with laughing eyes that I feared were mocking me. “Let’s make a date for tomorrow then.”


I watched her go. I had just turned down an invitation to share a hot-tub. I had dreamed about things like that and envied the lucky people on reality shows and porn sites who seemed to live their lives wearing little or nothing in frothing hot water.