Free The Stoned Apocalypse by Marco Vassi Page A

a recording of Ravi Shankar’s, and led the group in a period of spontaneous movement, telling them to imagine that they were puppets, and that each of their severed parts was attached by strings to the fingers of a great puppet master. Using this artifice allowed them to let their bodies move without the usual tension cliches, and the total effect of over a hundred people moving easily and sensually was glorious. We ended by chanting Om, and when the class was over, the strangers had shared a moment of pleasant ease. I left very quickly, before anyone could talk to me; the night had exhausted me and I just needed to crash. What I didn’t know was that my honest performance and sudden departure planted the seeds of a myth. The people began to whisper that a true holy man had come among them.
    Meanwhile, the guru was having his problems. I had just begun a ménage with Rita and Leah. It was a blind attempt at union which swung between ecstasy and despair, during the course of which I learned how two women can make love, and have since been forever humbled in my own sexuality. We were swept up in the beauty of what happens when three people can, even for a brief time, become one organism on at least two levels of consciousness. But we also suffered the pain and paranoia which follows the tearing of the fabric, when all the delicacy of give-to-get builds higher and finer until the slim foundation of time-shared can’t sustain the great elaborations of the erotic superstructure. We were at a point where I was finding out the difference between male chauvinism and manhood, and the women were struggling between the desire for wider communion and the biological instinct of possessiveness of the mate.
    That week, my preparation for the class navigated the tricky rhythms of our troika. By the time Wednesday came, my subconscious was totally enmeshed in questions of human sexual relationship. I arrived only two hours early this time, cleaned up the Lounge in a hurry, and on my way back from smoking a joint sent up a prayer to Venus, which had just begun to glow. It was getting darker earlier as the year dipped toward winter.
    Once again I put the crew through their paces. This time there were almost a hundred and fifty of them. When I started my opening rap, I found myself talking about sensuality. I spun an elaborate schema of the way in which sexuality tends to bum out the more delicate needs of touch and glance and breath, and ended by noting that many people wind up fucking someone just because they need to be held. The admiration from the psychically pubescent women in the class was palpable.
    But I was feeling expansive and depleted from my efforts of the week. It suddenly came upon me that tonight I should teach the men how to make love to the women, how to be gentle and responsive. So, after the softening-up relaxation period, I broke the class down into groups of four, and led them into a mutual feeling session, in which three people massage the fourth, until all have been both active and passive. I took great pains to outline what to look for, what kinaesthetic clues lurked inside the body, and what could be learned from observing another’s breathing and skin tone and subtle motions. Halfway through the exercise, the air started getting steamy. Everywhere I looked half-erect cocks bulged through jeans, female crotches yawned over the entire floor, and succulent buttocks contracted and expanded as unimaginable eddies of exquisite sensation ran through dozens of nearly virginal thighs.
    By the end of that round, I was slightly out of control. I took an unexpected turn, and had them all lie down again, and once again took them on an inner voyage, feeling their bodies with their bodies, or letting the bodies be aware of themselves. But this time I lingered over the genitals, spinning out fantasies about what the inside of a cunt feels like, of what happens inside a penis when it expands. Aroused, half-hypnotized, willing,