Turpitude
Author: Young
Date: 2016-09-06 04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Solstice Publishing - Solstice at Night Imprint

A Harem Boy’s Saga

Book IV: Turpitude

A Memoir by Young

This memoir is dedicated to my ex-big-brother,

Valet, mentor, and guardian,

Andrew A. Finckenstein.

“I remember that pivotal moment as a teenager when

I realized that these authoritative figures
are human beings too,
and they are figuring their lives out
just like me.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

(a.k.a. Young)

A Harem Boy’s Sga IV: Turpitude

Solstice Publishing – www.solsticepublishing.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

Author’s Website:

www.aharemboysaga.com

Author’s email:

young@aharemboysaga.com

The contents of this book constitute a work of NONFICTION. It documents the author’s experiences, and is not intended as an exposé. Names of actual places and people have been changed to protect their privacy.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author or publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book contains substantial sexually explicit material and language which may be considered offensive by some readers.

Book Editing by Ellen Fishbein

Prologue

Ever since I first connected with my ex-lover/Valet and chaperone, our email correspondences have been sporadic. We are older and wiser – we are treating our affectionate sentiments with caution and taking time to be reacquainted, especially considering that I’m in a long-term relationship with my partner of 18 years. I have to take my partner’s emotions into consideration. Andy and I are no longer free-spirited teenagers who would throw caution to the wind or let down our guard to live as if we were invincible.

During the course of writing Debauchery, my ex and I had toyed with the possibility of penning the fourth book of our Arab Household experiences together. We came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea to collaborate on A Harem Boy’s Saga – IV – Turpitude, and we decided that I would write the book as I’d experienced the events through the eyes of my adolescent years, and Andy would incorporate his insights wherever he deemed appropriate.

I’ve no doubt that as we progressed along the passage of our joint penmanship, there would be occasions when our opinions will differ. Like a court of justice, where the prosecution and defense attorneys provide disparate perspectives, here, Andy and I will present our cases, and the readers will be the jurors. It will also help both of us revisit our past experiences and re-evaluate our thoughts then and now.

Although my beloved ex does not wish to sign his name as the co-author of Turpitude, he, like Dr. Arius in book III – Debauchery, will play a vital role in enhancing A Harem Boy’s Saga for the readers and for me.

Young.

Contents

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter One – Campos de Fresa para Siempre

Chapter Two – In A Valley of Andorra

Chapter Three – Renaixença – Rebirth

Chapter Four – Gloria in Execelis Deo

Chapter Five – Fight Club

Chapter Six – What Happened By the Lake?

Chapter Seven – The Prophesies

Chapter Eight – An Unexpected Expediency

Chapter Nine – At The Red Ball

Chapter Ten – Visionaries & Illusionists

Chapter Eleven – Spiritualism vs. Anomalisic Psychology

Chapter Twelve – ‘G’ A-Go-Go

Chapter Thirteen – Saints & Sinners

PART TWO

Chapter Fourteen – The Anomalous Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey

Chapter Fifteen – An Unorthodox Proposal

Chapter Sixteen – The Foibles of Young Love

Chapter Seventeen – An Unanticipated Visitor

Chapter Eighteen – What Is Love?

Chapter Nineteen – The Golden Boy

Chapter Twenty – Falling In Love Again

Chapter Twenty-One – On the Street Where You Live

Chapter Twenty-Two – Museum Het Rembrandthuis

Chapter Twenty-Three – Coitus Interruptus

Chapter Twenty-Four – The District

Chapter Twenty-Five – The Leather Bar

Chapter Twenty-Six – A Show Of Hands

Chapter Twenty-Seven – Sahasrāra & Samadhi

Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Auction

Chapter Twenty-Nine – Our Wistful Melancholy

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty – The Power Of Oneness

Chapter Thirty-One – A Passage To India

Chapter Thirty-Two – Ecasty & Jealousy

Chapter Thirty-Three – Imperial Jurisdictions

Chapter Thirty-Four – TransZendental Introspection

Chapter Thirty-Five – Sehnsucht

Chapter Thirty-Six – The Accident & The Incident

Chapter Thirty-Seven – Lakshmi’s Abode

Chapter Thirty-Eight – Bollywood to Hollywood

Chapter Thirty-Nine – Exotic Erotic Delights

PART FOUR

Chapter Forty – Forbidden Fruits

Chapter Forty-One – Assalamu Alaikum

Chapter Forty-Two – Rotten Apples

Chapter Forty-Three – Courtly Propositions

Chapter Forty-Four – Norway Of Arabia

Chapter Forty-Five – We Are Here To Serve, Not To Fall In Love

Chapter Forty-Six – Infectious Infatuation

Chapter Forty-Seven – To Wear Or Not To Wear

Chapter Forty-Eight – Command Performances

Chapter Forty-Nine – The Lovers, The Stalker, & The Voyeur

Chapter Fifty – The Misfits

Chapter Fifty-One – Say A Little Prayer

PART FIVE

Chapter Fifty-Two – Serendipitous Miscalculations

Chapter Fifty-Three – A Hymn To Him

Chapter Fifty-Four – London’s Gentlemen’s Club

Chapter Fifty-Five – Club Nobbing

Chapter Fifty-Six – Shop Till You Drop

Chapter Fifty-Seven – Windows To Secret Realms

Chapter Fifty-Eight – By Appointment To Her Majesty The Queen

Chapter Fifty-Nine – Designing Men

Chapter Sixty – An ‘Unexpected Pearl’

Chapter Sixty-One – Neilyn Munrow & Fair Cecily

Chapter Sixty-Two – From Russia With Love

Chapter Sixty-Three – Sparkles & Blings

Chapter Sixty-Four – The Male Gaze

Chapter Sixty-Five – Lover’s Tale

Chapter Sixty-Six – Sex & Love

Chapter Sixty-Seven – Body Electric

Chapter Sixty-Eight – Vipers & Charmers

Chapter Sixty-Nine – Casting Couch

Epilogue

Author’s Bio

Acknowledgements

PART ONE

Spain – Barcelona, Andorra

France – Aubigny-sur-Nere

Chapter One

Campos de Fresa para Siempre

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.”

Henry Van Dyke

1967 - A Week before Christmas

Aeropuerto de Barcelona-El Prat

In 1967, Spain’s second largest international airport terminal was about to be revamped to better facilitate and accommodate international commuters and local travelers.

As Andy and I made our way to the arrival lounge, we were expecting to see Oscar, Alfonso and Mary waiting to greet us, but we couldn’t see through the walls of holiday visitors. We searched the area for 20 minutes before a couple of hippie characters tapped our shoulders from behind. Neither Andy nor I recognized them as our beloved ex-lover and our Spanish friend.

What had happened to the Oscar we knew?

Oscar’s handsome face was now shrouded by a scruffy beard and thin, gold-rimmed John Lennon glasses. A red bandana tied across his forehead kept his shoulder-length hair from flying across his angular face. The cool, clean T-shirts, dress-shirts and casual pants he once wore had made way for form-fitting floral shirts, “Easy Rider” motorcycle jackets and worn-out bell-bottom jeans. Beaded wrist bands and a decorative leather strap hung on his once unadorned physique. His casual loafers and formal lace-ups were now colorful platforms and biker boots. My ex-big brother and his newly acquired lover, Alfonso, had mutated into “make love not war” hippie maniacs within just three months.

Turning around to these two men, Andy asked without recognition, “Yes... can we help you?”

I couldn’t keep myself from shrieking, “Oscar, Alfonso! What happened to you?”

My Valet turned to me in astonishment. His enlarged pupils dilated when he glared at our ex-lover and his friend.

My guardian exclaimed as nonchalantly as he could, “Oscar! So good to see you, my good man!” He leaned over to embrace our ex while the once suavely put-together Alfonso enveloped me in a bear hug. I was smushed against his hairy chin while my face got buried in his long golden locks, which suffocated me in the process. He wobbled me around as if I were a cuddly teddy bear before changing partners.

Just like his beau, my ex-BB engulfed me as if I had been resurrected from the dead. He also did something he had never done before in front of so many strangers: he held me tightly and French kissed me vigorously. It was as if time had stood still within our ambit. I responded in kind to his amorous alacrity. Like a film being played in slow motion, our ephemeral intensities seemed to defy gravitational exertions. Everything and everyone around us seemed to have blurred into the background. In the passion of the moment, Oscar and I had merged into a living, breathing and loving organism. We rotated as a single entity within the center of our universe. Then, simultaneously, we were tapped back into reality by Andy and the Spaniard.

Andy gave me a duplicitous glance, informing me that I should tread with caution until he could work out the situation. The Oscar standing in front of us was unlike the man we had known, and that was cause for concern for my Valet and me. We exchanged secret glances, wondering what had happened.

In the Camper

As soon as we got to the airport parking lot, a psychedelically painted “Hippie Van” was staring right at our faces. Andy and I looked astonished. We were beginning to wonder if we had arrived on a different planet and met a couple of aliens we thought were Oscar and Alfonso.

Although the 1968 Volkswagen Camper was brand new, it was completely covered with floral graffiti. A huge, brightly colored peace sign was airbrushed onto the front. At the rear was an equally large rainbow, artfully painted between the pull-out doors. Needless to say, the interior lacked no splashy colors. An array of gauzy Indian sari fabrics hung across each window panel. This transporter had no seats; in their place were gaudy mattresses covered with cushions and pillows of varied sizes. I felt as if I’d entered a Hindu temple; the smell of heavy incense burned to camouflage traces of odorous recreational drugs.

As soon as Oscar, Andy and I were located in the passenger portion of this ‘art bus,’ Alfonso slammed on the accelerator. The driver and passenger sections were separated by a sliding glass partition, and the Spaniard was allowing us a chance to talk with our ex-lover in private.

Andy was the first to speak, “How are you, Oscar? What brought about this new you?” He was being polite without sounding imperious.

Oscar beamed his charismatic grin at the both of us before answering, “Now that I don’t have to follow Daltonbury or the society’s rules and regulations, I can express myself the way I choose.”

Before he could continue, Andy commented, “Like being a flower child?”

My ex gave us a devilish wink before he resumed, “I’m enjoying my new freedom. I’m a freeman, man, and it’s liberating.”

“Liberating to do what?” Andy asked. “Experiment with drugs and be stoned out of your mind?”

Oscar said defensively, “Don’t lecture me with that condescending voice of yours, Andy. I’m a proud student at the prestigious Vienna University and having the time of my life…”

“You’ve transformed into a different person within our short absence. Are you sure you are having the time of your life?” I tweeted curiously.

“Of course I am, lad,” he reached over to ruffle my hair. “I still have the hots for you, and so does my boyfriend (he indicated the driver). I’m sure our other brethren will be delighted to meet you, too.”

Andy cut in. “What other brethren?” My Valet stared intensely at Oscar.

“You’ll find out soon enough, Mr. Valet,” my ex-Big Brother (BB) teased.

Andy made no effort to curb his fervor. He reached to slap the side of Oscar’s head, hoping that he would explain himself further. Then, the vehicle came to a screeching halt, and we were suddenly thrown backwards. Alfonso had slammed on the brakes to stop from running a red light.

The three of us tumbled onto the pillows and mattresses. Oscar landed on top of me. He made no effort to lift himself off, instead he took this opportunity to kiss me amorously on my mouth, as if he could not wait to consummate his lust. Taken aback by such impetuousness, which was unlike the Oscar I knew, I struggled to free myself from underneath him. My impishness only served to boost his dominance over my boyish physique, as his hands ripped at my shirt. My guardian pulled him off me before he could tear away my garment. They wrestled on the mattresses within the moving vehicle. I shrieked for them to stop, but they continued trashing, grabbling and kicking like two madmen until exhaustion overcame my ex-big brother.

My Valet’s muscular hands had pinned Oscar’s wrists securely onto the mattress. It was only then that he sanctioned defeat.

Andy spoke commandingly, “Don’t you dare treat our little brother like that! He is not your slave to be had whenever you’re in heat. Treat the lad with respect, and I will do the same to you!” He pulled the hippie to a sitting position before releasing his grip.

He vented, “Now, tell us what’s happening. Where are we going, and why are you behaving like a moron?”

Just as his last words were uttered, the art mobile made a swift turn through a gravel driveway. The signage above the archway read “Campos de Fresa para Siempre.”

Campos de Fresa para Siempre

Alfonso slid open the van’s door for us. He uttered, “Welcome, guys, to ‘Strawberry Fields Forever.’ This is our humble abode, and yours as well, for the duration of your stay in Barcelona.”

Before Andy had a chance to query, Alfonso and a couple of the commune’s male residents had carried our luggage into the two-story farm house. There were a handful of women, including Mary and her newly acquainted girlfriend, Jewel, together with a gaggle of five men who could not be more than 25 years of age. There were also two children, a boy and a girl who looked around six. The lodgers were chatting animatedly among themselves when we entered the house. Oscar and the Spaniard introduced us. The majority of them communicated in Spanish, Portuguese, Belgian and Dutch – languages that Andy and I did not understand. The residents who spoke English were Mary, Jewel, an eighteen-year-old woman named Pratnah, two guys, Lukas (a 21-year-old Belgian) and Hans (a 20-year-old Dutchman), besides Alfonso, Oscar, Andy and me.

Hans and Mary guided us to our upstairs bedroom. All lodgers shared the communal bathrooms both upstairs and below stairs. No doors separated the rooms – there were only drapes or beaded curtains to ensure some privacy. Anyone could walk into any of the rooms at any given moment, whether the occupants were in private or with company. This was a hippie commune in the truest sense of the phrase.

Finally, my Valet and I had a moment to ourselves while taking a stroll around this private property, where farm animals and vegetable gardens thrived hand-in-hand with their human counterparts. When Andy and I were out of earshot, Andy shook his head and said, “It’s hard to imagine Oscar being like this.”

I didn’t know how to respond to my Valet’s remark. He continued, “For his sake, I hope he’s not going down a subservient path, led by his new beau. I fear for his wellbeing. This type of communal living is so unlike Oscar.”

“I’m sure our ex-big brother is a sensible and a responsible person. After all, he is one of us,” I reassured my chaperone.

“I’m not so sure, Young. People can change at the drop of a hat. He may be doing this in reaction to the disciplinary lifestyle we’ve been taught to live. This may well be his idea of freedom of personal expression.”

I chirped, “We should give him the benefit of the doubt. We have six days with him and our friends before we leave to spend Christmas with Baron Pierre. I think we should keep an open mind and see what transpires during the time we’re here.”

“Young, you’ve suddenly become wise beyond your years, you little twerp,” he jested. “It wasn’t long ago when I had to bail you out of problematic situations. My, oh my, you are growing up right before my eyes.”

He gave my butt a mischievous slap. My lover couldn’t help himself from tugging down my pants while I playfully resisted his frivolous innuendos. He threw me onto the ground, pulling at my pants that were already halfway swirling around my hips. His sparkling blue-green eyes never left my gaze as we frolicked like young lovers on the field.

Little did we suspect, a pair of inquisitive eyes were observing us from the second floor window. The Belgian inserted his hand into his cotton drawstring pants. He loosened the ties and let them drop to the floor. He began stroking himself, gazing at the provocative sight outside the glass panel. He was patiently waiting for the right moment to partake in our circle of unbridled eroticism. For now, he was contented, jerking his stiffness while watching our tantalizing sensual foreplay.

My lover pinned my wrist above my head, French kissing my delicious mouth while our slender pelvises gyrated rousingly against our exposed flesh. My lover’s half-exposed ass crack served only to heighten the percipient’s mesmerizing stare. He was actively channeling ribaldry visions of bacchanalian revelry, titillating his already engorged libido to shuddering orgasmic convulsions. He spewed jets of molten passions across the plywood floor, and some abundance landed on his hand and thigh.

He lifted his fingers to his lips, feeding his amatory deposits into his mouth. Not desiring to let any of his scrumptiousness go to waste, he scooped the dripping droplets from his muscular thighs and fed his heady sediments back from whence they came.

Lowering himself on all fours, he lapped up the remaining residue, relishing the delicacies like a licking dog, savoring his own melting life force.

When he was fully satisfied, he dressed and came downstairs to welcome our return.

Chapter Two

In A Valley Of Andorra

“Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of everyday life into a golden haze.”

Elynor Glyn

Since Andy and I reconnected, we had discussed the possibility of co-writing Turpitude. Although my ex-Valet chose to continue using the pseudonym Andy, he did agree to give his perspective on our joint experiences in our fourth harem experience, the Assalamu Alaikum (Peace be with you) household. We hope to provide a richer story for our readers.

1967

Andorra

Neither Andy nor I were aware that Alfonso had deposited us in the Spanish Andorra countryside, where Strawberry Fields Forever was located. Although we knew we had traveled for several hours from Barcelona airport, we hadn’t expected that the nearest Andorra town would be an hour from the farm. The commune was surrounded by mountains, pristine rivers and picturesque forests; Andy and I were in awe.

That winter’s evening was unusually warm, and Hans and Mary suggested we set up camp in the nearby forest after a hearty meal with the rest of the residents. A group of us sat around the campfire when Thor (one of the male lodgers) began strumming a series of Swedish folk songs on his guitar. Several of the women joined in the singing. Before long, some were dancing, half naked and high from puffing away at their joints. Alfonso and Oscar were no exception. The only sober people were Andy, me, and the two children, who were sleeping peacefully in the house.

As the music and dancing got sultrier, so did the shedding of clothing. Before long, wriggling bodies in various stages of sensual and sexual copulation were in full swing. As aroused as I was by this unbridled eroticism, my guardian was scrutinizing the revelry with stoic celerity. He was ready to get us out if the love-in became too overzealous. It wasn’t that I had not seen or participated in orgies; it had more to do with the drug and alcohol induced coterie that my lover’s protective instinct sought to shield me from.

Besides my ex-big brother and his boyfriend who wanted my chaperone and me to partake in this wonton carnality, there were others who were secretly conspiring toward our intimate endearments. Although one of the unspoken rules of the mostly anarchist cooperative was the freedom of speech, action and susceptibility, I was perceptively aware that there were abstruse concealments among certain members in the group. On the surface, communal living seemed open and free, but after a couple of days of life in such close quarters, I unmasked envy and jealousy among some of the lodgers, especially the womenfolk, who were secretly competitive, seeking to possess the men for themselves rather than free them for communal apportion.

The two exceptions to this rule were Mary and Jewel, who welcomed males and females alike into their ménage à deux whenever the opportunity arose. They were, indeed, true feminists.

A Stroll in the Dark

Leaving the campground, Andy and I meandered toward the quiet, moonlit lake. The tranquility of the landscape stopped us. I exclaimed, “The serenity of this enchanted place is breathtaking!”

Andy held me closer as we stood and admired the reflection of the crescent moon shimmering on the gentle undulating water. We needed no words. Our thoughts were one in spirit and in unity. We basked in silence.

Andy finally spoke, “You, my love, are as beautiful as the crescent moon.”

I felt differently than usual – tonight, his words stirred something I had never experienced before. Tears of happiness flowed down my cheeks. Instead of kissing my mouth, he leaned over to brush away the droplets from my blushing cheeks. “I love you so much, Young. More than you’ll ever understand,” he whispered. “I’ll always be close to you, no matter how far apart we are.”

Surprised, I asked him, “Where are you going?”

Andy gazed at me adoringly. “Nowhere, my love. Nowhere,” he affirmed.

In this bewitching landscape, time seemed to stop. We wrapped our arms around each other, venerating the majesty of God’s creation. I finally broke the enthralling stillness. “What are we doing tomorrow?” I questioned.

My question seemed to throw my lover off guard. “What will you like to do tomorrow?” he responded.

“I’ll like to see more of Barcelona than just the beauty of its countryside.”

“And so you will, my darling,” my Valet promised. “I’ve something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. I think now is the perfect time…”

I looked at my guardian, puzzled. He began, “Remember when I said, ‘We need to talk’ when I saw you with Duc the night of our school’s Christmas ball?”

“I remember,” I chirped.

He continued, “I want to discuss with you…” he said and paused, “If you’re open to inviting Albert into our midst, much like we did with Oscar before he left for university.”

My heart began thumping hard and fast. I remained silently still. My lover pledged, “Young, my lovely one, please don’t for one moment think I’ve stopped loving you. If anything, I love you more than ever. I promise I’ll love Albert and you equally and unconditionally, and I pray that you and Albert will do the same with me, if and when we agree to a consensual ménage à trois affinity.”

I stammered, “Have you talked to Albert about this?”

“No. I wanted to discuss this with you before I approached Albert,” Andy answered. His mesmerizing greenish-blue eyes stared at me unflinchingly.

Not able to resist his gentlemanly magnetism, I reached over and kissed his tender lips. Our lingering devotion needed no exchange of words. By the time we sundered, my answer was already made known. My lover gave me a treasured smile as we laid by the grassy bank. I was deep in thoughts about what the future would hold for the three of us.

The Stalkers

Hidden from view in the quiet forest, not far from where my lover and I lay, two people stood watch. The solitary, telltale sign of their presence was the glowing amber of the cannabis they had just lit.

The man murmured, “I’ll take the young one. I know you desire the older guy…”

Before he could continue, the female was already on her knees, engulfing the throbbing hardness into her open orifice. Smoke from her puff eliminated from the corners of her mouth, giving the impression that his rod was smoldering and that she had the power to extinguish the impetuous passion she had begun. He was already fantasizing about the adolescent he was watching a short distance away.

She, on the other hand, was musing over the handsome teenager lying by the shoreline, her closed eyes imagining the manhood around her lips to be that of her fantasy man. She sucked and teased the erection to uncontrollable ecstasy. Wrapping her luscious lips around the bobbing bulbousness, she plunged her cavity onto the corpulent protrusion, choking herself in the process. Instead of relinquishing her prized possession, she rammed it deeper, burying her youthful face against his musky pubes. The male wasted no time in pushing her head onto the onslaught, enveloping her prowess, he jounced her cranium until dribbles of saliva trickled from the corners of her mouth. Like a naked wood nymph craving erotic pleasure, she relished the rough treatment foisted upon her diaphanous being as she luxuriated in this game of machismo dominance. She yearned to be snared by this aggressive satyr whom she hoped would molest her in every which way. She desired to be treated disrespectfully by anyone who would take control over her for their personal gratification. She would gladly supplicate herself to Lucifer or the Marquis de Sade if they had lived to partake in this unrestrained sadomasochism.

She was torn between satisfying this churlish hard-man and the decorous teenager whom she knew to be a gentleman of decorum and respectability. She schemed to entice this young homosexual, to ruse him to fall prey to her iniquitous seduction.

For now, she was preoccupied with the rogue before her. He pushed her against a nearby tree and lifted her legs to his pelvis. In a single stroke, he entered her spread thighs, sinking his quivering organ into her willing orifice. The discomfort only served to heighten her masochistic propitiation as his forceful pounding abraded her tender back. His eyes closed, he rode her furiously, fantasizing about his Caucasian rigidity impaling the young Asian. Vivid images of his squirming adolescent prey fighting to be free from his careening licentiousness served to heighten his urgency. He plundered the boy’s derriere with unrelenting potency as his twitching opening begged for his mighty onslaught. He pillaged his way towards multiple orgasmic crescendos, only to resume yet another round of intemperate fervor while ravaging in ecstasy. His mind swore that he would use this stripling to satisfy his sexual wantonness. The sooner he could get rid of the lad’s chaperone, the faster he could execute his scheme.

His powerful grip lifted the groaning woman and laid her onto the ground, his stiffness still buried inside her willing pelvic chamber. His rugged stroking aroused her to moans of rapturous dexterity. As she lifted her spindly hips to receive his imminent release, their heavy breathing gave way to gratifying decadence. Waves of electric arrows traversed through their bodies, striking their eyelids in rainbows as music fell over their ears. The gongs of orgasm had sounded quietly within this peaceful landscape.

Unbeknownst to my guardian and me, Thor and Pratnah remained buried within each other. To quiet their nerves, they shared another joint before heading back towards the farm house.

The Dream

I lay awake, contemplating the future of a triplet relationship with Andy and Albert. As I reassured myself that it would be similar to our triplet relationship with Oscar and Andy, I had a nagging presage that sharing Andy with another passive partner may create more jealousy than before. As hard as I tried to subdue the green-eyed monster, it would rear its hideous head from under my pillow, even though my lover was sleeping next to me alone. The mushy mattress did nothing to console my uneasiness, not to mention the snoring or the whimpering noises of the two children from the adjoining room.

Finally, exhaustion overcame my anxiety, and sleep arrived in the form of a disconcerting dream.

Bicycling alone in an unhurried Andorra country lane, I basked in the awe-inspiring valley of the magnificent Pyrenees. I cycled past an expansive poppy field. The abundance of red, orange and yellow drew me off my bike. I relished this alone time, frolicking in this beautiful field of plenty. All of a sudden, a dark, foreboding shadow flashed past me in the midst of the bright blue sky. An impending sense of menace immediately coursed through me. The shadow vanished as quickly as whence it appeared. A scathing premonition swirled around each of my skipping steps as I continued my carefree cavorting.

Once again, the fleeting darkness manifested several yards in front of me. I could not decipher the monologue or the image of this snickering hologram. The harder I stared at it, the faster it mutated its multi-faceted configurations. It was benevolent at times, and at others, it appeared malevolent. When I let down my guard, it transformed itself into a series of minatory hieroglyphic blobs.

Fear coursed through me; I backed away. Abruptly, another inky shadow appeared from behind. I ran as fast as I could from this field of dreams, but the creatures cornered me. One of them snatched at my shirt, tearing it to pieces. I was smitten with terror. Then, without warning, I was lifted off the ground by a muscular flying object. It looked like an eagle, but under closer inspection, this colossal being was an angel. The blinding light behind his gigantic wings concealed his face. What I could discern was his sinewy silhouette. We ascended towards the cloudy blue sky. Safe in his masterful arms, I looked down only to witness the two indignant apparitions shaking their fists at us. My once-frightened spirit began to soar as he cradled me in his soothing arms. I heard melodic music some distance away...

I awoke to Andy’s protective arms. He was rocking me back and forth, whistling a calming lullaby. His piercing greenish-blue eyes gazed at me.

I whispered, “What happened?”

He lifted a finger to my lips to be quiet. I buried my face in his soft, furry chest. Equanimity fell over my being. His nakedness enshrouded mine, stirring us to hardness. There was no need for love-making. His gentle rocking had massaged us to unfathomable exultations. The potency of our love was the making of love itself. Rapturous euphoria washed over us, rising and receding like frolicking waves as we rode the tantric swells to blissful nirvana. We were one and all. Our eyes closed to savor our unchained melody. Spews of gushing abundance flowed from our unconditional love as if the gods had erected an irrepressible wall, shielding my lover and me within a cocoon of silken ecstasy where no other could perpetrate our inner sanctum.

We lay unmoved until the superfluous music from a melodic flute awoke us to partake in another joyful day at Strawberry Fields Forever.

Chapter Three

Renaixença - Rebirth

“Pieces of Art Nouveau architecture are moods, impressions of the soul; together, they represent an aspect of the struggle between the seduced and the seducer that is called lust.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

1967

Off to Barcelona

During communal breakfast, Andy inquired of Alfonso, “Is it possible for us to catch a ride to the city? Young and I would like to visit some places of interest. We’d also like to rent a car so we don’t have to rely on you guys to chauffeur us around.”

The Spaniard chirped, “Oh, Andy, there’s no need to rent a car. We have cars you can use at my parents’ garage. We’ll drive you over to their villa after breakfast.

“You’ll get a chance to greet Lorenzo and my mum, Antonia. When I told her you were here, she wanted to meet you.”

I interrupted, “Will you join us in Barcelona, Oscar?” I was wondering if I would have a chance to be re-acquainted with my ex BB.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” Oscar replied.

Before we knew it, a few others had joined us on our way to the city. Our group consisted of Mary, Pratnah, a Hungarian woman named Salome, Lukas, Hans and Thor. Off we headed toward the city.

Casa Milà

We arrived at Passeig de Gràcia, a major business and shopping avenue in Barcelona’s city center. My meticulous eyes spotted an outlandish edifice that was constructed entirely of curves and undulating lines. I exclaimed, “What is that building? I’ve never seen such a structure.” All eyes turned towards the direction of my finger as I pointed at the building.

Alfonso declared, “That is the Northern Insurance Company, my first stop. I’ve some business I have to take care of for my father before we head towards his villa.”

As soon as we got out of the art mobile, I whipped out my camera and began snapping at this extraordinary property.

Hans commented, “This art nouveau architectural wonder was designed by Antoni Gaudi. He’s a famous Catalan Modernist architect, and this is not the only building he designed.” The Dutchman directed our attention to another structure across the road. I was amazed to see another sui generis edifice sandwiched between a couple of tall buildings.

“This is the fascinating Casa Batlló,” Hans announced excitedly, “Another fine example of Gaudi’s creation.”

Andy queried, “How is it that you know so much about Gaudi’s work?

Before Hans could respond, Pratnah tweeted, “Hans is an architectural and engineering marvel. He attended the Universidad Politécnica de Madrid (Polytechnic University of Madrid) and graduated with honors.”

Hans nodded coyly. My Valet was elated upon hearing this news. He had found a bosom pal with whom he could discuss engineering.

As we stood admiring the exterior of these two spectacular edifices, Alfonso asked, “Do you guys want to come with me into the insurance company? I’m sure my dad’s friend Marcos wouldn’t mind you touring the place while I’m counselling with him.”

The men in our group followed the Spaniard while the women went shopping in the vicinity. As Alfonso had envisaged, we toured the interior of Casa Milà with Hans as our personal guide. The Dutchman began, “Have you heard of Antoni Gaudí i Cornet?” We looked blankly at each other. He continued, “This Spanish Catalan was famous for his highly individualistic Modernist Art Nouveau architecture. He was also a fervent Catholic and devotee of the Virgin Mary. Antoni began construction of this house in 1905 for Roser Segimon and Pere Milà. The architect had planned for this home to be a spiritual symbol of his creative genius. In the original design draft, he had included a prayer – I think it was the Ave Maria – on the cornice, with statues of Our Lady of the Rosary and the two archangels, Michael and Gabriel, standing prominently on the roofs.

“Unfortunately, the local government objected to these religious aspects of the project and fined the owners for infractions of building codes. After the 1909 Semana Trágica (Tragic Week - where the Spanish army and the working classes of Barcelona and other cities of Catalonia, backed by anarchists, socialists and republicans fought a series of bloody confrontations), the owners decided to follow the city’s ordinance and eliminated the statues and the archangels. In the process, Gaudi contemplated abandoning the project but was persuaded not to by a priest.”

Andy questioned, “How did it become the Northern Insurance Company?”

Smartass Lukas chimed in before Hans could provide a sensible explanation, “The Northern Insurance Company took over the building and made it their headquarters.”

We laughed at the hippie’s remark. Our guide continued, “You see, Andy, when Pere Milà died in 1940, Roser Segimon sold the property to Joseph Balañá Ballvé Pellisé and the Pío Rubert Laporta’s family. They were known for their department stores in the San Antonio round, and they formed the Compañía Inmobiliaria Provence SA (CIPS) to administer the property. The former owner, Roser Segimon, continued to live on the main floor until her death in 1964.”

While the Dutchman was iterating these historical accounts, Thor was haphazardly brushing his hand across my butt. He was testing my reaction. I pretended not to notice his flirtatious innuendoes. I continued to listen attentively to Hans’ commentary.

“The new owners divided the building into five floors instead of the original two. In 1953, they commissioned Juan Francisco Barba Corsini to construct 13 apartments in the attic, which until then had been the laundry room. It had become unsafe for use and was filled with garbage when the property changed hands.

“Fortunately, the new renovator, Barba Corsini, respected Gaudi’s original volume and structure, which we know today as the Logis-freedom approach. It provided plenty of open spaces with no right angles at the corners.” Our guide added, “The renovated apartments were located on the outer side of the space, leaving a corridor for the distribution of curved arches that led to the central courtyard. In the process, the darker areas between the two courtyards were exposed.”

My chaperone queried, “Were any of Gaudi’s designs compromised during this major renovation?”

“There’re bound to be trade-offs in any renovation. As you can imagine, Andy, several years ago, the mix of installations with the neighboring houses led to considerable losses of Gaudi’s work, especially the decorative elements. It was only a year and half ago that the current Northern Insurance Company took over the property. Thanks to the current owner, Alfonso’s dad’s friend Marcos, as much as possible of Gaudi was preserved.”

Although Thor spoke very little English and did not understand the historical elucidations, his body language spoke a thousand words, especially while my chaperone was transfixed by Hans recounting of Casa Milà.

On one hand, I was flattered by the hippie’s seductive allusions, but on the other, I was also terribly interested in the Dutchman’s narration about this idiosyncratic place. I decided to play hard-to-get with my suitor. Like my French encounters before, I was enjoying the unstated sensual foreplay I had perfected during my Quwah service. For now, I had cunningly dangled this salacious hippie like a puppet on strings as he scuffled for my affection.

Casa Batlló

Little did I realize Alfonso’s second stop was across the road – the exact building Hans and I had been ogling at before we entered the Northern Insurance Company. This time around, the Spaniard had scheduled a meeting with another insurance company’s owner, Augustin, from Seguros Iberia, the rival firm to the Northern Insurance Company. Our friend was negotiating the best deal for his father.

These two businesses were competing to outshine each other both in architectural appellation and in providing the best services. The owners had deliberately set up shop opposite each other, at two distinctive historical sites, in the hope of attracting Spain’s wealthiest and most elite into their fold. In so doing, they had to offer excellent hospitality services to their time honored patrons, including Alfonso’s father.

Augustin greeted us with his charismatic flair. Although I detected a hint of reservation upon his noticing of our hippie friends, his staff nevertheless served us champagne and entremeses variados (hor d’oeuvres). We waited for Alfonso and Augustin to finish their private consultation within an adjoining Art Nouveau chamber.

No sooner had we started savoring the beverages and delicacies than my guardian and Hans were ready to explore the premise. As ardent as I was to join the tour, I was famished and stayed behind to taste the scrumptious hor d’oeuvres placed before me. I found myself with Oscar, Lukas and Thor as they consumed glasses of champagne within the four walls of this exquisitely decorated visitors lounge.

Thor wasted no time in maneuvering himself closer to my side when Oscar and Lukas were in heated conversation. When I leaned across the settee to gather some munchies, the Swede slipped his hand into the back of my exposed underwear. He ran a couple of his fingers onto the top of my ass crack. I made no effort to move away from this unexpected titillation. The hand remained within my jeans when I leaned against the settee. The hippie continued to tantalize my cleft. This unanticipated eroticism caught me off guard. Before I knew it, he had nervelessly inserted his other hand into my pants to stroke my manhood. I tried to find my equilibrium when I heard footsteps entering the room. My lover and the Dutchman had returned in time to liberate me from this cache.

As rapidly as the hands had invaded my privacy, they disappeared, leaving me relived but disconcerted.

The two of them had returned for some beverages before continuing the exploration of the premise. Seizing the opportunity, I joined them for the remainder of this beguiling Art Nouveau tour. Oscar tacked along, leaving Lukas and Thor to their own devices.

Conversation with Oscar

I fell in step with Oscar when Hans and my Valet were intensely in discussion. I queried, “How did you and Alfonso got involved with the commune?”

My ex BB grinned, “Several of the residents are Alfonso’s school mates. We decided to give communal living a try while we were here. Do you like the place?”

I simpered sheepishly, “It’s an interesting experience. I don’t think it’s my kind of long-term living arrangement.”

He smiled mischievously. “We have something exciting planned for the both of you,” he iterated with a sly twinkle in his eyes.

“What have you planned?” I pressed.

“Ahh! You’ll have to wait. You are always so impatient, my little one,” he sniggered, “You’ll know soon enough. It’ll all be revealed when the time is ripe.”

I impelled, “Will Andy and I get to have some alone time with you?”

He smirked, “I’m afraid you’ll have to include my boyfriend, Alfonso, now that we are officially a couple.”

“It’s fine by me, but I can’t speak for Andy,” I declared before adding, “We’d like to see more of Barcelona while we are here.”

“You will, lad. I’m sure Lorenzo will loan you guys a car. Maybe we’ll join the two of you after Alfonso is done.”

Oscar’s beau was already waiting for us at the visitor’s lounge when we returned.

The women with the three male hippies remained in the city to run some errands when Oscar, Andy, Alfonso and I paid homage to the Spaniard’s parents. When we bid our temporary farewells to the group, Thor gave me a lingering, lascivious hug. His hand cupped my backside when no one was watching.

He whispered, “Nice!”

Free at Last

Alfonso’s parents couldn’t be any more pleasant. Their warmth welcomed us into their lavish villa. Antonia reminded me of my mother: she doted over Oscar, Andy and me as if we were her sons, making sure we were well fed and excellently nourished. She made us promise to take good care of ourselves before we drove away in Lorenzo’s red Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint. The elder Spaniard had generously handed Andy the keys to one of his assorted vehicles, parked gleamingly inside his expansive garage. Behind the wheels of the camper, my ex and his lover departed to Passeig de Gràcia to collect the rest of their hippie gang.

My chaperone and I were glad to have our freedom of movement again instead of relying on the art mobile to spirit us to and from Strawberry Fields Forever.

Chapter Four

Gloria In Excelsis Deo

“Laudamus te,

Benedicimus te,

Adormus te,

Glorificamus te.”

(“We praise you, we bless you, we adore you, we glorify you.”)

2014

Andy’s Email

My dearest Young,

How are you, kid? Thanks for the password to Turpitude. It brought smiles to my face when I saw the photos you posted with each chapter. We were so young. I barely recognize myself. I remember the hippie commune and a couple of key events from our week at this out-of-nowhere place.

To be honest, I was thrilled to spend a couple of nights at that charming Barcelona hotel (I can’t remember its name) after Lorenzo loaned us his car. As much as I love the beauty of Andorra, I’m not one for communal living. I prefer my privacy when on vacation.

As much as I enjoyed the company of the residents in the commune, I didn’t care for a couple of the guys, especially the Swede. He kept writhing into your pants the entire time. I loathed his arrogance and the way he lusted after you. I knew he was up to no good the first time we met.

The highlight of our holiday was the Vivaldi concert at the Basilica and Expiatory Church of the Holy Family. That afternoon, when you had a bout of your external detachment, I was in a state of panic. During those early years, I couldn’t understand your ‘out-of-body’ experiences. I wasn’t sure if you feigned your fainting spells or if you actually lost consciousness. The only thing I was sure of was that I needed to be there for you when you awoke. There were times I thought you would never wake, and I would never be able to forgive myself. That, Young, was how enamored I was with you. Boy oh boy, you were a handful. Need I say more…? ☺

Love,

Andy.

1967

The Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família

By the time Andy and I arrived at this impressive Basilica, it was already late afternoon. Although the exterior and parts of the interior of this Gaudi’s resplendence were under construction, there was already a long queue of concertgoers purchasing tickets to a Vivaldi chamber orchestra concert in the cathedral’s main sanctuary. Since I had never been to a chamber music concert, my Valet bought tickets for us.

The moment we set foot inside this majestic house of worship, I was spellbound by the breathtaking spirals that seemed to disappear into heaven. Every ornately decorated art nouveau-style column was intricately arched and curved. The towering stained-glass windows stretched up to the ceiling, attenuating my mortal humility. Biblical scenes were painstakingly etched onto these colorful glass mosaics. I knelt behind a pew to elocute a prayer of adoration to the almighty while Andy sat enthralled by this display of religious magnificence. He was appraising the impeccable artistry of this architectural wonder.

When Vivaldi’s musical resplendence began to surround the sacred sanctuary, deep within me, my mind swirled with visions of angelic splendor. Tears of irrepressible revelry flowed down my cheeks. I was filled with awe and bewilderment. When I opened my eyes, the winsome angels in the windows burst forth from their ambit. Artful drapes fell away from their sinewy torsos only for them to disingenuously conceal their human traits as they circled the opulent ceiling. I was obfuscated by such a hypnotic celestial display. Mesmerized by their otherworldly presence, I was filled with indescribable reverence. I stared at these celestial beings as their mighty wings glided toward me.

Before I knew what had transpired, Michael had enveloped me against his strapping chest, lifting me skywards. Gabriel held my wrist as I floated on air. I gazed down at the orchestra and chorus. Verses upon verses of enchanted melodies from Vivaldi’s Gloria traversed my ears, piercing the fiber of my soul, relinquishing my jealousy of Albert and Andy’s dalliance, which I had kept so zealously camouflaged behind my happy-go-lucky facade.

As the chorus reached the crescendo of “Domine Deus, Agnus Dei filius Patris, qui tollis pecatta mundi miserere nobis” (Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us) I lost equilibrium and tumbled to the ground. Just as I was about to hit the marble floor, a pair of sturdy arms scooped me up, lifting me once again. The moment I opened my eyes, a dizzying halo of light dazzled my vision. I heard a manly voice whisper in my head, “I am Adabiel. Call me Abdiel. I’m always here for you.”

I stirred to Andy’s beckoning voice as he cradled me back to reality. I gasped at my beloved, wondering why he was in such despondency. Tears of desolation trickled from his eyes. Several landed on my face.

My guardian was overjoyed to see me wake, he continued to rock me back and forth. For a brief moment, the lights above me blinded my sight. I was not sure if I was in the present. When I reopened my eyes, I found myself lying on a hospital bed. I was no longer kneeling in Gaudi’s monumental creation.

Andy held my hand as he solemnly declared, “You, young man – don’t you ever abscond on me like that!”

I did not understand a word he was uttering. I ogled at him, “Where did I abscond to?” I queried curiously.

“Do you not remember what happened when you toppled over and landed on the floor unconscious?”

“No,” I answered, puzzled.

He leaned across and laid his palm on my forehead. “You blacked out and hit your head on the edge of the pew. You were bleeding profusely. The paramedics came to your aid and toted you to the hospital. You were out till now,” my chaperon pronounced.

I responded pressingly, “Did I disrupt the concert?”

Andy looked at me as if I had gone bonkers. “Never mind whether you interrupted the concert. I was more concerned with your safety. Why did you faint?” he admonished.

I wasn’t sure if I should confide my angelic visions to my Valet. I kept silent for a while before I lied, “I must’ve been hungry and dehydrated. The last time I ate was the hors d’oeuvres at Seguros Iberia, and I had sipped some champagne…”

“That must have done you in. You know you are allergic to alcohol. Why do you do that to yourself?” Andy reprimanded.

“I was thirsty, and there wasn’t any water being served,” I muttered before closing my tired eyes.

El Palace Hotel

As soon as I was released from the hospital, Andy drove us to El Palace Hotel. In 1968, this historic building was truly a converted palace. As soon as we drove up to the porte-cochere, several pristinely dressed bell staff greeted us in Spanish, “Bienvenido a El Hotel Palace Barcelona, el Senior.”

The moment we entered the majestic lobby, we knew we would have an exceptional stay. Inaugurated in the year 1919, this grand dame was splendidly reminiscent of 1930s palaces where hospitality, luxury and service were of paramount importance.

Andy let out a sigh of relief as soon as we had closed the door to our private suite. He declared, “Thank goodness. Tonight we’ll have a good night’s sleep. No whimpering children or snoring adults to rattle us.”

I looked at my lover affectionately, thankful that we had found quiet after our restless nights at the commune. Before I had a chance to enunciate, my lover voiced, “Are you up for checking out the eateries in the neighbouring vicinity, or would you prefer to order room service?”

Always an adventurer, I assured my Valet I wanted to explore the locale, although my mind was still whirling like a windmill. Our forthcoming triplet relationship with Albert was secretly affecting my psychological and physiological insecurities. I knew I had to discuss my predicament with my lover but did not know how to broach the subject without sounding like a proprietorial bitch. I wanted to wait for the correct moment to disclose my quandary to my beloved Andy.

Els 4Gats (Four Cats)

It was the hotel concierge who recommended we explore the Gothic Quarter and to dine at Els 4Gats, or ‘Four Cats’.

“It is one of Barcelona’s most famous restaurants and was Picasso’s watering hole,” he had said.

We were ready to fill our rumbling stomachs as soon as we stepped out of El Palace Hotel. We were lucky that evening to obtain an intimate table without reservations at this historical eatery. I thought this was the perfect circumstance to have a candid discussion with my beloved as soon as we had ordered.

But before I could utter a word, the bubbly maître d’hôtel inquired in Spanish, “¿Dónde está guapo caballero de?” (Where are you handsome gentleman from?).

Andy and I, not understanding his question, shrugged our shoulders. He gave us a grin and reverted to English, “I am Sergio.” He extended his hand to shake ours. After formal pleasantries he iterated, “Are you from England?”

We nodded. Before my Valet could reply, the Spaniard chirped, “We have many customers from many places come here to experience our Catalan cuisine. Would you like me to give you a brief history of our establishment?” He did not give either of us a chance to refuse.

He continued, “The story starts in Paris at the end of the 19th century. The original owner, Pere Romeu, worked as an entertainments presenter and waiter in the cabaret Le Chat Noir. He was seduced by that environment and decided to create a similar restaurant in Barcelona. He and a couple of friends opened this venue. It was a tavern with reasonably priced food and elegant piano music to entertain his patrons.

“Thus Els Quatre Gats was created on June 12th 1897. This building was designed by the famous Catalan architect Puig i Cadafalch. Everyone who was anyone patronized this place when Pere Romeu presided over the social gatherings.”

Andy chimed politely, “We were told by our hotel concierge that Picasso frequented this place.”

Encouraged by this proclamation Sergio continued eloquently, “In 1899, when Picasso was 17, he started to come here. In fact, his first art exhibition was held in this very room,” he pointed at the cover of the menu before adding, “He made this poster, which we now use as the title page for our house menu.”

Instead of leaving my guardian and me alone, he rambled on, “Many famous musicians, like Isaac Albéniz, Enric Granados and Lluís Millet frequented our restaurant, not to mention famous architects such as Gaudí and Ricard Opisso. During those early years, many luminaries had retained tables at Els 4Gats.” This time, he directed our gaze to the adjacent walls, which were filled with framed pictures and photographs. “You can see their artwork hanging on the walls,” he remarked proudly.

“Look over there,” he pointed with aplomb to a Picasso, a Casas, an Opisso, a Nonell and a Rusiñol. “These gave inspiration to this place.” Hoping to divert the attention of the man, I asked courteously, “I’m quenched. Are our beverages arriving soon?”

Sergio brushed my request aside. He furthered, “If Señor Pere Romeu were alive today…” the maître d’hôtel gave a hearty laugh before resuming, “Unfortunately, the poor man died a pauper from Tuberculosis. He, being an idealist, did not have a head for business. The brewery closed in 1903.

“After his passing, this premise became the meeting place for the artistic circle of Sant Lluc until 1936, when three gastronomic entrepreneurs, Pere Moto, Ricard Alsina and Ana Verdaguer, reopened its doors a year ago. Since then, business has been thriving.”

Just when Sergio was finishing his account of this historical eatery, our food arrived. Andy and I were famished. Needless to say, I did not get a chance to conduct a private conversation with my beloved about the issue that had been unnerving me.

Barri Gòtic, Barcelona

We wandered around the nearby Gothic Quarter of old Barcelona after a hearty meal. I was relieved to be alone with my chaperone. As we strolled hand in hand in silence through the charming Ciutat Vella (Old City), I was blissfully reassured that my world had not changed after all, but my active imagination had orchestrated my disquietude. No dialogue between my lover and me was required. Love’s unspoken rhapsody had again enshrouded me within a cloak of dissimulation.

We meandered into a discreet calle (street), shielded by worn brick walls and framed by narrow archways. My lover leaned me against an antediluvian column and kissed me passionately. Transfixed by his dazzling greenish blues, I stirred to the closeness of his masculinity. Whiffs of his oxalated ruggedness bewitched my innocence, hypnotizing me like an intoxicating wand. Without uttering a single syllable, he rendered me into his virile web of wizardry. Tuned to my desires, my handsome Valet unbuttoned my dress shirt, pulling me to himself. His fervent kisses never left my delirious elation arousing my manhood to attention. Our rapturous urgencies only served to expedite my longing to savor his throbbing manliness. I unfastened his trousers as rapidly as he did mine.

Before I knew it, I was on my knees supplicating to my strapping maestro, desiring to satisfy the exigent bulbousness that held me captive. His aerated intensity filled my frenzied soul as I jostled my path towards his sexual liberation.

My lover’s vigorous libation poured into my receiving oral orifice just as my intrinsic offering gushed forth, flooding my chaperone’s athletic thigh with overflowing cogency.

Not sanctioning any residuum to waste, I mixed the remainder of his spewing life force with my adolescent splotch, before smearing the succulent mixture around his bobbing hardness. I suckled every drop down my euphoric countenance. My beloved held my head firmly against his groin. His thumping curvaceousness remained buried within my inner recess until I was fully satisfied with my fill. Only then did we embrace in a lingering French kiss. We were immensely in love.

By the time we sauntered back to El Palace at the wee hours of the morning, my scruples had dissipated, at least for the moment.

Chapter Five

Fight Club

“There are two powers in the world;

One is the sword, and the other is the pen.

There is a great competition and rivalry between the two.

There is a third power stronger than both;

That of two Alpha males competing for dominance.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

La Rambla de las Flores

Touring Barcelona was fascinating, especially with friends who were near and dear. Oscar and Alfonso joined us the last couple of days before we departed for Aubigny-sur-Nere to spend Christmas with Baron Pierre at Chateau Rouge.

The morning of that weekend, Alfonso, Oscar, Mary and Jewel came to collect us at our hotel, which was located a short distance away from La Rambla, a colorful street filled with interesting Catalan products. It also housed an extensive plant market known to the locals as La Rambla de las Flores, (the Rambla of the flowers).

During the 19th century, this was the only flower market in the old city. It was named after the Rambla de Sant Josep convent, located at the same location until the year 1839. Since then, this religious landmark had been transformed into the Boqueria Market. This wet market was filled with fresh produce and housed many aromatic cafes and patisseries, enticing shoppers to savor the abundance of homemade delicacies.

While the men in our group were salivating over their beverages and the women were shopping for fresh produce, I was drawn to the copious arrays of blooms, the succulent vegetables and the abundance of mouthwatering fruits. Lost in this tutti-frutti jungle, I was unaware of the stalker who had been trailing me since we entered the market. A hand reached for me as I inhaled the saccharine aroma of a large amaryllis.

Thor stood behind me with an alluring smile. ”I did not expect you here. Where you disappear last two days?” he enquired in broken English.

“We are staying at the El Palace Hotel,” I chirped excitedly.

“Where Andy?” he questioned.

I pointed to the café where I had left the men but was unable to locate the shop. ”Oh! He is somewhere in the market,” I replied, ”Are you here alone?”

His prurient eyes undressed me as he declared, “Pratnah shopping in market.”

“Will you like to join us at the café?” I queried without looking at him.

He held my arm and gave me a lubricious smile before gently guiding me towards the market’s exit. ”Where are we going?” I asked, puzzled.

Before I could question further, he had ushered me out onto the street. “Wait, I’ve to inform Andy where I’m going. Otherwise, he’ll be looking for me,” I voiced.

The Swede did not answer. He tugged my hand to follow. I resisted, but his muscular hands gripped me roughly. I yelled for him to stop. Passersby were staring at me. He paid no attention. He continued to drag me with him.

From the corner of my eyes, I saw Andy, Oscar, and Alfonso heading in our direction. Thor released me abruptly when he saw them. Not knowing what to make of the occurrence, I stood frozen. By the time my friends arrived, my abductor had expeditiously turned on his charismatic persona.

My chaperone questioned with concern in his voice, “Young, where did you disappear to? We were looking for you when I heard your shrieking. What happened?”

I stood speechless, not knowing how to respond. My kidnapper seized the opportunity to speak, ”I want show Young store.” He shrugged his shoulders to simulate ignorance to my sudden outcry.

Alfonso questioned in Spanish, ”“La tienda se puede mostrar a los jóvenes (What store were you showing Young)?”

“YO le estaba llevando a la tienda de chocolates en la misma calle que yo creo que él va a gustar (I was taking him to a chocolate store across the street I thought he’d like),” the hippie stated imperviously before adding, ”No tengo ni idea de por qué es tan reacio a venir conmigo a la tienda (I have no idea why he is so reluctant to come with me to the shop).”

Andy looked at me for an explanation. Since I did not wish to appear a wimp in front of my friends and didn’t understand Thor’s intention, I muttered coyly, ”I wasn’t sure where he was taking me and I wanted to tell you before leaving with him.”

Oscar mollified the awkward situation by asserting, ”I’ll find Mary and Jewel to inform them that we’ll be at the chocolatier across the street when they are ready to join us.” He ran towards La Rambla de las Flores to locate the women.

Andy gave a detesting glance to my abductor as we walked in silence towards Coco Chocolate. My guardian was obviously figuring out a civil way to confront the Viking about ever trying this again.

As soon as I entered this aromatic establishment, my perturbation dissipated. Rows upon rows of enticing chocolates drew me to the counter; my uneasiness had been replaced with gluttonous exuberance. Before I could utter a word, my chaperone vociferated, ”Don’t you go overboard with your order, I don’t want you throwing up on me like in Venice.”

Thor gave me a nefarious wink, as if to influence me to defy my Valet’s counsel and eat all I wanted. I gave my guardian a conceding nod. When his back was turned, my stalker pinched my backside. He lured me to defy Andy’s admonition by seducing me with a come-hither Cheshire cat grin. His provocative temptation did prove irresistible, especially when it came to artfully decorated chocolates. I ordered more than I could devour.

At Palau de la Música Catalana

Mary and Jewel suggested we watch a Flamenco performance after our scrumptious chocolate interlude. Since I had never been to a Flamenco performance, I seconded the idea. Off we trotted to Palau de la Música Catalana (Palace of Catalan Music), a stone’s throw from the flower market.

This concert hall, designed and built by the famous Spanish architect Lluis Domenech i Montaner, was inaugurated on February 9, 1908. It was specifically constructed to house the Orfeo Catala, a choral society founded in 1891 that was a leading force in the Renaixenca (Catalan Rebirth) cultural movement.

This project was primarily funded by the society’s wealthy industrialists and bourgeoisie contributors. In 1909, a prestigious architectural award was bestowed by the Barcelona City Council to this top-notch musical establishment. It was within this scrumptiously decorated concert hall I witnessed the spectacular Ballet Nacional de Espana, otherwise known as the Ballet Lirico Nacional, performing their bedazzling ‘Flamingoes’ flamenco dance spectacular.

The moment we arrived at this bewitching venue, I was wonderstruck at the decorative details encasing this 19th century architectural masterpiece. I couldn’t help but photograph the ornamental splendor of the Catalan art.

As soon as we entered the main auditorium, I was greeted by Antoni Rigalt’s large stained-glass inverted dome, illuminated entirely by daylight. Twinkles of blue glass sparkled amidst golden panels gave one the impression of sitting under the sun.

The wall decorations were masterpieces of creativity and imagination in and of themselves. Every facet within and without this spacious hall had been carefully considered.

This hall was not built as a theater or a church. The massive sculptures flanking the rostrum or the monumental pipe organ gracing the apse-like area above and behind the stage made the use of sets almost impossible.

Flanked in a semicircle on either side of the podium reared 18 female figurines, popularly known as the muses (although there are only nine muses in Greek mythology). It was Eusebi Arnau who sculpted their uniquely protruding upper torsos, while Lluís Bru created their colorful mosaic lower bodies as part of the wall. Each of the muses played a different musical instrument. These are regarded as the best sculptural works within this expansive concert hall.

A number of winged Pegasi enjoy a commanding position in the upper balcony. Sandwiched between Andy (on my right) and Thor (on my left), I was rattled and held spellbound by the visual overload.

‘Flamingoes’ Flamenco

The minute the guitarist strummed the first dizzying note on his contemporary viola de mano (a Spanish lute instrument from which the modern day guitar originated), I was already hypnotized by this Andalusian experience. I stared unblinkingly at the troupe of stunning women that had emerged on stage in the most lavish frilly dresses I’ve ever seen. Refined men in tight pleated pants and crisp white shirts, open to the navel, accompanied these exotic birds of paradise. My mind cascaded to their riveting footwork, and the claps and the captivating sounds of the castanets drew me into a hypnotic web of sensuality. There was nothing sloppy or amiss in this ensemble’s showmanship. They were the crème de la crème of flamenco.

I sat transfixed by such artistry, when a hand from my left made its way under my buttocks. I did not move from such daring conspicuousness, especially when the hall was filled with engrossed spectators. I sat beguiled, staring at the performers as they narrated their erotic love stories through a series of exotic gesticulations. Simultaneously, the hand was also challenging my riposte, testing the inner tumult that I had so skillfully concealed from my chaperone, whose hand now lay affectionately on my lap. Like the turmoil echoing inside the terpsichoreans’ minds, I was equally seduced by the interlocking turbulence playing out at my anterior and posterior. The stage served only to heighten the lustful fervency that until now I had so cleverly coveted through my imprisoned external masquerade.

This divine collection of passionate assemblage was rendering me helpless. On the one hand, I needed Andy’s guiding assurance that no harm would befall me. On the other, I yearned to explore the web of uncharted precariousness: that which the Viking was temptingly weaving to trap me in like a spider. As the dancers reached their impassioned crescendo, so did my lover’s grip on my upper thigh and the ardent palm clutching my erogenous derriere. Both these persuasive ribaldries combined with the onstage tempestuousness aroused my libido to unbridled erection. My manhood was straining for adjustment, yet I remained motionless, imploring for this misadventure to subside. I sat immobile, afraid that my secret would be discovered. The further I petitioned, the stiffer my hardness grew. I had little choice but to excuse myself to the men’s room.

In the Fight Club

There was nobody in the lavatory, so I left the toilet door ajar. The rugged arm of a brawny man clasped my slender waist when I was adjusting my organ. He wasted no time to swivel me around to cup my mouth from hollering. I struggled to free myself from his hurtful grip, but his bullishness had pinned me onto the dividing wall. I stared into my captor’s menacing eyes as he pulled out a gag to secure it across my mouth. I was grappling with the very same man that had not so long ago tried to abduct me. I booted my knee against his crotch, sending him screeching onto the tiled floor. He cupped his scrotum in pain.

Before I could decide on my next move, a punch landed on the Viking’s jaw, sending him rolling on the floor. To my amazement, Andy was kicking my captor’s midriff fiercely, making the hippie double over. My guardian rushed over to me to see if I was hurt. Without warning, Thor drove himself like a charging Toro toward my toreador (bull fighter), knocking my Valet onto the toilet seat. My captor caught hold of me and dragged me to the exit. The next few moments were a blur. The two men were wrestling on the ground when I came around.

To my astonishment, the washroom door flew open and in came Alfonso and Oscar. The Spaniard pulled Thor from under my Valet, pushing the bull out of the room while Oscar held my toreador at bay in case he lunged at the hippie again. My savior cursed at the Viking. Judging from the Swedish Toro’s intonation, he too was swearing and waving his fist at my champion when Alfonso led him out of the concert hall.

By the time Oscar, Andy and I returned to our respective seats, we had cleaned up sufficiently to not alarm the women. They didn’t suspect anything had gone askew during our absence, though I was positive that they had their suppositions when the Swede and the Spaniard never reappeared. When asked, we told them that Alfonso had to drive Thor back to the commune because of his excessive drug and alcohol consumption.

Thanks to the professional tapping of heels, snapping of castanets, clapping of hands and strumming of guitars, the exuberant presentation had drowned out the ruckus in the men’s room. My ex-BB and I were glad that my guardian had suffered only minor bruises, unlike the bull, who ended up with a black eye and bruises on his torso, not to mention the endowment that I had so artfully hoofed.

This dance performance was indeed a breathtaking piece of precision and passion, a presentation of a lifetime. This Catalonian high-energy experience not only showcased the grace of Flamenco but also the art of Corridas de toros Españolas (Spanish bull fighting) at its best.

Chapter Six

What Happened By the Lake?

“He was a swindler and subsequently a conniving brute.”

Andy Frankenstein

1967

Farewell Soiree

On the final evening of our vacation, Andy was reluctant to return to Strawberry Fields Forever for a communal dinner. Under Mary and Jewel’s levelheaded persuasions, we agreed to return to Andorra only when Alfonso promised my chaperone that the Viking and Pratnah would not be at the farm that evening.

Both of the children had gone off to stay with their respective grandparents or relatives, leaving the adults to their bacchanalian revelry. After a scrumptious dinner, several lodgers strummed folk songs on their respective musical instruments. They had stationed themselves in various sections of the two-story farmhouse. Others were puttering and dancing around to the latest pop music being played on the gramophone. Recreational drugs were consumed and cigarettes were puffed, as was the norm among the communal residents. Since Andy and I were not into these pastimes, we wandered around the various cliques to espy their eurythmic merriment. Andy had a couple glasses of wine and I didn’t drink, and although we danced intimately, we weren’t “zoned,” like the others.

Still, as we danced, we were exhilarated. We didn’t feel like our wonted selves.

Before long, the groups were in varied stages of heated passion. Andy blathered nonsensically and appeared inebriated. He zonked onto an empty sofa before a couple of women straddled his lap.

Under the stifling sultriness, I felt nauseated and desperately needed fresh air. I was seeing doubles. I left the house and stumbled to the edge of the lake for peace and equilibrium. To my surprise, I heard sounds of snorting animals. I turned – a few yards from me stood what looked like two centaurs. Their upper torsos were that of two sinewy men yet their lower bodies were that of horses. Their aquiline noses brushed against each other as if they were delving into a passionate kiss. Upon closer observation, I was astonished to see their colossal wings fanning out of their massive bodies. I lay motionless, transfixed by this extraordinary sight. I was unsure if hallucination had befallen me or if the scenario was truly happening.

Suddenly, a pair of Herculean arms grabbed my throat, choking me. I struggled for breath. During the commotion that followed, I was forcefully dragged into the woods. This man-bull tore at my clothes, ripping them to shreds. He tugged at me to follow as I kicked and screamed for help. No one in the quiet forest heard. In a state of panic, I bit his arm, which provoked him further. A slap landed on my face. In the semi darkness, I recognized the beast. He was the Viking, the man who Alfonso swore would not be present. Yet there he was, his minacious claws threatening to rip me to shreds if I did not obey his desires. I knew if no divine intervention came to my rescue I would be raped and murdered by this beast.

This hefty semi-human horse threw me onto the dirt floor. His aroused phallus curved skywards like a dangerous weapon, at the ready to assault his victim. I felt like a ton of bricks had hit my pounding head. I squeezed my eyes shut, snatched a handful of dirt and threw it at my abductor just as he was about to pounce on me. I heard a thunderous roar. I had temporarily blinded him.

In a moment of lucidity, I sprang onto my feet and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. Throwing me off balance, his lusty hand grabbed my ankles. I landed on my face, scraping my knees in the process. The varmint pulled me towards his engorged organ, forcing my mouth onto his groin. Refusing to surrender to his onslaught I tightened my jaw. “Whack!” a powerful slap landed on my cheek sending me convulsing across the shrubberies. Twinkling stars and circling moons were spinning around my head. The monster clutched my chin and spat into my gaping mouth before plunging his bulbousness down my throat. Another blow landed on my face when I resisted, sending me tumbling to the floor. Straddling atop, he pulled my head onto his organ. I shut my eyes tightly, praying that this calamity was all but a nightmare.

Just as he was about to impale me onto his oozing supremacy, I heard the angry screeching of horses. Two flying centaurs had raised their front legs, hoofing at my abductor. Their colossal wings flapped fiercely to balance their towering torsos. They had come to my rescue. Their ferocious walloping had freed me from my snatcher. I puked uncontrollably, too stupefied to witness the onset of the battle between the hulking semi-human monster and my rescuers. His mighty claws wrenched at the flying centaurs, missing them by inches. In retaliation, they hoofed at the beast as if tackling a fireball, sending the bull-man tumbling into the lake. One of my winged rescuers dashed into the splashing water, pinning its head into the chilling aqua until surrender.

By now, my head had spun out of control. My barfing also did little to reduce the aching soreness over my entire physique, yet from my blurred vision, I spotted Adabiel’s outstretched hands heralding me to him. My guardian angel had again manifested to protect me. I collapsed onto the ground and slipped into unconsciousness.

2014

Andy’s Email

My dear fella, your descriptive writing never fails to remind me of our adventures and misadventures. I’ve no regrets in teaching the ‘Viking’ not to mess with you.

I couldn’t recall what transpired during our last evening at the commune, but I’m positive recreational drugs were added to the gustatory meal we consumed.

That night’s hallucinatory experience jaunted me into believing that it was you who was straddled atop me instead of that witch of a woman, Pratnah. I thought I’d kept that hippie at bay. This is how I remembered our final evening in Barcelona…

Andy’s account:

…I had no intention of revisiting Strawberry Fields Forever after that Palau de la Música Catalana lavatory incident with Thor, but the four of you (Mary, Jewel, Oscar and you) insisted we spend our last evening dining at the commune. I relented because Alfonso gave me his solemn promise that Thor would not be at the soiree. Little did I suspect that there was more to that evening than a gratifying gesture to send us on our Christmas sojourn to France.

Did I mention to you that whenever your back was turned, Pratnah would harass me continuously? She used every stratagem she could think of to lure me into having intercourse with her. Although I politely declined her invitation, she would entrap me whenever she got the chance.

On one instance, she asked me to help her feed the farm animals in the barn. Before I knew it, she had stripped naked and pulled me onto a pile of hay. I told her sternly that I wasn’t into women, but she insisted that once I had her, my homosexual preference would dissipate and I would turn heterosexual.

Before I could tell her that that would never happen, she started to tear at my pants. I pleaded for her to stop, but she ignored my appeals. I pushed her onto the hay and walked away. Instead of allowing me to leave, she lunged at me. I was seething with anger, but I did not scuffle with her. I had difficulty untangling myself from her grip.

When I finally managed to free myself, she came at me again. This time around, she provoked me verbally; saying that I wasn’t man enough to challenge her. I knew she would accuse me of harassment. She was up to no good. I disappeared into the main house as quickly as I could.

Later that day, she apologized. She acted genuinely sorry, so I accepted her apology. That was a scheme to lure us into her and Thor’s sexual web. They went out of their way to entice us back to the commune so they could carry out their contrivance.

As you were well aware, I was relieved to check into the city’s hotel and escape the weirdoes in the commune. I regretted having to put you in harm’s way.

There were bruises all over your body when I woke up the next morning. I was devastated to see you in distress. You told me you were hallucinating, but what actually happened by the lake? You never did tell me. Maybe now is the time to reveal all? I’m all ears.

Andy.

1967

The Morning After

I woke up late the following morning with a splitting headache and a dry mouth. It took me a while to regain my bearing. Although we’d spend the night at the farmhouse, I was glad to be in bed next to my lover. Andy was out like a light when I took a shower. The warm splashing water on my head and aching body felt wonderfully invigorating. I tried to remember what had transpired the evening before, but no answer came to mind until I went downstairs for breakfast. Lukas was the only person in the kitchen.

He asked, “How are you feeling, Young? Are you okay?”

“Not too good. I had a rough night,” I replied.

The Belgian gave me a concerned look before he continued, “Come out to the garden and we’ll have a chat.”

I followed him out to the garden. As soon as we were comfortably seated, he stared at me without uttering a word. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.

He began, “Do you remember what happened last evening by the lake?”

“All I remember are delusions of mythical creatures fighting a battle…” I remarked.

A devious grin appeared on his attractive face. “Do you know why you had these delusions?” he questioned.

I shrugged my shoulder. “I didn’t feel well. It must have been something I ate,” I replied.

Before I could finish my speaking, Lukas declared indifferently, “LSD was added to the brownies you had last evening.”

This time around, I stared at him with eyes wide open, “What! You’re telling me that Andy and I were drugged without our consent?” I exclaimed.

He nodded. “No wonder I was sick and had weird hallucinations,” I cried peevishly, “Why didn’t you tell us before now?”

He looked as if he had committed treason. He did not answer. I reckoned he knew more than he let on. I spoke: “All I remember before the strange visions took hold was that I left the house for a breath of fresh air. Tell me what transpired thereafter?”

He puffed on his cigarette before responding, “Hans and I were smoking by the lake when we heard you shrieking for help. We didn’t know you were alone by the lake. We followed the sound and stumbled upon you and Thor. He was trawling you into the woods. He was drunk and stoned. You, on the other hand, looked as if you had seen a ghost…”

Before he could resume, I blazoned, “You and Hans must have been the winged Centaurs in my mirage. Were you hoofing at the Viking?”

“I think you were hallucinating, boy. We didn’t want to see you hurt by the rogue, so we got into a fight,” he stated. All of a sudden, he changed the subject. He commented, “I’ve no idea what Pratnah sees in him? Be careful of those two; they are up to no good. They’re always scheming and conniving on something or someone.”

I chirped, “It was you and Hans that rescued me?”

“It was Oscar that saved your sassy ass from being violated by that brute,” the Belgian grinned sardonically.

“How did Oscar appear?” I queried curiously.

“He was looking for you and Andy. Instead, he saw us scrapping the skunk…” he looked supercilious. “If I were you, I’d go thank your saviors for delivering you from that asshole.”

As I got up to return the tray to the kitchen, he added, “Hey, lad, I’ll be claiming my reward soon.” He gave me a come-hither wink and smiled wickedly.

Chapter Seven

The Prophesies

“With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you, which will always be.”

Sylvia Plath

1967

At Chateau Rouge

By the time Baron Pierre’s chauffeur collected Andy and me at the Aubigny-sur-Nere train station, we were exhausted after hours of travelling from Barcelona. We’d thought it would be a fun experience to travel cross-country by rail so we could see the changing scenery en route. It was the late afternoon of December 23rd 1967 when we arrived at Chateau Rouge.

After a refreshing shower, we proceeded downstairs to join the baron’s guests, who had arrived for the evening’s pre-Christmas festivities. Among the numerous guests were Anastasie, Bryanna, Prince P, Sheik Fahrib, Marquis Mathieu and his wife, Marquise Angélique, Monsieur Dubois (my Quwah private tutor), Monsieur Ludovic, Graf Felix and Sébastien (the baron’s boyfriend).

Andy and I were introduced to a certain Duke Randolph, whose aristocratic roots stemmed back to the thirteenth-century King Stephen of Hungary and his Polish wife, the Duchess Isabella, a descendant of Princess Yolanda of Poland. Their titled forbears had fled their respective Republics and made France their adopted home.

During the formal dinner, I was seated next to the flamboyantly dressed Duchess and Monsieur Dubois. Andy sat across the table from me. This sophisticated soiree was a welcome change from our vacation in Spain. My Valet was especially elated to be back in cultivated company. Although he did not reveal his displeasure with the hippie commune, I discerned a sigh of relief the moment we set foot on the train’s first-class compartment. He was his usual cheerful self once again. During our journey, he was particularly attentive to me. Maybe he felt guilty about our final evening at Strawberry Fields Forever. One thing I knew for sure: when our dinner conversation turned to the topic of the occult, my chaperone expressed rapturously, “Young has made known to me that he’s seen visions of angels during moments of transcendent peerlessness.” He turned to me for affirmation.

The Medium

It took me a moment before I mustered the courage to speak. I muttered, “Well, err… I’ve encountered angels during times of euphoria…”

Before I could continue, the Duchess announced, “I’m a medium.” Turning her gaze to me, she said, “The moment I was introduced to this young man, I had a premonition that he is of celestial ascendancy.”

I stared at her in astonishment, not knowing how to respond to her proclamation. She added, “Would you like me to do a reading?”

Suddenly, all eyes turned to me, waiting for my reply. My guardian, noticing my discomfort, spoke on my behalf. “I’m sure Young would love to have a session with you, Duchess. I, for one, am interested in what his future holds.”

“Unfortunately, Andy, my deliberation with the lad is private. There may be matters not suited for the public ear…” she said and paused, “…unless Young agrees to your presence?” The Medium gazed at me for my riposte.

As much I enjoy my lover’s countenance, I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to know about the visions I’d had of our impending separation. I was left speechless again. Monsieur Dubois came to my rescue: “You are right, Duchess, the session you have with Young should be private. I don’t believe any of us have the prerogative to intrude on such a personal conversation.”

“That is a prudent evaluation, monsieur,” Isabella smiled. “Young man, shall we meet at the recreational den after the Chamber music performance?” she proposed.

I glanced at my chaperone as the dinner conversation converged to other topics. I detected, for a fleeting moment, the sense of despondency that washed over my lover’s usual light-hearted demeanor. I was disheartened for not agreeing to permit my Valet at the meeting with the clairvoyant. I had a presentiment that the Duchess’s predictions may not be as rosy as I would like my future to be. My previous out-of-body experiences had forewarned me of our heart wrenching separation. I did not wish my lover to witness life without me sooner than necessary. Throughout dinner, foreboding fell over me.

Soirée Musicales

As soon as the quartet started playing Beethoven’s melodious Sonata No. 5 in F major, Op. 24 “Spring,” I was at once overwhelmed by reverence and trepidation. The musical sublimely transported me to an otherworldly realm. The mellifluous music piercing through the depths of my inner soul. Yet within this heavenly invocation, tearful consternation wrapped my joyful heart, hurtling me into an abyss of melancholy. Rivers of tears trickled down my youthful cheeks. I had no control over this sudden emotional outpour. I wiped the wetness with the back of my hand.

Monsieur Dubois, seeing my dysphoria, handed me his handkerchief. Although I was grateful for his considerate gesture, I continued to weep. By the time Camille Saint-Saens’s “Danse Macabre” (Op. 40) finished, I had excused myself from the library. I had to confront my disquietude alone, away from the reverberating pensiveness that had startlingly resonated within the confines of this historical chateau.

Within the silent conservatory I sat, pondering my future. Unexpectedly, a voice spoke from behind. “Young man, why are you brooding? You look so unhappy.”

I turned to find a dignified gentleman staring at me. He added, “I am Christian, from Luxembourg. I don’t think we’ve met…” He extended his hand to shake mine. “You are?” he catechized.

“I am Young,” I stammered as I shook his hand before adding, “I’m fine, sir. I needed a breath of fresh air… and some solitude.” I paused before saying, “The precipitous music induced some thoughts about my life.”

“Your life?” he exclaimed. “What could you possibly be ruminating about? Your life has barely begun.”

His gaze never left as he sat down next to me. A thought suddenly flashed through my mind, “If he only knew the experiences I’d been through within the last 15 months, he would have retracted his statement…”

Just as I was about to speak, he inquired, “How do you know Pierre?”

“We met beneath the Eiffel Tower,” I replied.

He remarked, “I’ve met some of Pierre’s boys at various soirees over the years. He has a way with young lads like you.” He obviously thought I was one of the baron’s many conquests.

I commented, “Andy and I were introduced to the baron by his ex-school friend, Edouard. Do you know Edouard?”

An incredulous look flashed across his face before he commented, “I’m a friend of Edouard. We attended school together as teenagers.” He paused for a moment before stating, “You are the first of Pierre’s young friends I’ve met who is not his protégé.”

I do not know what came over me. I asked, “Are you married?”

He thought my question amusing. He did not answer. I continued probing after a brief silence, “Is she in the library?”

He let out a hearty laugh before propounding, “Are you into married men?”

I was startled by his assertion. I thought for a moment before answering, “I like men who are more mature than me.”

He burst into an appealing laughter that made me chuckle at my own declaration.

“Do I fit the bill?” he queried smilingly.

I wasn’t sure if he meant what he’d said or whether he was playfully toying with me, yet I found his witticism provocative.

I did not answer. The only noise within the silent glass menagerie was the droning sound of cascading water from a nearby fountain. I finally found something to say: “Would you like to fit the bill?”

He was flustered by my tongue-in-cheek response. It took him a while to answer. He looked directly into my eyes when he spoke, “You are one facetious adolescent. Who taught you to flirt?”

His lips were locked on mine before I could counter. His alluring tongue pried open my lips to receive his virility. Goosebumps formed under my formal attire. I’d not expected the debonair to be so forward, yet I vaunted under his captivating masculinity. He held me tightly as if I would disintegrate. I felt protected in his arms, as I did in Andy’s.

Suddenly, a hawking sound resonated in the quiet conservatory. As if we’d been caught in the act, we broke away instantly. I could not make out the figure standing by the doorway within the shadowy darkness. The intruder sauntered our direction. Only then did I recognize him as none other than my Valet, my chaperone and my lover, Andy.

Christian seemed unsure as to what would follow when my guardian extended his hand to shake the Luxembourgian’s perspiring palm.

Andy queried politely, “I’m sorry to intrude upon the both of you. I did not mean to alarm you. I’m checking on my charge to make sure he’s alright. This lad has a knack for disappearing on me every so often.”

Before my chaperone could continue, the Lëtzebuerger chirped, “He was weeping at the recital. I came to see if I could be of assistance.”

Not intending to appear fazed, I announced courteously, “I needed some alone time before meeting Duchess Isabella.” I paused before resuming, “The sonatas touched me deeply. Not knowing the reason behind my melancholy, I wept. Thank you for coming to check on me, Andy.”

I took the opportunity to change the subject, “Is the recital over?” I queried.

“Yes, the quartet finished their recital a few minutes ago. Perhaps we should join the assemblage at the library to congratulate the musicians. Shall we?” Andy opined.

My guardian extended his hand to guide Christian and me back. As I walked pass my lover, he gave me a willful wink. I knew my confession would be obligatory when we were alone in our bedchamber later that evening.

The Prophesy

No sooner had the eccentric Duchess Isabella and I gotten situated at an intimate round table than did the haute couture-clad lady asked, “Young man, where are you from?”

I replied nervously, “I was born in Malaya.”

The occultist questioned, “Date and time of your birth?”

I gave her the specifics. She then requested for me to show her my hands. She held my hand to hers, and instantly, I detected quivering in her physique. With closed eyes, Isabella ran her fingers over my palms. When she finally broke the silence, her words reverberated as if coming from a different person.

“There is a glowing pinkish aura around you. This is your uniqueness and your asset. This radiance is an unimpeachable attribute, yours and yours alone.” She paused before resuming, “This refulgence could also be a hindrance.”

“How so?” I questioned curiously.

“Your childlike exuberance will enthrall objectionable characters into your life. They will hanker to ravage your trustworthiness because they are envious of your rectitude. Their personal frailty will spawn hatred toward those who are of the light,” she said. “You’re attracted to them because of your propitiousness. Your munificence wants to help them back into the light.

“My advice to you, Young, is to stay clear of these disreputable characters. They will drain you of your emotional and physiological equilibrium,” the Medium counseled.

As she continued speaking, my mind steered me back to my fatal attraction to bad boy Miyaz and to my recent encounter with the barbaric Viking. The Duchess was foreseeing a behavioral pattern that would eventually lead me to numerous failed relationships throughout my adult life.

As I was wrapped in my thoughts, she began again. “Your delicate hands impart an abundance of knowledge, intelligence, inquisitiveness, sagacity, dexterity, creativity – not to mention competence and versatility. Last but not least, these delicate hands reveal multifariousness in a great variety of artistic expressions.”

The further she envisaged my future, the more impressed I was of her psychic abilities. She saw my enrollment in one of London’s most prestigious art schools as well as my successes in my fashion career.

Suddenly, the occultist shook her head. She shut her eyes tightly in consternation, just as I was engrossed in her predictions. I could discern from her body language that she was thinking about whether to divulge an unpleasant piece of information.

I pressed for her to reveal the truth with honesty and pledged that I could handle the information maturely. Although I had a presage of what she was to disclose, I needed to hear her version of my impending separation with Andy – the very same prophesy that I had received from the American Indian tribal shaman, Opai, from the mythical Spider Woman, and last but not least, from the Quwah household kaneeth, Ikram. As much as I knew I had the capability to transform my future and to reverse the outcome, I also acknowledged that this calamitous situation could happen, depending on Andy’s and my final decisions.

Toward the end of that splendid evening, I did not have the audacity to unveil this prognostication to my chaperone. Although I confided all that transpired with the Duchess, I left out the presage of our impending severance, and as an adult, I came to regret it.

Chapter Eight

An Unexpected Expediency

“Love is like playing the piano. First you must learn to play by the rules, then you must forget the rules and play from your heart.”

Andy Finckenstein

2014

Andy’s Message

Hello, Young, here I am again. I remember the winter of 1967 at Chateau Rouge. I searched the entire castle to find you that morning. Time and again, you have the knack for disappearing on me, you scalawag. ☺

You have a flair for vanishing without informing anyone. I’d thought you were in the drawing room with the baron’s guest when I was privately consulting with the Duchess.

The one thing I regret not doing: we never got around to discussing my own conversation with the Medium. Maybe this is the appropriate time for me to tell you — and for you to tell me what happened that morning when you disappeared on me.

Downhearted from my meeting, I went looking for you. She had envisioned a forthcoming discord in my life, yet could not be specific about its nature. Although you’d given me your amiable assurance, I could detect reservations in your voice whenever I spoke of Albert. When you disappeared, my first thought was of your jealousy of Albert.

When I finally found someone – a stable boy – who could tell me that you had gone riding alone, I became terribly worried for your safety and went searching for you.

Concerned that I had somehow driven you away, I rode the estate, but you were nowhere to be found. It had crossed my mind to warrant a search party to find you when you strolled through the entrance, invigorated. I was relieved to see you and never got a chance to ask where you had gone.

Young, you know I loved you then, and I love you now. In my mind, you are still the mischievous little rascal I came to love and cherish…

1967

On Horseback

Andy was nowhere in sight when I left the company of the baron’s guests at the Drawing Room. A sudden sense of dubiousness overcame my person. I needed solitude to think things over. What sort of things, I have no idea now. I needed to disappear into the snow-covered outdoors for a while before the ardent Christmas Eve festivities began.

As Jeoffrio (divine peace) galloped through the tranquil landscape, away from the sultry chateau, my spirit delighted in the chilling winds rushing across my face. This rush of adrenaline released the melancholy that had been tossing within my mind since my arrival at the baron’s residence. Jumping over icicle fences and powdery shrubberies, Jeoffrio and I dashed across the snowy fields. Since entering E.R.O.S., I had seldom felt this kind of freedom. The gushing wind had dissipated my pent-up jealousies of Albert and my distress over the impending break-up foretold by the various soothsayers. My human existence seemed not to touch the oneness of my spirit. It was as if I was riding Pegasus through the Northern gust as Zephyrus lifted me higher and higher into the weightless air. We charged ahead until breathlessness returned us to a careening canter. Only then did we slow to a puffing trot as we searched the wintery landscape for a resting place for our tired feet.

The Hunting Lodge

I had ridden past this rustic outpost before. Jeoffrio came to a complete stop. Chilliness had returned with a vengeance as I led my companion to an adjoining shelter. An inviting fire was burning brightly within the cozy space when I peeked into the Lodge’s frosty window. No one answered my knock on the wooden door. It creaked open when I turned the knob. I called, “Is anyone in?” I heard no answer. I ventured into the empty cottage. As I sat by the warmth of the fireplace, I began to daydream about my life since my enrollment at Daltonbury Hall. For the past two years, I had grown by leaps and bounds, not just in stature and intellect but also in sagacity. I felt grateful to the mentors and guardians who had nurtured and assisted me throughout my young life, especially my conscientious Uncle James, who had advised me. He’d said, “Young, I know you don’t see eye to eye with your father, but I hope one day you will come to appreciate the things he has done for you. He loves you, even though you think he doesn’t understand or accept your homosexuality. He is doing his best to be a good father. It is difficult for men our generation to understand our children. Generation gaps often exist between the old and the young. My advice to you, Young; be the first to reach out to him. He’ll appreciate your effort even though he doesn’t admit it publicly. The more he comes to understand you for being you, he’ll eventually accept your alternative lifestyle. It’ll take time for him to come to terms with your life choices, but when he sees how far you’ve come toward being a man of your own, he will change his mind.” My surrogate father’s words rang loud and clear within the confines of this modest cabin.

The Lodgers

Engrossed in thoughts, I did not hear the two figures that had slipped quietly into the room. Hands covered my eyes. I panicked as fear from my previous assault flashed through the darkness. Instantly, I recognized the two giggling voices. One was that of Ludovic Makmud Albriem, the openly gay Muslim, and the other was the unmistakable Graf Felix, who I knew instantaneously from the scent he wore. I had not forgotten our gratifying three-way liaison by the brook during la chasse à courre. He was the aristocrat who had collaborated with Andy to blindfold me, tie me to a tree and have his way with me. His masculinity intoxicated me then as now.

Without warning, he suddenly delved his tongue into my mouth, prying me open to explore my oral cavity. He lapped and caressed my hollow as if he had already penetrated his hardness into my cavernous anal orifice. I stared into his electrifying blue eyes as we French kissed. This unexpected eroticism had stirred my boyhood to immediate attention. It strained for release.

Ludovic wasted no time in unbuttoning my jeans. Before I could glance at what the Arab was up to, a warm, luscious sensation had engulfed my stiffness. This heavenly excitement sent my pelvis heaving skywards to receive more of his oral stimulation. The Muslim cupped my firm buttocks with his hands as he suckled my shaft with undivided attention.

My pants and boots now lay discarded by the rug. The men undressed urgently while Felix continued to jab his invading tongue down my longing throat. Our salivating copiousness leaked onto my beardless chin while dribbles coated the Russian’s bearded neck. The Arab wasted no time in lapping up the driveling remains before joining us in a three-way kiss. We were like canines in heat, probing, lapping and delving into each other’s orifices. This sensual intensity made us throb with unrestrained exhilaration. Ludovic reached down to stroke our stiffness, milking our bobbing succulence to our gyrating synchronicity.

The Graf wasted no time lifting my legs onto his shoulders while the gay Muslim straddled my torso, feeding me his bulbousness (our recent oral fixations had left me pining for more). Felix’s engorgement felt enticingly pleasurable as his gilded carnality glided effortlessly into the depths of my slobbering hollow. The Graf’s masterly manliness took turns to plow ferociously into my person before dispatching his intravenous vivaciousness into Ludovic’s pining orifice and vice versa. The Russian drove into us – we relished his assertive fornication with unbridled gusto.

The Arab was obviously captivated by this man, whose sexual prowess was the perfect exemplification of the male specimen. His domineering thrusts catapulted Ludovic and me further and deeper towards our distinctive orgasmic exaltations. His emphatic masculinity triggered delirium as he plunged forcefully into my core. My libation barreled unceasingly onto the gay Muslim’s chest and my already contorted physique. The Russian stayed buried within my furrow until my twitching contractions relaxed sufficiently; only then did he coat his pulsating manhood with my deposits before shoving it inside his amorous lover, conquering his concupiscent fissure with renewed fervor. Felix rode his Arabian with savage felicity. His muscular arms clenched mightily around his abettor’s hairy chest as if to herald himself the winner of this forbidden wrestling tournament. When it came time to claim his reward, his trophy would be his lover’s unequivocal allegiance.

Suddenly, his conquering might burst forth, pronouncing his victory over his paramour. Gushes of molten fluid filled his prized possession to capacity. The champion vociferated his final call of the wilderness before slumping his heaving torso against his heroic consort. The Arab blasted jets of galvanizing ordinance onto my hair, face and belly as his conqueror’s belligerence slid out of his oozing cavern.

The two of them wasted no time in savoring the remains of our deposits from my body before returning once again to the rapturous oral coitus that had sealed our sexual union earlier that morning.

Before Jeoffrio flew my spirited self back to the chateau, I had the opportunity to speak with the cottage lodgers. The Arab and the Russian had become lovers after Andy and I left for our services at the Quwah. Pierre had taken a liking to the good-looking men and allowed them to reside at the hunting lodge, and Felix had obligingly provided free piano recitals at the chateau’s soirees in exchange for the baron’s hospitality. For his part, Ludovic had assumed the role of being Pierre’s social secretary, organizing the Frenchman’s social schedules.

That morning when I entered the cabin, the lovers had been out collecting firewood. They had been as surprised to find me as I was them.

2014

Continuation of Andy’s Message

…You little scoundrel, you had once again eluded my warning not to leave my side. I would have spanked you for disobedience if I knew then what you did in my absence. ☺

You, naughty fella, would probably be besotted with my punishment instead of reaping it as atonement for your defiance. You were indeed a cheeky, mischievous young man.

Chapter Nine

At The Red Ball

“Jealousy would be far less torturous if we understood that love is a passion entirely unrelated to our merits.”

Paul Eldridge

1967

The Red Ball

As soon as I stepped into the chateau, Andy ushered me into our boudoir to get ready for the evening’s Red Ball. It was a prerequisite for the men to dress in black or white tie while the womenfolk arrived in an array of festive reds. They resembled a gaggle of schmoozing cardinals, flitting and chirping about who was sleeping with whom or whose massive fortune was close to biting the dust.

On the contrary, the men seized this networking opportunity to further their business concerns. Since the majority of invitees were internationally affluent entrepreneurs or wealthy aristocrats, they could produce or reduce an individual or company with their financial resources and societal connections.

As with any fashionable soiree, the lifestyles of the rich and elite were encapsulated within the confines of this scrumptious affair. The festive decorations, the elegant floral arrangements, the gourmet cuisine and the finest selections of epicurean wines and quality liquors were exquisitely collocated. No detail was left to chance.

The Pandemonium

Andy and I, well educated in the art of causerie, mingled with the baron’s guests with ease and grace. Suddenly, a ruckus disturbed the chateau’s foyer. As the astonished attendees froze in the midst of their light-hearted conversations, Christian of Luxembourg’s girlfriend, Anna, cursed and swore at her attractive beau. With her flimsy haute couture Valentino trailing behind, she careened into the snowy landscape. A shirtless and shoeless Christian ran hastily down the grand staircase, pursuing the fuming female and desperately adjusting his unruly appearance in the face of calamity. He had been caught red-handed in an act of sexual infidelity. All eyes were glued to this hypnotic scenario – except mine. I chanced upon a familiar silhouette hovering above the stairs. He, too, was hurriedly adjusting his formal ensemble. Our eyes met for a brief second before he disappeared from view. To me, he was obviously the reason for the upheaval. I couldn’t help but grin to myself at this unfortunate event; I had seen this played out all too often, starting in my own childhood home. Just then, my chaperone noticed my impish smirk.

“What is it you know that I don’t?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” I fibbed.

A look of disbelief crossed his brow as he reluctantly accepted my declaration before returning to observing the unfolding drama. I seized the moment to disappear unnoticed. Little did I realize that my Valet was secretly tracking my every move. He was curious to find out what devilish scheme I was cooking up this time.

By the time I landed on top of the grand staircase, the commotion had subsided. The twelve-piece orchestra was back in full swing, luring the discombobulated revelers back onto the dance floor. Peering out a large window, I saw Baron Pierre and Marquis Mathieu consoling a disheveled Christian. His couture clad girlfriend was nowhere in sight. She had evidently sped off posthaste in his Aston Martin, leaving her humiliated boyfriend to face the scuttlebutts within the confines of this historic chateau.

The Other Man

Before long, I spotted the other man. He had emerged as unmarked and suavely attired as I had seen him before the commencement of the festivities. I brushed past him nervelessly.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I queried.

“Oh, not too bad. And you?” the gay Muslim asked in return.

Testing the water, I questioned, “Did you hear the racket downstairs? I wonder what transpired between Christian and Anna?”

“Lovers’ squabbles, I gather. Much ado about nothing,” Ludovic stated equivocally.

“I wonder who the other person is,” I opined cynically.

“I’ve no idea. I was in the washroom attending to my business when I heard the furor. By the time I emerged, the tempest had subsided.”

“Wasn’t Christian also in the washroom before he scurried downstairs after his girlfriend?” I probed sarcastically.

Holding my arm tightly, the French Arab pulled me to a quiet corner before he vociferated sternly, “You, boy, had better keep this to yourself. If you blab about any of this to anyone, you’ll not hear the end of it. You understand me, you little twink?”

Taken aback by such indecorousness, I stared unflinchingly at my intimidator. “So, it was you who was playing nookie with Christian of Luxembourg,” I vented.

He cupped my mouth. “Shush, boy! Don’t you dare ruin my reputation with this crowd, especially Felix and Baron Pierre. I’ll give you a beating to shut you up if I find out you’re spreading malicious gossip behind my back. You get the picture?” he threatened.

“Okay, okay! You don’t have to get so worked up. I won’t reveal your dirty little secret. I promise.” Before he released his hurtful grip, I added, “What perks will I get for not talking?”

He glared at me forbiddingly, said nothing and released my arm. Just then, Andy appeared around the corner. He pretended he had no idea to what transpired between Ludovic and me. He remarked, “Ahh, Young! I was looking all over for you. Baron Pierre and Marquis Mathieu asked for you. Come, let’s see what they require?”

On that note, my chaperone led me towards the baron’s private den. When I turned to bid the Arab adieu, he gave me a cautionary wave.

In the Den

I’d expected to find Christian of Luxembourg with the baron and the marquis. Instead, I found my Quwah tutor, Monsieur Alain Dubois, seated next to the two men. Pierre jumped straight to the point. “We are having an all-male party on Boxing Day, and we’d like your participation,” he announced.

Contrary to my assumption that my host’s directive was connected to Christian’s mishap, I was startled by the baron’s request. He continued, “Our friends have asked if you will dance at the ‘G’ A-Go-Go Boxing Extravaganza.”

I looked at the baron with astonishment. “What is the ‘G’ A-Go-Go Boxing Extravaganza?” I promulgated.

The men broke into laughter as if I had uttered something hilarious. The marquis jumped in to enlighten me. He explained, “Its Pierre’s and my private after-party.”

I was getting more confused by the minute as the aristocrats jested over my bafflement. The baron continued, “It is a tradition between Mathieu and me to organize a small gathering of intimate friends the day after Christmas. It is a no-holds-barred male gathering.

“This year, we are planning to have you, Sébastien and another boy dance at our function. You come highly recommended by Prince P. Your erotic private dances bewitched him when you first met at the Sekham. Will you do us the honor?”

I stared at the two men, speechless. My guardian jumped to my aid. “Young loves to dance, and he’s an excellent dancer. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to perform for your guests.”

Finally I plucked up the courage to inquire, “What kind of dances are you envisioning?”

The men burst into another round of glee. This time around, Dubois commented smilingly, “It’s up to you, Young. I’m sure the more ‘zensually’ charged, the merrier it will be.”

My thumping heart nearly missed a beat as I looked upon my handsome tutor. I’d always had a crush on Alain. If he’d asked me to perform a private number for him, I would have obliged willingly. It would indeed be enticing to have him watch me gyrate, but performing in front of a group of horny men is something else entirely.

It wasn’t that I had not performed erotic dances as a batcha (Persian meaning dancing-boy) in public – I was afraid that if my teacher’s hypnotic gaze bore into my guileless eyes during my public performance, my over active libido might sprout an uncontrollable hard-on. I quivered as Alain stared at me. His virility had always frightened me. I had managed to keep these lustful feelings in check throughout my time at the Quwah, but the very thought of performing a ribaldrous dance with Monsieur Dubois watching would definitely propel me into a state of sexual dubiety. As I drowned in my profligacy, my face turned red, in keeping with the jovial Red Ball happening below stairs.

Luckily, my lover was there to safeguard my mortification. He declared with certitude, “Young is dancing. What time would you like him to be ready?”

Now that Andy had made the resolution on my behalf, I had little choice but to concur with an agreeable nod. I would be presented as one of the go-go boys at the ‘G’ A-Go-Go Boxing Extravaganza.

What kind of dance?

As soon as I left the den, I questioned my chaperone. “Am I to perform a dance similar to the one I did at the Sekham?”

“Not quite,” Andy responded.

I gaped at my Valet. “Then what kind of dance am I to perform?” I galvanized.

“It’s a much easier task than you think,” he reciprocated.

“How easy?” I demanded.

He said nothing until I pressed for an answer. Only then did he reply teasingly, “Dance like you did in the Los Angeles Playboy Club – as if you’re in a self-indulgent trance. Dance expressively, like no one is watching you.” He paused before adding, “You’ll be showered with money if you do a good job.” He gave me a naughty grin.

“Then, it is like dancing at the Sekham,” I chirped.

He smirked. “Except…” he trailed off before changing the subject. “For now, just relax and enjoy the evening’s soiree.” Holding my hand, he led me out into the chilly terrace to witness the jubilant fireworks exploding above the wintery midnight landscape. This was all to celebrate the birth of the holy child, born to save humanity from its earthly woes. And soon, I would be partaking in a bacchanalian revelry that only the rich and elite know to celebrate during this holy solstice.

Chapter Ten

Visionaries & Illusionists

“I see myself not as an illusionist but as a visionary writer whose path is to assist our society towards a new paradigm shift.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

2014

My Message to Andy

My dearest ex-Valet,

I’m jumping straight to the point to ask you a personal question I’ve never brought up before. You’ve always encouraged me to tell the truth, so I assume you will do the same. ☺

During our time in harem services, did you have sexual liaisons with any of the household members without my knowledge? This topic had never been discussed, since the majority of the time, the focus was on me.

I was too egocentric at that tender age to ask about your sentiments and exploits. Now that I’m older and wiser, I’m interested in the experiences of others, and I want to learn and grow from each other’s knowledge.

I will understand if you do not wish to share this personal information; but since we are open-minded ex-E.R.O.S. members, I thought I’d ask. As our learned teachers and mentors imparted to us, “Ask and you will receive.” On this note, I will not inquire any further.

1967

Christmas Morn

Our caravan of luxury vehicles arrived at Château de La Verrerie. It was an Aubigny-sur-Nere tradition for its wealthy residents to celebrate Mass on Christmas morning in this historical castle’s private chapel. The then owner Antoine de Vogue and his wife Françoise Hautecloque hosted a handful of invited guests for a private luncheon after the hour-long service. Although the estate was open to visitors, part of the building remained the private residence of the couple.

Château de La Verrerie was built in the fifteenth century by The Stuarts of Scotland and remained the French home of John Stuart, the Earl of Darnley, until the property was conceded to the Dukes of Richmond and Lennox for the next 400 years.

This expansive estate was originally granted to the Scottish Royals during the Hundred Years’ War. The Scottish army had joined forces with French troops to combat the English, who were then in possession of half of France.

The later owner, Louise de Penancoet de Keroualle, the Duchess of Portsmouth and Aubigny, was also the mistress of King Charles II of England and a spy for King Louis XIV of France. This grande dame was an ancestor of the late Princess Diana (Lady Diana Spencer). During her residency at La Verrerie, she made many improvements to the demesne.

In the year 1842, this sweeping estate was bought by Léonce de Vogue to house his large family. It had been improved upon by generations of Vogue residents.

Baron Pierre and his aristocratic compatriots, including Marquis Mathieu, had been long-time friends with the Vogues. It was their Christmas tradition to worship at the chateau’s private chapel together with some fifty other distinguished guests. That year was no exception to the rule.

Christmas Mass

Within this incense-filled chapel, Monsignor Nicholas gave his sermon in French. A handful of choir and altar boys from the local parish, the Church of Saint Martin, came to assist. Since Saint Martin’s yuletide services for the local townsfolk were held at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve and at eventide on Christmas day, the boys were on loan to La Verrerie that Christmas morning.

Although I did not understand the sermon, the pomp and circumstance of that Christmas Mass transported me back to my E.R.O.S. initiation ceremony at Daltonbury Hall. The smoke-filled stained-glass edifices, together with the celestial voices of the choir, electrified me to another bout of euphoric rhapsody. Once again, blissful tears trickled down the sides of my face. Goosebumps formed on my skin while ecstatic quivers coursed through my person. I gazed fixatedly at both my handsome Valet and my good-looking tutor. The more I stared, the further they amalgamated together, till they merged into a rainbow-colored, resplendent seraphic entity. This apotheosis caressed me like a cozy, feathery down. Before I knew it, this benevolent avatar had transformed into a magnificent flying unicorn.

We wove through the weightless clouds as I held tightly onto its sturdy physique, racing towards an unknown destination. I was blissfully riding Pegasus when an emphatic whisper heralded me back to reality.

The voice belonged to none other than Christian of Luxembourg. He murmured from behind, “Young, are you alright? You are weeping again?”

I did not answer. I had no response. He resumed, “You are quite an enigma. I’d like to know you better.”

Just as he finished his sentence, the service was over and guests were filing out of the chapel. When I turned around, he had disappeared.

At Château de La Verrerie

Our gracious La Verrerie host and hostess had invited the baron’s guests to stay for a private luncheon in a lavish drawing room filled with museum-quality Scottish artifacts and Gaelic historical treasures.

Madam offered to conduct a guided walkabout to those who were interested in the history of her pride and joy. As a group of us trailed behind the robust proprietress, Monsieur Christian of Luxembourg fell in step with me. He queried with concern, “Every time I see you, you are weeping. Why are you so sad, young man?”

I responded without looking him in the eye. “I’m moved by euphoric sentiments when I hear certain music. Andy labels me a pantywaist sensitivist.”

Amused by my proclamation, he asked, “What kinds of euphoric sentiments?”

“I don’t know. My emotional outpour happens, and the enlivened reverberations surge through my person. I encounter mythical beings and celestial entities.”

He mitigated, “Like ghosts?”

I chuckled at his remark. “I haven’t seen any ghosts. I usually come across angels and mythical beasts, such as centaurs, the Minotaur, and flying unicorns,” I avowed.

“Have you told anybody about your visions?” he questioned.

“Yes, I have – my chaperone and my mentors.”

“What are their reactions?” the Luxembourgian whispered curiously.

“My teacher, Monsieur Dubois, says I’m a member of the ‘Fog.’ Whereas Andy is not entirely convinced that angels or mythical beasts exist,” I replied.

I changed the topic. “Tell me about yourself? I know nothing about you except what transpired last evening between you and Anna,” I chimed.

Christian of Luxembourg

The man looked embarrassed. He did not look at me directly when he spoke, “As you can tell by my name, I’m from Luxembourg.”

“Where is Luxembourg?” I chirped.

He found that amusing. “Grand-Duché de Luxembourg, or the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, is a landlocked country in Western Europe. It borders Belgium to the west and the north, Germany to the east, and France to the south.

“It also comprises two principal regions: the Oesling in the north, which is a part of the Ardennes Massif, and the Gutland (‘good country’) in the south.”

I couldn’t help but ask, “What is the Ardennes Massif?”

“Ardennes is a region of extensive forests, rough terrain, rolling hills and ridges created by the Ardennes mountain range and the Moselle and Meuse River basins.

“On the other spectrum, Massif is a section of a planet’s crust that is demarcated by faults or flexures. The combined words refer to the Ardennes flexures,” He explained.

I remarked cheekily, “I take it that you are from the ‘good country’?”

He laughed affably, “You’re a witty young man. I’m sure many males and females enjoy your company.”

“How do you know that? We’ve only just been acquainted,” I dallied before adding, “Are you of royal descent?”

This time around, he burst into hilarity. “What makes you think that?”

“With a name like Christian of Luxembourg, you are either from the Letzeburgesch royal bloodline or an egocentric delusionist,” I quipped.

My declaration made him laugh out loud. “You are truly a comical boy,” he iterated.

“Your statement is not an answer to my question,” I blurted.

As the group entered a child’s playroom filled with cradles, rocking-horses, doll houses and all kinds of centuries-old nursery items, the debonair was having a difficult time controlling his merriment. Alain and my Valet stepped in pace with us.

The Connexion

Dubois was the first to query, “What’s the hilarity? Can we join in the humor?”

I reiterated, “He burst into hysteria when I asked Monsieur whether he is of the Letzeburgesch royal bloodline or an egocentric delusionist.”

“Young! You are not to ask such incongruous questions of the baron’s guest,” Andy chastised.

“Especially when Monsieur Christian is going through an indignant correlation,” my teacher admonished.

To our consternation, the man stood transfixed at an antique rocking-horse. Dribbles of tears ran down from the corners of his eyes as if melancholy had outstripped his recent euphoria. His conviviality had turned south instantaneously.

Alain put his arms around the man’s shoulder. “Are you alright, monsieur?” my teacher enquired.

Dubois led him to a nearby chaise lounge as the man nodded apologetically. Alain, Andy and I sat with the Luxembourgian while the group continued the tour with Madam Hautecloque.

My teacher added, “We are here for you if you wish to confide.”

When Christian calmed, he said, “Young tells me he sees visions of mythical and celestial entities. He said that you, monsieur,” turning to Alain, “understand the significance of otherworldly perspicacity.”

A look of mystification washed over the Zentologist. “My student’s promulgation is indeed correct. Are you an illusionist, sir?” Dubois enquired.

The self-conscious Christian wasn’t sure if he should continue, since I had indicated that my guardian was skeptical of visionaries. Alain encouraged, “My doctorate research involves the study of chimerical topics. I’m intrigued by visionaries. If you are open to meeting with me, I’d like to discuss your visions.”

I vociferated excitedly, “Can I participate? I, too, am fascinated by visions of the supernatural.”

Andy glanced at me presumptuously as if to say that I had once again barged in where I shouldn’t have.

Professor Dubois articulated before my chaperone could utter a word, “Of course. You are welcome to join us as long as Monsieur Christian of Luxembourg doesn’t mind your presence.”

“I’d like for Young to join us. After all, he instigated our meeting, Monsieur. I’ll be delighted to share my experiences with this facetious chap,” the Luxembourgian announced.

“Alright then, let’s meet at la salle de divertissement (the recreational room) this evening after dinner. It’ll be unobtrusive since the majority of the baron’s guests will have departed.” My teacher attested, “Do you mind if I invite the Duchess and a few others to join us? Isabella is an eloquent mystic. I’m sure she’ll like to glean into your visionary insights.”

Just then, a resident footman arrived to inform us that our entourage was bidding au revoir to our La Verrerie host and hostess. We were to make haste to return to Chateau Rouge.

Thanks to my sleuthing Valet, I learned that the wealthy Christian from Luxembourg was indeed a cousin twice removed from the reigning Grand Ducal Family of Luxembourg. Although he was of distant Letzeburgesch royal ancestry, my intuition was also correct: he gave himself the title Christian of Luxembourg because this self-proclamation exuded an air of imperial pompousness he took great pride in. This Luxembourgian was both egocentric delusionist and royalty.

Chapter Eleven

Spiritualism vs. Anomalistic Psychology

“My thoughts WILL design the energy that moves me!”
Allan Rufus

1967

Anomalistic Psychology

Besides the Duchess, Christian of Luxembourg and me, the Zentologist had garnered a handful of other participants into our midst for that evening’s discussion. They were Bryanna, Anastasie, Baron Pierre, Marquis Mathieu, Graf Felix, his boyfriend Ludovic Makmud Albriem, Prince P, his bosom buddy Sheik Fahrib and a certain Netherlander psychologist, Dr. Cornelius Daube, with whom Monsieur Dubois had become acquainted at Château de La Verrerie.

Although my guardian was skeptical about visionaries and illusionists, I couldn’t wait to experience the unorthodox occurrence that was soon to play out within the confines of this intimate salon, complete with deer antlers, oriental tapestries, antique chandeliers and priceless furniture.

Monsieur Dubois began, “We are gathered in this chambre privée (private chamber) to share our experiences of anomalistic psychology.”

I raised my hand. “What is anomalistic psychology?” Several participants were glad that I asked, because they had no clue what the appellation meant.

My teacher explained, “Anomalistic psychology is the study of human behaviors and experiences connected with what is generally known as the paranormal.”

Before he could continue, the psychologist, Dr. Daube interjected, “To which I must add, that is without the assumption that there is anything paranormal involved in the behaviors and experiences.” He continued, “According to anomalistic psychologists, paranormal phenomena have naturalistic explanations resulting from psychological and physical phenomena. To some people, these occurrences sometimes give the impression of paranormal activities when there have been none.”

The Duchess voiced, “Docteur Cornelius, I’m open to assimilating new cogitation to my psychic discipline, even though I differ from your viewpoint.

“On the contrary, I believe that spirits of the dead have the ability and the inclination to communicate with the living. The spirit world is not a static place but one that continues to evolve.

“This brings me to surmise that spirits are more advanced than humans and are capable of providing useful knowledge about moral and ethical issues, as well as the nature of God.”

The doctor smirked. He was going to prove the Duchess incorrect. Judging by the look on Andy and Dubois’ faces, they were anticipating a heated debate before the evening was over.

Illusions

“Shall we begin?” my Quwah teacher pronounced. “Who would like to be the first to tell us their extrasensory experiences?”

A brief silence followed before Ludovic proclaimed, “I’ve felt the presence of my deceased aunt, Miram on numerous occasions. Aunt Miram was my surrogate mother and I, her favorite nephew when my brother and I arrived in France. She passed a year ago from a terrible accident. Since then, she’s returned to visit. I hear her calming voice and maternal proximity, especially when I’m deeply depressed.”

My professor asked, “Are you apprehensive in her presence, or do you welcome her companionship?”

“I’m not unnerved at all. I feel cared for, as I did when she used to wrap her arms around me as a boy. Her presence eases my anxiety,” the French Arab iterated.

The psychotherapist declared emphatically, “This is a definitive case of anomalistic psychology. You see, most people are intrigued by ‘the unexplained’ and are eager to believe what they experience as the absolute.

“I, on the other hand, prefer to look closely at the evidence. In my understanding, these kinds of telepathic communications are often based on sleep deprivation and anxiety-related issues.

“It is one way for the claimant to deal with his or her disquietude.”

Isabella countered before the doctor could continue. “Does your aunt manifest in the form of an apparition, or do you simply feel her closeness? Maybe I can conjure her spirit on your behalf and listen to what she has to say.”

Suddenly, Anastasie voiced, “I’ll like to make contact with my deceased kitty, Bambbi, whom I miss terribly. She also died in a tragic accident. I would like to know how she is coping on the other side.”

The prince and the Graf chuckled at her remark. The clairvoyant put a halt to their snickering. She denoted, “Very well, then, shall we have a séance to summon the deceased? This will make way for the skeptics among us to experience the intentions of those who have gone before us.”

Before any of us had a chance to second the Medium’s proposition, Dubois asserted, “My dear friends, tonight we are not here to prove a particular point of view. We are here to discuss each other’s paranormal, out-of-body or visionary experiences.

“We’ll organize another get-together for those who’d like to partake in a séance with the Duchess.”

“For now, allow me to go around the room, so everyone can have a chance to tell us their paranormal encounters.” He indicated for Christian of Luxembourg to begin.

Hallucinations, Illusions or Delusions

The Luxembourgian looked around the room before he spoke, “It happened when I was eight years old. My younger brother, Lucien, then six, was killed when the Germans occupied Berg. Several Nazi soldiers arrived to confiscate my parent’s property. We were playing in our playroom. My parents and I were ushered out to the lawn, but Lucien refused to evacuate. He rode furiously on his rocking horse, pretending to escape. He was shot instantly in front of all present.

“The image of my dead brother lying in a pool of blood next to the rocking horse has haunted me all my life. Lucien is always rocking on his wooden horse whenever I’m in a children’s playroom.

“Today, I saw him when we were at La Verrerie. His outstretched hands waited for me to carry him to safety.” The distraught Luxembourgian wrapped his hands across his face and broke down in uncontrollable sobs. “I failed my brother. I could’ve saved him, but I didn’t…”

Bryanna wrapped her arms around the grieving man.

Andy, Alain and I glanced at each other. We now shared the answer to Christian’s agitation in the playroom earlier that day.

The insensitive Cornelius commented, “Ahh hah! This is a perfect example of hallucinogenic delusion…” Several of us stared at the doctor as if he were a heartless monster.

The solicitous Isabella jumped to Christian’s aid. She assured, “Lucien’s manifestation is obviously a sign that he is reaching out to you.” She looked directly at the distressed man. “Your brother is informing you that he’s happily crossed over and you’re not to blame yourself for his death.”

The psychotherapist countered immediately, “Madame, do you have any evidence?” That left the Duchess speechless.

He continued unfalteringly, “You see, my friends, hallucinations occur when environmental, emotional, or physical stresses cause the brain mechanism that usually distinguishes conscious perceptions from internal, memory-based perceptions to misfire. As is often the case, visions happen during periods of consciousness. They can appear in the form of ghostly apparitions, voices or sounds, and smells or tastes. These tactile feelings are known as haptic hallucinations.”

Sheik Fahrib had remained silent until now. The psychiatrist disclosed, “On the other hand, Christian may be experiencing an illusion.”

Ludovic queried, “Can you define illusions so we can better understand the term?”

The Arab doctor replied, “In medical terms, an illusion is a sensory perception that causes a false or distorted impression, or a misrepresentation of a ‘real’ sensory stimulus.

“It may be that Christian’s desire not to forget Lucien induces the illusion that the boy is present whenever he enters a vintage playroom.”

Alain noted, “One other possibility is that Monsieur Christian of Luxembourg may be under the delusion that his brother is present, but in reality, he isn’t.

“In my Zentology research, I’ve seen that delusions are a common symptom of personality-related mental illnesses. These include schizoaffective disorder, schizophrenia, shared psychotic disorder, major depressive disorder, and anxiety disorder. These are major sources of delusions. Individuals who have suffered long-term traumatic experiences can fall into one of six distinct categories: persecutory, grandiose, jealousy, erotomanic, somatic, or a mixture of the above mentioned.”

My mind immediately leaped to the preconceived notion that the Luxembourgian was indeed suffering from at least three of the mental states listed by my teacher. Although I was courteous enough to keep these thoughts to myself, I couldn’t stop myself from simpering. Andy, noticing my smirk, stared at me forbiddingly. He was obviously warning me not to utter a word, in case I would again put my foot in my mouth. I kept quiet.

The Medium grimaced at the men’s speculations before she aired, “I like to listen to this young man’s experiences.” She indicated me. “In my clairvoyant experiences, an adolescent’s visions are often more formidable than an adult’s.”

Caught off guard, I was unsure if I wanted to be scrutinized by these erudite intellectuals. When all was said and done, my mythical and celestial visions were a part of me.

Andy stated on my behalf before I could think of an appropriate response, “Young is a callow in these matters of metaphysical discussions. In my opinion, everything we discussed has its individual merit. Although I am doubtful of visionaries and illusionists, I’m also curious about differing schools of thought.

“I wouldn’t mind partaking in a séance if the exalted Duchess Isabella can plan one before Young and I leave for London the day after tomorrow.”

Baron Pierre beseeched, “Why are the two of you leaving so soon? I thought you were staying until after the New Year?”

I took the opportunity to proffer my gratitude to our host. “Thank you, Baron, for your hospitality. It has been wonderful to spend this festive time with you and your guests, sir. But my uncle, Mr. James Pinkerton, has invited us to ring in the New Year with him. He is expecting us at his Mayfair home no later than the twenty-eighth of December.”

Sheik Fahrib promulgated, “I’m heading to London on the same day that you boys are leaving. We can travel together.”

Before midnight, when our assemblage dispersed, it was decided that a Spiritualist session would be held. It was not to be at Chateau Rouge but at لصقر في دن (The Falcon’s Den), Sheik Abdul Mutmud bin Fahrib’s sweeping mansion in the country of Sharjah.

Chapter Twelve

‘G’ A-Go-Go

“Fuck! Is one expected to be a gentleman when one is stiff?”

Marquis de Sade

2014

One of Andy’s email messages

Young, I’m surprised you asked if I had sexual liaisons with any of the household members without your knowledge. What do you think?

Whatever you did, I did. We were young and enjoying life. Judging from your writing, I take it that you, like me, had a positive experience. Our separation is my one regret.

I was hurt when you didn’t agree to go to New Zealand with me; I wanted to care for you. I also understood that down under wasn’t the fashion world you wanted to be a part of. To succeed as individuals, we needed to be apart. We are both career-driven individuals, and you would not have been happy in New Zealand, especially during the seventies.

I needed to be away from my family, and the University of Canterbury offered me the solace I desired. Still, those early years of our separation were heart-wrenching times. Even though I enjoyed my engineering studies tremendously, I was lost without you. I took to engineering like a fish to water. If you had been there, with me but unhappy, it would have diverted my attention from my studies. The universe always has its way of working things out to make us stronger and more resilient.

1967

Presents

Most of the Red Ball guests had departed by the time Boxing Day rolled around. Chateau Rouge’s regular staff had departed on Christmas morning for their Yuletide holidays. Pierre’s social secretary, Ludovic, had solicited a group of temporary helpers, who were of a certain sexual inclination and were pleasing to the eye.

Centred within the ball room and several of the cosy recreational rooms that Boxing Day morning was a flurry of activities. While the hired hands were busy preparing for the ‘gay’ festivities, our intimate group chatted animatedly while opening Christmas gifts within the toasty billiard room. With fine wines, liquors and cigars in hand, the mature gentlemen began discussing politics. We, the younger participants, were absorbed in the array of princely gifts showered upon us by our generous admirers, lovers and benefactors.

The marquis and the baron had gifted a pricey gold bracelet and a bejewelled studded earring, respectively, to young Sébastien. I was engrossed in opening my presents as the boy showed his expensive gifts to the group.

No sooner had I opened Mathieu’s gift, I exclaimed, “This tie-pin is exquisite!” To show my appreciation, I gave the marquis kisses on both cheeks while I showed off my precious gift to the men within the room. The pin was of finely crafted silver Cartier embellished with three recherché pearls.

Inside the little black velvet box the baron had given me was a pair of silver cufflinks inlaid with two white pearls of the rarest quality. I stared in amazement at these princely gifts. Andy spoke on my behalf, “Young, shouldn’t you thank the baron?”

I stared at my generous benefactor. I was grateful, almost to tears, to these two French aristocrats. My gratitude stirred me to bestow a loving kiss on the baron’s lips. Little did I suspect that his lover would eye me with displeasure at this beholden appreciation. I had made an enemy of Sébastien.

My affectionate act of indebtedness to the baron, had caused the boy resentment. He was also envious that Pierre had accorded me a gift more luxuriant than his.

It was not until later that I discovered the reasons behind these opulent presents from the aristocrats. At that moment, I was simply appreciative of their generosity.

Andy’s and my Yuletide present from the prince was a week-long, all-expenses-paid vacation to wherever we wished to travel on his yacht, Mystère. The only stipulation was that this gift would only come into effect after the grand openings of the Paris and Tokyo Carousels.

Surprisingly, Sheik Fahrib gifted me and my Valet a bottle of Jaipur each. This cologne was the same that I had named for His Highness when we were at the House of Boucheron, 8 months prior to that morning.

Neither my Valet nor I had expected such extravagant tokens of endearment. We were speechless. Though we were flabbergasted, we maintained our decorum. Our Yuletide presents to the aristocrats and our friends were comparatively modest.

Andy, being the gentleman he was, was the first to toast our magnanimous benefactors, followed by Monsieur Dubois, Graf Felix and Ludovic, whose gifts were as munificent as mine.

The person who remained silently vexed was Sébastien. By the look on the boy’s face, Baron Pierre would be heading toward a rocky confrontation before that day was over.

The Party

A busload of good-looking boys and young men had turned up en masse that late afternoon. I had no idea who they were or where they had come from; the majority of them spoke no English, and those who did, spoke very little. These striplings ranged from handsome and athletically built to cute and twinky.

At the same time, a group of mature men arrived – friends of friends of the baron or the marquis. Whoever they were, they had one thing in common: wealth and status. They were there for a good time and were willing to pay for the services of one or more catamites.

A lavish buffet was laid out in the gaily decorated ballroom. At various corners were three raised platforms, and atop them were three oversized birdcages that could accommodate a full-grown person. At the opposite section of this spacious hall was a low stage to accommodate the singer, the DJ, and his music and sound equipment.

No sooner had the long haired disc jockey taken his place than the latest dance music began thumping through the massive speakers set up around the room. Disco lights and balls began rotating while the guests busily gobbled down the array of scrumptious food and consumed the free flowing alcoholic beverages, which were delivered on trays held high by semi-naked waiters on roller skates.

Before I had time to absorb this Dionysian revelry, my teacher, Alain, ushered me into my ‘G’ A-go-go costume. It consisted of a gold Lycra G-string that exposed my naked buttocks and barely covered my privates. Over this miniature contrivance, I donned a black-and-gold striped speedo. Atop that came a pair of skin-tight black Lycra shorts. A matching gold tank-top fitted my upper torso, revealing my adolescent washboard stomach. A gold feline half-mask covered my upper face. This five-piece ensemble made up my ‘G’ A-go-go costume. During the course of my performance, all these skimpy items would be discarded, and I’d end up in my birthday suit in full view of everyone.

Dubois led me into one of the cages and locked the door behind him. He vociferated over the loud disco music, “Young, dance like a thunderous wind in an impending storm. Move like rhythmic clouds blustering through seductive forces.” With that statement, he disappeared into the audience, leaving me to my own devices.

My heart drummed a mile a minute. I, not used, to being caged like a captive bird, was frantically looking for my guardian for some assurance. Instead, a sea of unfamiliar faces spurred me to begin. My eyes turned towards Sébastien and Gil, the other dancers who, like me, were confined in gilded cages.

These two catamites were already gyrating and grinding their lithe bodies to the rhythmic flow of the up-tempo disco beat. As stiffened as I was, an alluring voice from a young female singer on the DJ platform stirred me to writhe like a coiling cobra to the hypnotizing spell of a snake charmer. At the time, I had no idea this artist would go on to become the infamous 1970s Disco Queen Donna Summer. Back in 1967, she was performing in West Germany, where Guy, the DJ spinner for the Paris Carousel, convinced Mademoiselle LaDonna Adrian Gaines (a.k.a. Donna Summer) to entertain the men at the ‘G’ A go-go party. This disco Superstar’s sensual and sultry voice had snared this dancing boy into an intrinsic dance euphoria. As soon as my hips started to sway to the pulsating beat, I’d morphed from trepidation to jubilation. With eyes closed, I drank my fill of a realm where nothing mattered except my sensual gyrations.

As I knelt to thrust my heaving pelvis to the throbbing cadence of ‘Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher and Higher,’ hands reached to tug at my short shorts. They fell seductively around my pelvic bone, rousing the boisterous men to yank them off while the older men stuffed francs into the elastic band of my bikini trucks. As my dancing became heated and uninhibited, so did the hands reaching to grab at my person. Invigorated by this rambunctious display of immodesty, I was at once mortified and energized. I stripped down to my G-string while wiggling my naked buttocks in full view of the maddening crowd. The mature men were tantalized to embed handfuls of pecuniary gratuity into my already overstuffed pouch.

While we almost naked caged boys were busy grinding, gyrating and swivelling to whistling catcalls of ‘take it off,’ some of the less inhibited revellers were already brazenly pulverizing each other on the dance floor. Before long, naked bodies were wriggling everywhere I turned. Lecherous hands reached into the cages to grope the provocateurs. They hoped that their gratuities were sufficient to buy them a debaucherous tryst with the dancer in question.

Where is My Valet?

As much as I enjoyed losing myself to my trance-like exuberance, I was also glad to be caged like a rare unobtainable fledgling. After all, my metier of teasing and titillation was simply that – nothing more, nothing less.

My nonstop rollicking had left me dehydrated. I desperately needed refreshment. I scanned the room for my beloved guardian. He was nowhere in sight.

When Dubois arrived to wrap a terry robe over my naked body and lead me to his boudoir, I was glad that my assignment was over. The ballroom and the other recreational rooms had transformed into bacchanalian chambers where wriggling, writhing and copulating bodies in varied unbridled positions were laid bare for all to partake. As intrigued as I was by this unreserved arousal, I was happy to be escorted to my teacher’s private chamber.

After quenching my thirst and taking a hot bath, I’d relaxed considerably. I laid my head on my professor’s lap as he ran his sensual fingers through my jet-black hair, sending me to purr like a kitten. Before I could ask after my Valet, Alain uttered, “There is someone who would like to spend time with you.”

I looked at him. “This special person came to me to request a private audience from you. Would you like to meet him?”

“Who is he?” I queried curiously.

Dubois replied smilingly, “You’ll recognize him if you agree to meet with him.”

“What kind of a private audience is he expecting from me?” I pressed.

“That will be between the two of you. I’m only acting as his spokesperson,” my teacher razzed.

I questioned, “What does he look like?”

“If you are curious to find out what he looks like, go meet him,” the Frenchman answered. “I’m your acting chaperone to this meeting.”

“Where is my Valet?” I asked.

“You’ll see him soon enough. Now, do you want to meet your admirer?”

The Mystery Admirer

My teacher and I headed down the long corridor to a quiet room and into a darkened den. The smell of Montecristo permeated the confines of this antiquated chamber. Ringlets of cigar smoke filtered up its expansive ceiling. The man was turned with his back to Alain and me.

He instructed, “Come over here, boy!”

I looked at my escort for a response. He motioned me over to the person. I obeyed. I could not see the man’s features in the fading twilight, except that he wore an unbuttoned dress shirt with an untied tie dangling on either side of his hairy chest. Below, he was naked. The outline of his throbbing plumpness wooed me to suckle its pulsating brazenness. He reached to draw me onto his bobbing thickness. Dubois nodded for me to do as told.

Kneeling between the stranger’s legs, I lapped at his bulbousness, savouring the stickiness dripping onto my curling tongue. He held my head securely with his hands as he plunged his hardness down my open throat. I choked from this sudden onslaught. His unrelenting grip held me enthroned within the depths of his person. Although a sense of fear traversed my body, I was also beguiled by his sadistic dominance. His mastery over my youthfulness stirred in me a yearning to be governed by his authoritative stance. As much as I detested his haughty superiority, I found myself submitting to his demands. At one point, I tried staving off this marauder’s advances – in retaliation to my defiance, he jabbed his length deeper into my oral cavity until I craved for air. Only then did he pull my head away from his broadness before jabbing it back into my gaping throat. Controlling my cranium, he bounced my bobbing head back and forth in rapid succession, as if my reoccupation was to do his bidding.

Aroused by my obdurate resistance, he lifted me onto his lap before spreading my legs apart to straddle his thumping groin. His manly hands spread my butt cheeks apart, while his fingers twitted my anal opening, tempting me to resist his commanding empathy. He spat a wad of saliva onto his fingers and jabbed them into my pining hollow, teasing and rotating my opening, arousing me to heights of ecstatic wantonness. My heaving torso convulsed onto his massive shoulders. He took this opportunity to plunge his drumming organ fully into my yearning crevice. As swiftly as he had ploughed inside my core, he lifted me up, plucking his leaking head around my slit, tormenting me to implore his rod be buried into my fissure again. The further I defied his injunction, the more he succoured his bulbousness around my longing orifice, tantalizing me to ride his masculinity as I had performed my gyrating motions within the gilded cage not so long ago.

I leaned to kiss his luscious mouth as his insistent tongue jabbed into every cleft of my cavernous depth. His maleness intoxicated me, sending shivers up and down my spine. He mandated my submission as much as I desired his forcefulness. We were playing a treacherous game of lustful ardour that would no doubt end with disastrous consequences. Yet we were caught up in the moment of libidinous passion, a sadomasochistic carnality that defies sense and sensibilities – a moment in time I now wish had not transpired had I known what was to occur after our fervent copulation.

His mighty impaler felt blissful. It transported me back to Ludwig’s Arabian, who had flown me like a thunderous lightning into the expansiveness of the great Sahara. Here, I was jouncing on my assailant’s ferociousness. Our heated obsession only served to insulate us from the frosty chill that had sparkled its final glow in the fading light.

Alain’s intense stare stood guard as I rode the mystery man. Dubois’ handsomeness ignited in me a hunger I knew could never be quenched. He was forever the untouchable, the seducer I could never attain but in that brief, seething second; he, like Nikee made love to me without laying a finger on my person. These indefensible emotions threw me over the edge. I clutched unflinchingly at my libertine’s hairy chest. Quivering jets of my blossoming orgasm blasted onto the authoritarian’s hairy musculature as our lips stayed locked in an unyielding French kiss.

His breathlessness gave way to fanatical moans. I clenched my anal sphincter against his palpitating deliriousness. My salacious perfervidity together with his lurid prurience propelled his firing viscidity into the depths of my craving crevasse. We froze motionless as our lingering passion ploddingly transformed into an affectionate embrace.

Only then did my mystery admirer relinquish control and release this caged nightingale to whence it came. My arresting tutor deposited me back in the boudoir I shared with my lover, Valet and chaperone. I had yet to discover the identity of my sexual prowler. That could wait for another day.

Chapter Thirteen

Saints & Sinners

“Many of the insights of the saint stem from his experience as a sinner.”

Eric Hoffer

2014

Continuation of Andy’s message

On a different note, this is how I remember Baron Pierre’s 1967 ‘G’ A-go-go soiree. Like you, I had no idea where the busload of young bucks and sassy striplings had come from. All I knew was that I was tempted to bed a number of them. ☺ Hence, I asked Dubois to watch you during and after your go-go performance. Yet somehow, your professor neglected to tell me that he had presented you to a mystery admirer, who tailgated us all the way to London and Daltonbury Hall after your encounter. He would have abducted you to god only knows where if I hadn’t told him to back off.

December 27th 1967

I was fast asleep when Andy returned to our chamber. The exhausting go-go dance performance, the endless Yuletide festivities and the invigorating lovemaking with the stranger had worn me to a frazzle.

The hazy winter’s sunlight shone its warmth on my face the following morning when I awoke to my lover’s arms draped across my naked torso. Andy’s handsome face looked so serene next to me. I did not want to wake my chaperone. After a leisurely shower, I ventured below stairs. I had not eaten much the evening before, and I was famished.

Naked bodies laid in undisturbed slumber within the ballroom and various recreational rooms and along the corridors. Several partiers were still going at it. Obviously, their need for sexual debauchery remained unquenched. Discreet moans and groans emanated as I trailed towards the buffet table. I headed to the quiet conservatory to enjoy my plate of comestible goodies.

Conversation with The Baron

As soon as I took my first bite, a hand tapped my shoulder. I jumped.

I turned around to find the baron standing next to me. Food dribbled from the corner of my mouth. “Sorry, Young, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized.

I chomped down a mouthful of food before answering. “Good morning, sir, it’s not a problem. I didn’t know you were in the conservatory. I was lost in the tranquillity of the wintery scape.”

He sat beside me before he resumed, “Are you and your chaperone enjoying Chateau Rouge?”

“Very much so, sir. Thank you for…” before I could finish my sentence, he complimented, “Young man, you’re an excellent dancer.” He paused before continuing, “Will you dance for me in private?”

I was surprised. I knew that his lover, Sébastien, would not welcome this unfaithful solicitation from his sugar daddy. It was one thing to embark on an orgiastic adventure together, but quite another to conduct secret trysts without the other’s knowledge.

Neither of us spoke for a couple of seconds, until I stammered a reply: “Sébastien is also an excellent dancer. I’m sure he’ll happily perform for you in private.”

Pierre gave me a seductive grin before replying, “Ahh! But I’d like the both of you to give me an intimate presentation.” His riposte was more of a command than a request.

I was hoping my Valet would suddenly appear to counter on my behalf, but I knew I had to make my own decision. I expressed, “I’m not sure if there will be time to substantiate your request. Andy and I are leaving for London this afternoon.”

He stated, “I’ll be in London for the New Year. We’ll cross paths again before long.”

I expressed my surprise, saying, “Sir, I thought you were spending the New Year here?”

“What makes you think that?” he voiced amusingly. “I have business in the city, and a few friends live there. Where in London are you staying?”

“In Mayfair, with my uncle,” I replied.

“I’ll be at Claridges for a week. We’ll have dinner,” my host said casually before departing the green house. “By the way, did you enjoy your rendezvous with—” before he could finish, the aristocrat had disappeared. Andy breezed into the hot house looking for me. I was left only to guess whom the baron was referring.

Journey to London

After a fun-filled week at Chateau Rouge, I was glad to return to London to ring in 1968 in the company of Uncle James. We had not seen each other for a while and I was looking forward to filling him in on all that had transpired at the Quwah and more.

Our travelling companion Dr. Fahrib took this opportunity to speak with Andy and me. “Young, the Enlightened Oracle Society confirmed my membership.”

Before the sheik could resume, Andy chimed, “Congratulations, Doctor!” as he extended his hand to shake the Arab’s. Fahrib leaned over to my chaperone and me and gave us nose rubs.

“You’re assigned to my household when you return.” He appeared to be at a loss for words before he added, “I’ll consult P to see if I can get Dubois to be your temporary tutor when you come to لصقر في دن (The Falcon’s Den) in Amsterdam.”

“Amsterdam!” Andy exclaimed.

“The Falcon’s Den?” I iterated in astonishment before I questioned, “I thought Assalamu Alaikum (Peace be with you) was the name of your home?”

“Yes, Amsterdam. For the time being, the two of you will be stationed at The Falcon’s Den, my private townhouse – until the correct moment to break the news to my wives that you guys are under my care. They have no idea I’m amassing a harem. I’ll introduce you as my friends when I’m ready to relocate you to Sharjah. This is a delicate situation, and I’d like to handle it with discretion,” the Arab declared.

My Valet evinced, “That’s fine, sir. We’ll be delighted to assist you in any way and anywhere. That’s what we do as E.R.O.S. recruits.”

“That’s splendid!” Fahrib exclaimed. “Your school will fill you in with the details when I’m ready to receive you. Meanwhile, enjoy your New Year with your uncle. Contact me at Claridges, and we can meet for dinner. If your uncle is available, I’d like to meet him, too.”

I blurted, “That will be wonderful. I’m sure Uncle James will be delighted to meet you, sir. He’s a senior member of the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society, and he can help get you on your feet as a new member.”

“I didn’t know your uncle was involved with E.R.O.S.,” the Arab exclaimed.

Andy chirped instantaneously, “I’m positive that His Highness and the Arabian members will provide you with much information about the society.”

Fahrib said smilingly, “That’s true, but it’s nothing like gaining insight from a seasoned senior member such as Young’s uncle.”

I interjected before my chaperone could respond, “When I see Uncle James, I’ll inform him of your wishes. Can we call you, sir, to organise a dinner?”

“Contact me at Claridges. I’ll be in the city for a week.”

Uncle James’ chauffeur was already waiting for Andy and me at Heathrow Airport when we landed. Off we zoomed in my uncle’s silver Rolls Royce into London’s fading wintery light.

2014

Andy’s message continues

You know, Young, before you came along, the other students I chaperoned were mere duties to me. Life with them was much simpler. When you came into the picture, it became more difficult for me to separate the sex act and the intimate relationship we shared. I would often end up at an emotional crossroads when you were summoned to perform sexual duties. No matter how I told myself that you were merely performing a sexual favour and that love doesn’t enter into that equation, an acrid taste plagued me, even when I busied myself with passionate projects while waiting for you to complete your tasks. These negativities ate at my core, challenging my sanity and begging me to snatch you away from the sexual situations. A part of me wanted to possess you rather than permit you to come into your own. Yet as soon as I saw you, happy and bouncing into view, my levelheadedness and sound judgement would return. Once again, I could wrap you in my arms and surround you with my love. Although I may have seemed composed, those were indeed trying times. I had to restrain my irrationality so I wouldn’t jeopardise our E.R.O.S. statuses. Like you, I was also pushing the green-eyed monster back into its abysmal lair. Reflecting on those experiences, I’m surprised I managed to constrain myself. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m grateful for my Bahriji training and E.R.O.S. experiences – without them, I would not have been as strong or resilient.

I remember Eric Hoffer, the American moral and social philosopher, who wrote, “Many of the insights of the saint stem from his experience as a sinner.” Though I don’t consider E.R.O.S. recruits and members sinners, I think our experiences were, in a way, saintly – were they not?

Well, young one (you will always be my ‘young one’), I’ll message you again. For now I bid you au revoir mon ami. I’ll be in touch.

Love,

Andy

PART TWO

United Kingdom – London, Isle of Wight

United Arab Emirates – Dubai

Holland – Amsterdam, Noordwijk aan Zee

Chapter Fourteen

The Anomalous Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey

“Great men of action... never mind on occasion being ridiculous; in a sense it is part of their job, and at times they all are.”

Oswald Mosley

Late December 1967

Uncle James was overjoyed to welcome Andy and me. A day after our arrival, we were chatting animatedly over dinner at a private soiree in a soon-to-open, top-of-the-line Chinese restaurant called Mr. Chow.

Mr. Chow and his then-girlfriend, Grace Coddington, a famous fashion model (who is now the creative director of American Vogue magazine), had invited an assemblage of international celebrities and business luminaries to attend this exclusive gourmet event.

Uncle James, being the Chief Financial Officer of the Hong Kong & Shanghai Banking Corporation and a business acquaintance of Mr. Chow, was without question an invited guest. Being his protégé had its perks: last-minute invitations were obtained for us through Mr. Chow’s social secretary.

Dressed in formal attire, we found ourselves hobnobbing with Jean Shrimpton, Penelope Tree, Veruschka – “Supermodels” of the 60s, before the term supermodels was invented. We also met Peter Sellers, the late actor/comedian, David Hockney, the homosexual artist (now famously known for his large, iconic works such as A Bigger Splash), and a host of others in the fashion, music and arts arenas.

I was beside myself when David Hockney gravitated toward Andy and me. Although Mr. Hockney had not achieved his now-memorable status as the artist of ‘Los Angeles swimming pools’, his 1961 painting, titled We Two Boys Clinging Together and his use of Walt Whitman’s poems and quotations in his work sealed him the nods to homosexuality in his art. A lover of young handsome men, he did not fail to discern my Valet as a possible creative subject.

A Conversation with David Hockney

“I’m David.” The artist extended his hand to introduce himself to my chaperone. Andy, caught off guard, turned and uttered a polite greeting before Mr. Hockney resumed, “You look forlorn, sitting here by yourself.”

“This is not really my scene. I’m here accompanying my companion and his uncle,” he pointed to me as I stood immersed within a group of Ms. Penelope Tree’s admirers. I hung onto every word the celebrated model vociferated.

The artist added, “I’m disheartened to see a good-looking chap like you not enjoying himself.”

“I’m having an excellent meal. That’s reason enough to enjoy myself,” my lover effused.

“You are the type of character I’d like to capture on canvas – woeful and pensive, the kind of person who inspires me to fuel my creative fire.”

Andy countered, “Looks can be deceiving.”

“Do you ever travel to Los Angeles?” David chirped.

“Why?”

“If you are in L.A., contact me. I’d like to photograph you by the pool. You are a perfect specimen in every way.” Just as I returned to join the duo, he was handing Andy his card.

“This is Young, my boyfriend,” Andy stressed the word ‘boyfriend’ as he introduced me to the renowned painter.

“You’re a couple? How handsome!” he exclaimed, staring at the two of us. He paused before adding, “You should stay at my home when you’re in L.A. Have you been to Los Angeles?”

I tweeted, “We were there for a photo-shoot earlier in the year…”

Andy interrupted before I could reveal too much: “We’ll be in touch when we’re there next.” He changed the topic rapidly before pointing behind Mr. Hockney. “Young, did you see Uncle James speaking with Baron Pierre?” I followed my lover’s gaze.

My Valet excused us to join my uncle and the baron. Pierre stood next to an elderly gentleman with a limp who looked vaguely familiar. I could not put a finger on where I’d met this person until I noticed the circular rings of smoke emanating from his mouth. He was the mystery man whom Monsieur Dubois had presented to me. My teacher had handed me a package before I left Chateau Rouge, saying it was from my mystery admirer. The unopened envelope was still in one of the side pockets of my carrier bag. I reminded myself to look at the contents as soon as I returned to our Mayfair residence.

My Mysterious Admirer

Uncle James, the baron and the man were in conversation when Andy and I joined them. The baron wasted no time in introducing us. “Ahh, Young! Glad you came to join us. This is Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey, a neighbour and a writer from Orsay.”

The man gave me a sly grin before extending his hand to shake mine. He held onto my hand for several moments longer than was necessary before releasing it to shake my chaperone’s. Though I was certain he was the mystery man I had copulated with a few days ago, he acted as if we had not met before.

Pierre gave me a secretive wink while my Valet debated a heated political issue. The delicious Chinese delicacies offered by the good-looking waiters and waitresses were too mouth-watering to forgo. I found a quiet spot to relish my plate of Asian tidbits.

A familiar voice spoke from behind while I was preoccupied with my food. “Son, are you enjoying the soiree?”

I looked up with my mouth full of food to find my uncle talking to me. At the sight of me gormandizing like a hungry child, James teased, “Don’t scarf your food as if you haven’t eaten for days! The guests will think I haven’t fed you.”

He continued, “Besides behaving like an esurient lad, how are you, my boy?”

“I’m fine, sir. And you?” I asked.

“I’m good. It’s wonderful to see you and Andy. Your mother would be very happy if she could see you now. She asks after you in our regular correspondence. Do you know that she’ll be here in the summer to spend time with you?”

I was delighted to have a moment with my English guardian. I chimed excitedly, “You mean I’m not to return to Kuala Lumpur the coming summer?”

“I believe so. She is accompanying you to the continent with a couple of your aunties and cousins,” James replied as he puffed on his cigarette.

Surprised by my uncle’s pronouncement, I questioned, “Why is she taking me to Europe?”

“She wants to spend time with you,” James replied. He looked at me inquiringly. “I thought you would be delighted by this piece of information?”

I was indeed thrilled by his notification. I always dreaded the idea of enduring the summer months under my father’s unscrupulous schemes to butch-me-up. Yet I was also feeling apprehensive. I did not want to be reminded that I’d have to separate from Andy. He had become a part of my life. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him, even though I enjoyed my mother’s and my female relatives’ company. My life had changed since I had left Malaya. For the past two years, I had grown by leaps and bounds. I could not return to the home I had once known. Andy, Uncle James, and the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society were my family now, and London my home.

James, detecting my wistfulness, comforted me. “Young, don’t look so sad. You’ll only be away from your chaperone for a few weeks. He’ll be back in your life in a blink of an eye. I’m sure your mum and relatives will keep you engaged during your holiday sojourn.”

“Will you be joining us on our tour?” I queried, hoping he would say yes.

“As much as I’d love to, duty calls. But I’ll be in London when you return from Europe. I believe your aunties and cousins will be leaving before your mother. She’ll be spending an extra week in London with us. You’ll both be staying with me then.

“Now, wipe away your forlornness and enjoy the rest of the evening gobbling the gourmet cuisine,” he chuckled.

I couldn’t help but ask, “How did you know Baron Pierre and Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey?”

“I met the baron this evening. As for Ozwalt…” he leaned close to me as if to whisper a secret. “I’ve something important I need to tell you…”

Before James could finish speaking, Pierre, Ernest and Andy had joined us. My guardian left me in suspense.

As soon as they sat down, Andy asked, “Sir, what genre of books are you writing?”

“Oh, it’s my time in politics. When you reach my age, it’s time to document one’s life,” Sir Mossey declared.

My Valet resumed, “You must have led an interesting one.” His lordship grinned unscrupulously. He did not answer. “I look forward to reading your autobiography,” my Valet added.

Uncle James gave our group a satiric look without seeming impertinent, as if he knew more than what met the eye of his lordship. Ernest voiced sarcastically, “It is not easy to clear up a dung-heap from underneath,” before resuming, “That’s why I choose to live in France rather than England.”

None of us knew how to respond to the man’s remark. My uncle quickly changed the topic to a newsworthy matter.

I took the opportunity to excuse myself to the men’s room, only to be offered concomitance by the elderly gentleman.

No sooner had we entered the rest facility than Sir Mossey locked the door behind him. He caught hold of my wrist, swung me to him and planted a kiss on my mouth. Taken by surprise, I stood dumfounded. He released his grip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I am charmed by your boyishness and got carried away,” he apologized. I did not reply. After a moment’s silence, he resumed, “Did you have a chance to review the contents of my package?”

I did not know what he was talking about. I stammered, “Err, what package, sir?”

“The package I entrusted your professor to give you. Did he not hand you the envelope?”

I had completely forgotten about the envelope Dubois had given me at Chateau Rouge. I answered, “Err… yes, sir. I haven’t had a chance to open the package…”

Before I could continue, he had returned to his previous eccentric demeanour. “I’ll be expecting your answer. I look forward to spending time with you.” He gave me a kiss on my cheek before disappearing from the men’s room, leaving me to wonder what had just transpired.

Chapter Fifteen

An Unorthodox Proposal

“When I was young, I knew money was an important thing in life. Now that I’m older – I’m positive it is.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

1967

New Year’s Eve

I didn’t get a quiet moment with Uncle James until he, Andy and I sat down for afternoon tea at the famed Claridges Hotel. My stomach was already rumbling as an array of delicacies arrived in polished silver trays. While I consumed mouthfuls of scrumptious scones and finger sandwiches, Uncle James joked, “Young man, where are your table manners?”

Andy fuelled jestingly, “This boy acts as if he hasn’t eaten for days, no matter how often I reproach his comportment.”

“Boys, joshing aside, I have something to tell you.” He continued, “There is something I want to relay to the both of you about Ozwalt Mossey.”

This remark made us stare earnestly at my English guardian. We waited for my uncle to resume. He said haughtily, “I think you should be told that Mossey’s sordid past is less than desirable. Are you aware he was responsible for the creation of the British Union of Fascists (BUF) in 1932? The BUF was a protectionist organization, strongly anti-communist and nationalistic to the point of authoritarianism.

“In his younger years, he was a strikingly handsome, charismatic man and probably the best orator in England. The BUF was frequently involved in violent confrontations, especially with Communist and Jewish groups in London.”

My chaperone inquired, “How did he obtain the title ‘Sir’ if he was such a notorious political figure?”

James shook his head and sighed, “He’s a shrewd politician and knew how to advance his political agenda by marrying Lady Cimmie, a daughter of India’s Viceroy, Lord Curzon.

“Their wedding was the social event of the year. It was held at London St James Palace Chapel Royal and attended by hundreds of European dignitaries and royalties, including King George V, Queen Mary, and Leopold III and Astrid of Sweden, the future King and Queen of Belgium.”

He paused before adding, “Unfortunately, Lady Cimmie died of peritonitis in 1933. Mossey then secretly married his mistress Diana, one of the Mitford sisters from the Berlin home of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda.”

Andy voiced, “What happened to him during the World War II years?”

James declared, “He and Diana Mitford were interned in a house within Holloway prison, along with many active British fascists, and the BUF was proscribed.”

I questioned, “What happened to him after the war? Was he exiled to France by the British government?”

“He tried to make a political comeback but failed miserably,” James revealed.

“Ahh! No wonder,” he uttered, “‘You don’t clear up a dung-heap from underneath,’” Andy iterated.

“Was that the reason he moved to France to write his autobiography?” I queried curiously.

“I guess that’s a reason. By the way, Young, had you met him before that evening at Michael Chow?” my surrogate dad asked.

I replied sheepishly, “What makes you think that?”

“I saw the look on your face, as if you recognized him when you were introduced.” He scanned my reaction. I wasn’t sure if I should reveal to my uncle what had transpired between me and his lordship. I kept quiet. Andy’s eyes bore into me, besieging me to tell the truth.

“We met at Baron Pierre’s Christmas festivities,” I muttered embarrassingly, feeling as if I’d committed a heinous crime.

“And?” James pressed.

Not desiring to confide the entire truth to my guardian, I stated, “Monsieur Dubois handed me an envelope from Mossey before I left Chateau Rouge.”

“You didn’t tell me that…” Andy voiced irritatingly. He gazed at me with consternation before he added, “What’s in the package?”

I stammered, “There’s a cheque and a proposal letter.” The men waited for me to continue. I reached into my shoulder bag, pulled out an envelope and handed to my lover.

Andy read the contents out loud:

Young,

You are a handsome boy. I’m enamoured by your youthful intelligence and masterful lovemaking skills. You possess an innocent naturalness I find difficult to resist. I’m beguiled by you. The short time we spent together was an analeptic sexual rejuvenation for me. I had not felt such virility for years. I’m not the type of person who makes ex tempore decisions, but your sensual sexuality had smitten me to inscribe this proposal for your consideration. I hope you will consider this proposition seriously.

●    I will purchase a London flat in your name if you agree to be my beau. This will be my gift for your loyalty.

●    In order for you to travel around the country with ease, a city car together with regular maintenance will also be gifted to you.

●    To ensure financial security on your part and in the event of my untimely demise, a monthly stipend will be deposited into a Swiss bank account in your name.

In return, I ask for your confidentiality - never to reveal the nature of our relationship to anyone. Our dalliance must be kept a secret. Please be mindful that I will not hesitate to take legal action against any slanderous aspersions inflicted upon me or my family.

Please consider my offer. You can reach me at my private number…

I look forward to your speedy response.

Yours sincerely,

Ernest O.M.

2014

Andy’s Email Comment

When you handed me that envelope, I was mortified by Mossey’s proposal. I did not take kindly to the man’s insolence and his implication that you were a boy-toy who could be bought and discarded according to his whims. Thank goodness Uncle James was at hand to offer you counsel. His advice was a valuable lesson for you. I wouldn’t have thought of a better counter proposal to that which he proffered.

If James and I hadn’t offered our guidance, you would’ve taken his offer and become one of the many caged nightingales of his latter years. I’m glad James saw through his charismatic demeanour and warned us of his abhorrent past.

I dug up information on Mossey after I learned of his attentions for you. He had a history of abusive sadomasochistic violence towards his subordinates and to those akin to him. As much as you fancied the idea of being a kept boy, you would’ve regretted taking his offer. I’m grateful that James devised a plan for you to slip away from this abhorrent situation. I must also give you credit for suggesting your counter-proposal to us, making the implementation effortless.

1967

New Year’s Eve (continuation)

When Andy finished reading, a brief silence ensured. My lover was the first to comment, “This is a loathsome proposition – to treat Young in such a manner!”

“And what manner is that?” Uncle James chimed.

“Young is my beloved. He’s not to be bought and sold like chattel in an open market,” Andy uttered vexingly.

My English guardian marked quizzically, “Is there a difference between harem services and those of a kept boy?”

My chaperone was stunned by my uncle’s remark. He couldn’t think of a championing response, thus leaving my surrogate dad to continue. “I like to listen to Young’s opinion. Andy, you and I can provide advice, but ultimately, it is Young’s decision.

I, too, was taken aback by this turn of events. I was speechless. My mind raced to find a possible answer.

Finally, I muttered apathetically, “If I’m to be a kept boy, I’ll expect to be housed in a luxury penthouse, not in a run-of-the mill flat.

“Secondly, I’ll want a top-of-the-line sports car –a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, not a city car.

“Last but not least, I’ll insist on a healthy remuneration to keep me in a princely style.”

Andy stared at me as if I was a whoreson, while Uncle James broke out in comedic exuberance. Shocked by my uncle’s boisterous outburst, my lover gaped, not knowing what to make of my guardian.

“You can take the boy out of China, but you can’t take China out of the boy,” the Englishman vociferated hilariously.

My chaperone scrutinized my uncle, wondering if the man had lost his mind. He waited for James’ laughter to subside. “What are you talking about?” he expressed.

I twittered, “In the event that you’ve lost your mind, sir, I’m not from China. I’m from Malaya.”

James iterated enthusiastically, “Nevertheless, you, young man, are Chinese. Having dealt with Chinese businessmen for most of my life, you are a true-to-form Chinese.” He resumed, “Like the Hong Kong Chinese I’ve dealt with over the years you are an excellent negotiator. You’ve inherited your parents’ genetic ability to strike an optimum bargain to your advantage.” He paused. “In all seriousness, I think your counter-suggestions may be just the ammunition you’ll need to fend off Mossey. That is, if you desire to forgo his offer,” he opined.

Quick-witted Andy responded cheerfully, “What an awesome idea. I’ll be more than happy to draft the counter-proposal for you, my lovely one.”

For the most part, I’d been a silent observer of this imprudent frivolity. I answered calmly, after giving the matter some thought, “I’ll sleep on this and have answers for you before our return to Daltonbury Hall.”

The First Day of 1968

Unlike the previous New Year, when Uncle James, Andy, Oscar and I had spent an intimate dinner celebration together, that year, we were guests of Sheik Fahrib. He had also invited Baron Pierre and the infamous Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey to dine with us at Claridges Art Deco restaurant.

Dr. Fahrib was pleased to meet my uncle. Their acquaintance had gotten off to a good start. While the men were discussing investment opportunities in Hong Kong and the United Arab Emirates, Sir Ozwalt Mossey leaned across and whispered, “Have you made a decision?”

I nodded and reached into my suit pocket to pull out a sealed envelope. I handed it to his lordship under the table. Without uttering a word, he stuffed the document into his jacket’s breast pocket before participating in the men’s conversation.

My Valet gave me a devious wink. As the evening progressed, the sheik extended an invitation to my uncle to visit Sharjah. “Since the boys will be stationed at my home, you’re welcome to visit them anytime. I’d be delighted to show you my principality,” the doctor conveyed.

“Thank you for the invitation. I will take up your kind offer to see Sharjah and visit the boys while they are there,” my guardian replied.

A surprised look washed over Mossey’s face. He had not expected that I would be stationed in the Emirates. “Why are the boys under your care?” he queried.

Andy chimed smirkingly, “We are part of a student exchange programme and are learning the ways of Middle Eastern cultures.”

Ozwalt, mulling over the contents in the envelope, gave me a puzzled look. I gave him an endearing smile and looked away.

Chapter Sixteen

The Foibles of Young Love

“Ah, clear they see and true they say

That one shall weep, and one shall stray.”

Dorothy Parker

1968

Back at Daltonbury Hall

Classes commenced as soon as Andy and I returned to our boarding school. This time around, I didn’t share a room with Duc and Samuel. I was allocated a BB named Wilhem, a Viking hunk of a Senior. If anyone was looking for the Swede, they were told to locate him at the school’s gymnasium. Since I was already a Junior and needed little attention and coaching, I was left on my own most of the time.

Andy had returned to Yates Fraternity. Little did I realize a new Valet had been assigned to me for my next household. Although Andy and I were stationed together at Assalamu Alaikum (Peace be with you), he would be Albert’s Valet, and I would remain in the Viking’s care.

The first couple of days at Daltonbury were a flurry of classes and assignments before our departure to the Bahriji (Oasis) School in the Emirates.

The news of Samuel’s rejection from the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society came to me through Duc, Sam’s BB. Although the boy had no idea he has been under observation, Andy, Duc and I did know about it. Unfortunately, Sam’s Yuletide insolence had jeopardised his recruitment potential. The Enlightened Royal Oracle Society’s authorities had assigned Duc to accompany a new E.R.O.S. Freshman to an Al Ain household. I was unsurprised when I found Samuel weeping in a quiet corner by Tolkien Brotherhood’s recreational room.

Poor Samuel

When Duc broke the news to his charge that he would soon be leaving for a student exchange programme to the Emirates, Sam went into a hysterical outburst. He threw a tantrum in front of a group of classmates and had to be carted off to the ‘Rabbit Hole,’ where Dr. Hunton gave him some calmatives.

Although a regular BB would replace Duc as Samuel’s guardian, the Freshman had fallen head over heels in love with his mentor. Remembering my own experience when Nikee left to forge a new life outside of Daltonbury, I sympathized with the adolescent. My heart reached out to Sam.

“Shush! Stop crying. Why are you so sad?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

The boy continued to weep. I wrapped my arm around his delicate frame. “Hush… Stop sobbing. Tell me what’s bothering you,” I consoled.

“Duc doesn’t love me anymore,” he blurted.

“What makes you think that?” I questioned.

Sam looked at me and burst into uncontrollable tears. “He’s leaving me for the Middle East, here on my own.”

“Now, now, stop being a cry baby,” I muttered. “Let me tell you a little story.”

He stared at me attentively. I began, “Once upon a time, there was a boy, much like yourself. He was in love with his big brother, Nikee.” I paused, remembering those first, innocent moments. “His BB reminded him to play the field – never to fall in love with him but to love him. Nikee quoted Gilbert Parker to his charge, saying, ‘Love knows not distance; it hath no continent; its eyes are for the stars.’” Before I could continue, Samuel chirped, “What does that mean?”

“It means that no matter how far apart you are from the person you love, oceans and countries will never separate you. You’ll both be working toward the greater good for one another. This, my friend, is the nature of unselfish love. Love is neither egotistical nor possessive. If you truly love Duc, you’ll want to see him happy and allow him to express his freedom. True love is not possessive but expansive.”

The lad declared, “But I’ll be separated from Duc. I won’t be able to have him with me all the time.”

I patted the boy’s hand before resuming, “Cherish the wonderful times you’ve had together. These loving memories will keep your love for him burning bright. I’m sure your BB has told you before to love him but not to be in love with him.”

“He has said that on numerous occasions. But I wasn’t expecting to see him leave so soon…” My heart reached out to Sam as tears welled up again. I hugged him close.

“Shush, don’t start crying. I’ll take you to your room, and we’ll continue this conversation.”

He slipped his hand into mine as we walked to his chamber in silence. My companionship had eased his disquietude. Through Andy and my BBs, I had gained some insights into the meaning of unconditional love.

As we sat on Sam’s bed that evening, I related my personal trepidations over Nikee’s leaving me. I spoke of Andy’s manifestation into my life through universal design. Last, I reassured my friend that he would always have a friend in me, in my Valet and in Duc. I also assured him that Stephen, his newly appointed big brother, would care for him in the best possible manner.

Just as we were finishing our conversation, Duc entered. He was surprised to find me comforting his charge.

“Well, hello, who have we here?” he voiced cheerily before resuming, “It’s nice to see you, Young. How have you been?”

“I’m well. I’m about to leave. I’m sure Sam would like to spend time with you. I’ll leave the two of you alone,” I said in an attempt to excuse myself.

Before I could go, Duc put his hands on my shoulders, indicating for me to stay.

“Has this boy been crying again?” he said and reached to console his charge. I remarked, “He’s afraid you don’t love him anymore.”

The French Canadian wrapped his muscular arms around his little brother, kissed his forehead, said. “You silly boy, I’ll always love you. We’ll be apart for a while, but I’ll be back in three months after Al Ain.

“Stephen is a competent BB. You’ll like him. He will look after you while I’m gone. You’ll meet him tomorrow. Tonight, we can sleep together on the same bed. Would you like that?” Duc gave me a look. “Maybe Young would like to stay with us tonight?” he implored.

He looked at Samuel for a response. “That would be nice. I would like that,” he mumbled.

“I’ll have to inform Wilhem that I’ll be spending the night here. Otherwise, he’ll be searching for me if I’m not in my room,” I expressed.

“We’ll be here. Just come to bed upon your return. I will leave the door unlocked,” the BB remarked contentedly.

Ménage à Trois

The moment my vision adjusted to the dimness of the room I had left not so long ago, the ardent couple was already in passionate embrace. Aroused by their ardent kisses, I stripped to join them. Duc’s well-defined musculature swaddled his little brother’s slender physique with amorous prudency. I stared beguilingly at the love that dared not speak its name.

His tender kisses slowly pried opened the boy’s delicate lips, exploring the depths of his lover’s inner crevasses. Sam reciprocated; their curling tongues swirled in an erotic sensuality as if they were desperately trying to fill the void of their impending separation. Sam’s eagerness stirred in me the memory of my Valet’s and my lovemaking. It was an inseverable prurience that only ardent lovers are bestowed the privilege to experience. Merging them into a solicitous entity, their coitus was a specimen of perfection. I was at a loss as I stood entranced by this exquisite emotional outpour. It was only when the big brother signaled to me to partake in their amative coterie that I released my hypnotic fascination to join in an affirmative ménage à trois. Although I felt the urge to remain a silent observer of this winsome captivation, my stiffness perforated my better judgement. The duo welcomed me into their midst. Our unconditional love needed no justification.

It was of little doubt that Duc’s and my serenity had electrified our little brother. Our passionate lovemaking had left a peaceful equanimity over the anxiety-driven lad. His serene slumber provided his guardian and me a chance to speak in private.

Conversation with Duc

We sat in a quiet corner next to the recreational room’s fireplace. Duc shook his head and began, “It’s a shame Sam didn’t make it into E.R.O.S.”

“I thought he was progressing well during his observation period. What happened?”

The BB sighed, “I discovered that Sam was the one who had played the vicious pranks at the ‘Peter Pan’ performances. It saddened me to disclose this information to the E.R.O.S. recruitment board.”

“Why did you inform them? You could have kept it a secret.”

He shook his head again. “In the event he got accepted, his arrogance and conceitedness would be a problem within the Arab households. I’m aware of the stringent E.R.O.S. rules. His vindictiveness would not have sat kindly with the board, and the lad is hot-headed and would jeopardize the society’s secrecy. It is for the best that he’s not nominated as a candidate,” the French Canadian stated.

“What’s going to happen to Sam? Is he going to be reprimanded for his offensive actions?” I questioned.

“I don’t know. For his sake, I hope he will not be expelled; after all, he caused injuries to both pantomime performers.”

I divulged, “Sam already misses you.”

“I know. I will miss him too. Unfortunately, duty calls. It’s a pledge I’d made to the society, and I will follow through with it. I hope our separation will help him understand that nothing is permanent. He must be responsible for his actions. I think, if Sam is allowed to stay in school, Stephen will be a good influence on him.

“But what’s up with you, Young? Tell me everything,” he urged.

I told of my blithesome time in Spain, including the misadventures with Thor. I also related Sir Ozwalt Mossey’s unorthodox proposal. We chatted at length until midnight, when we were booted out of the facility by the cleaning staff. We returned to our chambers, only to begin our hectic schedules once again a few hours later.

Chapter Seventeen

An Unanticipated Visitor

“Lust’s passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.”

Marquis de Sade

2012

Andy’s Comments

Young,

You were well aware of my opinion of Ozwalt Mossey before you gave him your counterproposal. He was not an easy person, and I did not take kindly to his rancid demands. His unanticipated visit to Daltonbury still fosters putrid tangs in my memory.

First Weekend of Jan 1968

Andy, Albert, Wilhem, and I were scheduled to return to the Bahriji (Oasis) School on a Monday. I was surprised when Wilhem approached me after Sunday chapel service to inform me to report to the Headmaster’s office. When I asked the reason, the Swede shook his head. He had no idea why Dean Higgins had summoned me, but it seemed urgent.

Dr. Higgins motioned me to a seat across from his desk. “Young, I have been on the telephone with Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey. He has pressing matters to discuss with you.” My headmaster stared at me as if I was withholding classified information from him. He resumed, “I told him you’re not available until tomorrow morning. As you are aware…” he said and paused, “visitors to the school must provide a minimum of twenty four hours’ notice.”

I gave a cognizant nod. He continued, “But you are scheduled to depart Daltonbury tomorrow afternoon.” He eyed me intently before resuming, “So, I made an exception for Sir Mossey. He wants to catch you before you leave. He is arriving in the morning. You can meet him in the visitor’s lounge. Shall I ask your big brother Wilhem to accompany you to the meeting?”

I replied, “Can I have Andy accompany me, sir?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” he declared. “I’ll have Wilhem close at hand if you require his assistance.” He appeared to have an inkling as to Mossey’s intention. “I’ll send for you when he arrives.” He shook my hand firmly before ushering me out of the office.

Conversation with Andy

As soon as I’d closed the door, I ran as fast as I could to locate my lover. I found Andy chatting animatedly with a group of his rowing buddies. He excused himself from the group as soon as he saw me approaching. “What’s up lad? Why are you in such a hurry?” he questioned.

“To find you,” I gushed.

“Whatever for?” he asked puzzlingly.

I pulled him out of earshot and blurted, “Mossey is coming to see me tomorrow morning!”

“What?! Why?” my Valet exclaimed.

“I have no idea. I thought my ridiculous counter stipulations would stop him from trying to see me again.”

“Apparently not!” Andy vociferated. “I’ll accompany you to the meeting. We’ll see what he’s got up his sleeve.

“Now, boy! Make sure you’re calm and composed when you’re in his presence. Don’t be flustered. Do you understand me?” he commanded. “Let me do the talking.”

I nodded.

Meeting with Sir Ozwalt Mossey

I was excused from my morning tutorials when Dean Higgins’ secretary came to summon me to the visitor’s lounge. Andy was already waiting outside the chamber. Before we entered, he said, “Remember what I told you yesterday – let me do the talking.”

Ozwalt Mossey was surprised to see my Valet with me. He had obviously expected to see me alone. Although he greeted us politely, I detected his uneasiness at my chaperone’s presence. His lordship asked, “Can I talk to Young in private?”

“I’m his big brother, and it is my duty to accompany him to all his meetings. Please feel free to speak to my charge,” my Valet answered.

“I have private matters I’d like to discuss with Young alone. Can you excuse us?”

“I’m afraid that is not possible, sir,” my chaperone declared. “I have to be with the boy at all times.”

His lordship raised his voice impatiently, “I am asking you to leave us ALONE, Mr. Valet!”

Andy remained seated. I chirped, “Sir, please tell me the reason for your visit. My guardian is fully aware of your proposal.”

Struck by my candidness, Ozwalt stammered, “Very well, I will tell you the reason I’m here,” he raised his voice in displeasure. “Your counterproposal is deplorable!”

My lover remarked aggressively, “What’s deplorable about Young wishing to be kept in the style he is accustomed to?”

The Englishman exclaimed, “He’s not even of age to drive, and he wants a Lamborghini or a Ferrari? What is he thinking?!”

“You offered him a city car,” my Valet countered. “He has every right to ask for what he desires.”

The man repudiated defensively, “I offered him a city car upon his coming of age to drive, not before!”

He was seething with anger. “Atop this, he demands a luxury penthouse in Mayfair or Park Lane, not to mention the live-in personal tutor! Is he insane? Most adults wouldn’t be able to afford a luxury flat and experienced educator, let alone an adolescent who is barely out of his teens.”

“Sir, if you do not have the financial capabilities to accommodate the boy’s expectations, there are others who are perfectly capable of doing so,” my chaperone asserted.

“Andy! Are you telling me that the lad has other well-endowed suitors willing to pay for such frivolousness?”

My lover and I sniggered at the Englishman’s comment, but we managed to suppress our mirth. My guardian answered solemnly, “That, Sir, is none of your concern. I presume you’re here to discuss Young’s counterproposal, not the proposals of his other suitors.”

He was taken aback by my mentor’s forthrightness. He raised his voice in retaliation. “I’m here to talk to Young. I would like Young to speak for himself.”

I spoke unrelentingly, “I have asked Andy to negotiate on my behalf. I have heard everything he has said and challenge none of it. If my terms are not met, I’m afraid our arrangement is over. There is no further need for discussion.”

By now, Ozwalt was on fire. He waved his fist at me and shouted, “You rapacious whore! You’re nothing but a self-indulgent sybaritic slut from a third-world country!” Before he could continue lambasting me with further insults, Wilhem entered.

“What’s going on here?” my big-brother questioned.

Mossey resumed berating my integrity, calling me a barrage of repugnant names while my chaperones carted him off the campus grounds to his waiting chauffeur and Bentley. Groups of students stood gaping at the wild man, speculating about the nature of the ruckus they were witnessing.

Before long, the school’s footmen, together with Dean Higgins’ secretary, had shushed the busybodies back to their respective classes, but word of the morning’s furor had already spread like wildfire throughout campus.

I thought I would be gone before the gossip-mongers would have a chance to corner me -- unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more misguided.

Sam’s Visit

An hour before I was due on Daltonbury’s thirty-seater plane, Sam came to my chamber to bid me farewell. I was doing some last-minute packing when the adolescent showed up.

“I’ll miss you and Duc,” he cried as soon as I opened the dorm room door.

Taken by surprise by this sudden outburst, I wrapped my arms around the boy to ease his forlornness. “You’re such a silly sentimentalist. We won’t be away that long. Besides, Stephen and school will keep you plenty busy while we are away,” I comforted.

He snickered sarcastically, “Word’s gotten around that you had a dejected visitor this morning.”

“Who told you that?” I feigned ignorance.

He gave me a devious grin, as if he knew more than he let on. “Oh, you know… word travels quickly.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. What do you know that I don’t?” I queried sardonically.

Sam simpered, “An elderly man was slugging lots of grimy names toward one of my intimate friends.”

“Really! Who?” I commented vehemently.

“You know who. What did you do to the poor soul?”

I kept silent as I finished packing. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I maintained.

“Come clean now! I would never reveal your grotty little secrets to anyone,” the Freshman mocked.

I continued to busy myself, thinking of an appropriate reply. Just then, one of the school’s footmen arrived to collect my luggage. As I adjusted my cap to walk out of the room, I turned to my friend and uttered smirkingly, “Dear, dear Sam, do me a favor and mind your own business.” I clipped his nose playfully. “Stop being a nosy bugger. Don’t listen to gossip that has nothing to do with you.”

On that note, I disappeared down the hallway to join the rest of the entourage that was already assembled at Daltonbury’s side entrance.

Continuation of Andy’s comments

Young, this is how I remember that incident:

When we entered the visitors’ lounge, that arrogant nitwit was smoking his pipe. The way he stared at you made me cringe. God only knows what would’ve happened if I weren’t with you. He would have molested you without reservation.

When he catechized your “formidable” counterproposal, which you had every right to stipulate, I was ready to punch that fool in the face. He was lucky I held back and did not allow my rage to cloud my better judgment. Otherwise, I would had knocked him out cold! I don’t think Dr. Dean Higgins would have appreciated a dead aristocrat on the school’s floor. ☺

I was relieved when I read of his demise from Parkinson’s disease back in 1980. To this day, I’m still grateful for Uncle James’ timely warning to beware of this sanctimonious hypocrite.

My dear fella, I’m glad this despotic fascist is no longer living in our midst.

Andy XOXOXO

Chapter Eighteen

What Is Love?

“The best feelings are those that have no words to describe them.”

Michelle Hammersley

1968

Bahriji (Oasis) School

Classes resumed the following day after my arrival at the Oasis school. Besides our regular lessons, we Juniors had intermediate classes and tutorials in the Art of Human Sexuality. Professor Henderson’s lecture on that particular morning was titled “The Anatomy of Romantic Love.” Dr. Andrew Henderson’s teaching assistant was a big brother named Zac. This athletic Norwegian was then planning a career in education. His ambition was to obtain a Master’ Degree in Education before returning to become a teacher at one of several E.R.O.S. educational establishments. For now, he was learning the tricks of the trade by being our professor’s apprentice.

Zac

Zac was a dignified eighteen-year-old. His charming stateliness laid in his refined mannerism and cultured upbringing. His father, Theodore Matteus Christiansen, came from a linage of established Norwegian barristers, while his mother, Alexia, was of Romanian nobility. My initial impression of the teaching assistant was his pensive gentlemanliness. He took his position seriously and was efficient at every turn. As our lesson progressed and our professor touched on the explanation of love, I couldn’t help but notice discreet glances from the BB when he thought I wasn’t looking.

This ‘Thing’ Call Love

The Doctor questioned the class, “Can anyone tell me what constitutes love?”

One of my classmate raised his hand, “Love is an emotion. It’s involuntary.”

Our professor gave a furtive grin before responding, “Love certainly feels like an emotion – an incredibly strong one at that.” He paused before resuming, “But in the scientific community, the conservative definition of emotions includes happiness, sadness, disgust, anger and surprise – these and other basic emotions that can be seen easily on the human face.

“Brain science tells us that love is a drive, like thirst. A drive is not linked with a specific facial expression. It is a craving for a specific person. It is normal, in fact natural to “lose control” in the early stages of infatuation. Love, like thirst, will make a person do strange things. It is a natural addiction, and treating it like an addiction can help us understand the nature of this sudden, explosive drive.

“A drive focuses one’s behavior on a goal until that goal is fulfilled. Hunger is the classic example. When a person is hungry, the goal is food. He or she remains hungry until he/she gets food. That person can be hungry for hours, days, or even weeks. This person will likely go through a wide spectrum of emotions in attempt to find and consume food. He/she may feel anger or dismay when attempts to procure food are thwarted, and contentment or even elation when he/she finally gets to eat.” He stopped to observe the reactions of his pupils before resuming, “Like hunger, love is a drive. The other person, the one being hungered for, becomes a goal in this ‘love-sick’ person’s life, and a man or woman may go through many emotions as he or she focuses on winning the ‘beloved’.

“Very often, society tends to identify love with euphoria, but that is hardly the only emotion involved. Ecstasy, compassion, surprise, anxiety, anger, jealousy, and despair are mood swings – a kite rising high and falling low, as if the string of passion is pulled by the ‘beloved.’”

Our teacher stopped to ask, “Has anyone here been in love?”

The class giggled, but no one answered this rhetorical question.

For some unknown reason, my hand rose to challenge my professor. I questioned, “Sir, are you referring to romantic love, or are we on the topic of unconditional love?”

The doctor nodded as if he understood yet made no attempt to answer.

He continued, “The ancient Greeks called love “the madness of the gods.” Modern psychologists define it as a strong desire for emotional union with another person. But what, actually, is love? It means different things to different people. From songwriters, we get ‘Whenever you’re near, I hear a symphony.’ Shakespeare wrote, ‘Love is blind, and lovers cannot see.’ And Aristotle thought that ‘Love is a single soul inhabiting two bodies’.”

When he finished the last sentence, he looked at me and said, “We, in the scientific community think that ROMANCE (he stressed the word) is one of three basic brain systems that evolved for mating and reproduction:

1)    The sex drive or lust - the craving for sexual gratification - evolved to enable you and me to seek a range of potential mating partners. After all, we can have sex with someone we are not in love with. We can even feel the sex drive when driving, reading or watching a movie. Lust is not necessarily focused on a particular individual.

2)    Romantic love, or attraction - the obsessive thinking about and craving for a particular person - evolved to enable you and me to focus our mating energy on just one individual at a time. As the Indian poet Kabir puts it, ‘The lane of love is narrow; there is room for only one.’

3)    Attachment - the feeling of deep union with a long-term partner - evolved to enable us to remain with a mate long enough to rear a single child through infancy together as a team, although many remain together much longer to enjoy the benefits of life with a partner, even when they do not want children.

These three brain systems and feelings interact in many ways to create the myriad forms of loving.” My teacher gave me a magniloquent smile, indicating that he had inadvertently answered my question.

He signaled the teaching assistant to the chalk board. Zac wrote as our teacher spoke.

“Let’s start with ATTRACTION. We can choose to call it romantic love, obsessive love, passionate love, or infatuation: men and women of every era and culture have been affected by this irresistible power. And what is that power?” The doctor pointed at a student who was nodding off. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much the night before. The teacher’s questioning jolted the lad back to the present. He looked puzzled but his sprightliness returned as soon as he noticed the word ATTRACTION on the chalk board. He answered, “Attraction, sir!”

“Very good, Robin!” Our educator announced. “Let’s get back to our lesson before you doze off again, shall we?”

He stated, “The intensity of romantic love tends to last anywhere from six months to two years before turning into attachment, in the majority of relationships. This is when romance turns to love. The most extraordinary effect on human behavior is this thing called LOVE.” Our teacher indicated to Zac to jot down the pointers he was to divulge.

“Listed here (he pointed to the board) are some behavioral traits that may characterize the early stages of romantic love:

●     Special meaning: the romantic partner is the center of the lover’s world, and he or she likes anything and everything the beloved likes.

●     Intense energy, headiness; the lover has difficulty sleeping.

●     The lover experiences a loss of appetite.

●     He or she suffers mood swings.

●     Separation anxiety comes into play.

●     The lover feels a constant craving to be with the beloved.

●     The lover or lovers feel intense motivation toward emotional and sexual unions.

●     Possessiveness of the beloved sets in.

●     Intrusive thinking on the part of the lover.”

Dr. Henderson paused.

Traces of Love

“Love songs, love poems, love magic, love charms, operas, ballets, plays, stories, sculptures, paintings, holidays, temples, palaces: the world is strewn with the artifacts of intense romantic love. Anthropologists have now examined over 200 societies, and everywhere they have found evidence of this passion.” He directed his gaze at me and said, “Romantic love is one of the Human Universals.”

“What are Human Universals?” I blurted.

“My dear lad, ‘Human Universals’ is a book written by an American professor of anthropology, Donald Brown. He said, ‘Human Universals comprise those features of culture, society, language, behaviour, and psyche for which there are no known exceptions’,” the doctor replied before vociferating, “We are not here to discuss Brown’s theories. We are here to talk about LOVE.”

He paused before taking up where he left off, “There are those who continue to believe that romantic love was ‘invented’ by 12th-century French troubadours and singing minstrels. But the oldest known love poem dates back some 6,000 years to ancient Sumer. It was carved on cuneiform tablets in the Uruk language. The story recounts the romance of Inanna, a queen, who fell in love with a shepherd boy, Dumusi, whom she called ‘My beloved, the delight of my eyes.’

“You boys will come to understand that declarations of love are found in all cultures. In ancient Greece, Psyche whispered to Eros, ‘I love you, I love you desperately, I love you more than my own self.’ Then, there’s the 7th-century Arabian legend that told of Majnum and Layla. Their feuding families kept them apart. These two young lovers died from unfulfilled love. In a 12th-century Chinese fable called ’The Jade Goddess,’ Chang Po, a vivacious boy with long, tapered fingers who was gifted for carving jade, eloped with Meilan, the daughter of a high official. Chang Po said to his beloved, ‘You were made for me and I was made for you, and I will not let you go.’ Unfortunately, these two lovers were of different social classes in the then rigid social order of China. Meilan was captured by her family and buried alive in her father’s garden. The tale of Meilan still haunts many Chinese to this day.”

Our teacher recommenced, “There are more examples I can give you.

“Deep in the jungles of modern day Guatemala lies a temple built in the eighth century by the grandest Sun king of the Mayan empire. The ruler stood over 6 feet tall and lived into his 80s, but Mayan inscriptions reported that he was madly in love with his wife, who died young. He built a temple for her to face his. During the spring and autumn equinoxes, the sun would rise behind his temple to bathe hers with its shadow. Simultaneously, in the setting sun, her temple would bathe his temple in its shadow. It is known that these two lovers still touch from the grave to this day.”

I raised my hand again. “It’s all well and good to be infatuated by romantic love, but that isn’t ‘true’ love, is it?”

Love and Lust

Professor Henderson ruffled my hair and smiled. “Perhaps I’ll have my delightful assistant answer. I’d like to hear what he has to say on this subject.”

The big brother was surprised when called upon to comment. His awkwardness soon transformed to conviction when he spoke. “Although, the ancient Greeks had several words for different kinds of love, let us divide love into three basic brain systems: lust (the sex drive), romantic love and feelings of deep attachment. Although these three systems are often deeply entwined, that is not always the case,” he paused for effect.

“For example, you can have sex with someone you don’t love. You can also be madly in love with someone you’ll never bed. That said, you can also feel a deep sense of attachment to someone for whom you feel neither lust nor a romantic passion.

“In short, each of these basic mating drives is associated with a different primary brain and chemical system,” he identified.

He looked directly at me before commenting, “LUST,” he stressed, as he proceeded to the side of my desk, “is what an Italian proverb calls ‘the oldest lion of them all.’ It has long been associated with the testosterone system in both men and women.

“You see, boys, first and foremost, romantic love is orchestrated by the dopamine system in the brain. Feelings of deep attachment are linked with the neurochemicals oxytocin and vasopressin.”

As he spoke, he discreetly dropped a neatly folded paper onto my lap. I listened attentively as if nothing extraordinary had transpired. I clutched the note within my palm before placing it into my trouser pocket.

He moved slowly to face the whole group. “Interestingly, most people can easily distinguish romantic love and lust. In the Polynesian island of Mangaia, ‘real love’ is called inangaro kino. It is a state of romantic passion distinct from sexual desire. The Taita of Kenya identify lust as ashiki, while they refer to romantic love as pendo. In Caruaru, a small town in north eastern Brazil, locals say, ‘Amor is when you feel a desire to always be with the beloved; you’re always thinking of him or her; you cannot live without him or her. On the other hand, horniness is referred to as Paixao.” The class laughed.

One of our classmates questioned, “Why are we studying the brain systems of romantic love?”

Dr. Andrew answered, “You must understand, boys, It’s a long-held belief that romantic love is part of the supernatural, a special form of magic that has otherworldly power. Although most people don’t believe that fear or anger or depression are part of the supernatural, many maintain that love’s passion is an ethereal force that engulfs the mind.

“However, a certain philosopher named John Dewey wrote, ‘Mind is what the brain does.’ Every time you feel, think or do anything, the brain is working - generating your thoughts, emotions and actions.”

I chirped, “What can be gained from this expansive and difficult ‘love’ endeavor?”

Dr. Andrew finalized, “Most important, I believe that if I can identify the brain systems associated with this potent and universal human sensation of ‘romantic love,’ I might be able to pioneer methods to help rejected men and women overcome their depression and avoid violent behaviours while enabling people to make more vibrant, stable, happy partnerships.”

“Is Zac assisting you in this research, sir?” I asked.

The doctor smiled and nodded before dismissing the class.

As I was packing my belongings, the Norwegian came over. “Do you need help with this thing called ‘love’?” he teased.

“I can manage very well with this thing called ‘love.’”

He watched while I gathered my belongings. Since I was the last to leave, he remarked, “Young, you take care of your body and spread a positive and healing energy to those around you. Pink auras are rare, and so are the people who have them.”

I stared at him, not knowing what he was talking about. He added, “Love, sincerity, affection and generosity are perfect words to describe you. Your pink aura indicates that you’ve achieved a perfect balance between your spiritual and material existence. You love to love and be loved. You hate conflicts, and…”

Before I knew it, his lips were on mine. I had not expected this teaching assistant to make such a bold move, especially when he’d been so regimented throughout the lesson. Before he disappeared, his words were, “Don’t be late for our appointment.”

Chapter Nineteen

The Golden Boy

“Suddenly, I’ve got an overwhelming desire to surround myself with the aura of romantic love.”

Zac R. Christiansen

1968

“The Hanging Gardens of Babylon”

I arrived at “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon,” where Andy had explained the meaning of Love to me during the early stages of our courtship. Now, I was here again, waiting for another big brother, Zac R. Christiansen. The crumpled paper on my lap, read:

“Meet me after dinner this evening at the Hanging Gardens.”

The unsigned note did not give a meeting time. There was no sign of anyone at the Hanging Gardens except the sounds of rustling leaves from nearby trees. I sat at the bench where my Valet and I had conversed a year ago. As I gazed out into the expansive desertscape, I remembered my chaperone’s profound explanations of the meaning of love. Now, the golden hues of the setting sun stirred a melancholic sense of uncertainty within me. Although Andy had promised he would always love me, he was no longer my Valet – now he was Albert’s. Capricious tears welled in my eyes as I wondered what life had in store for me. I was facing something I had to jump over, or, if I didn’t hold the reins firmly, fall. A voice spoke from behind.

“I’m glad you came,” the teaching assistant declared.

“Why wouldn’t I? You asked me to meet you here.”

He sat next to me and said, “Why are you looking so forlorn?”

I kept silent. “Your aura is now a muddy brown. What happened to the pink boy I saw in the classroom?” he announced before pulling me towards him.

Since I had no idea what he was talking about. I remained silent.

“Young, tell me what’s bothering you. Can I help?” he inquired with genuine concern.

Not wanting to divulge my thoughts, I changed the topic. I inquired, “What are auras?”

Holding my hands in his palms he began, “You see, Young, all things that inhale oxygen to survive have auras. Auras are large magnetic energy fields that can be sensed, felt and seen around a physical body. Haven’t you been taught about this?” he questioned.

I shook my head. He stared at me before he resumed, “To put it simply, a person can tell when someone has anger or malevolent intentions. On the opposite spectrum, that person can also detect kindness or benevolent objectives. One doesn’t have to be psychic to feel or read an aura.”

I quipped, “How do you detect auras?”

He smiled. “My dear boy, an aura is approximately three feet from a person’s physical body. Sometimes we use them to describe a person. We say, ‘He has an aura about him,’ or ‘She just has a glow about her.’ You see, a person’s aura can provide insight into the spiritual, emotional and physical self.”

“But you still haven’t explain how to detect auras,” I chirped.

“Hold on. I haven’t finish talking,” he motioned me to stand several feet away from him. He continued, “Now, focus on an outlining spot on my body. Do you see a white or transparent image around my person?”

“No,” I answered.

“I think it’s too dark for you to see anything here.” He added, “If you observe closely when we return indoors, you’ll most likely see my aura.”

I teased, “Is your aura malevolent or benevolent?”

“That, you’ll have to discern for yourself,” he said teasingly. “A few moments ago your aura was mucky brown. And you haven’t told me what’s bothering you,” he pressed.

An overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around Zac’s sinewy physique took over my person. I wept as I held onto him tightly. He kissed me on my lips. I did not resist, instead I leaned against his athletic musculature for support. His masculinity enveloped me like a cocoon as I shielded myself within the confines of his maleness. He lifted my head to his as our mouths melted in a passionate kiss. It felt like a transparent halo had engulfed us into a single entity. I was captive under his magical spell. Not wishing to release our embrace, I felt his shimmering aura. He was protecting me, dissipating the sadness that had taken over my person.

When we finally withdrew, I murmured, “I felt the presence of your enchanting aura.”

“What did you experience?” he whispered.

I gave him a coquettish grin before divulging, “You, Mr. Christiansen, have a golden glow surrounding your person.” For some ambiguous reason, I continued, “You love to adorn your surroundings with exquisite beauty, and you appreciate the finer things in life. You also love to be the center of attention and be in the company of many – like a sparkling gem in a stunning crown.”

“Ah, you saw through me, you little devil!” he chimed jestingly.

I added, “I haven’t finished, Mr. Big Brother. You love to attract attention, affection and admiration from many. I also detect that you are not just a taker but a giver of your time, energy and love to those who will accept your offer.”

Aura Colours

He listened attentively as if drunk on my every word. Yet, he did not respond. He held me close. His charisma had charmed me as our hardness pressed against pulsating loins.

“You are a proud man, fiercely independent and extremely reluctant to ask for help from anyone,” I remarked.

The Norwegian burst out in laughter, acknowledging my accurate assessment with candor. He urged me to continue as if he couldn’t get sufficient accolades. When I finally finished, he remarked, “You, dear boy, being a sensitive artist, would know that life is full of colour. Like many other things on your path, colours have meaning.” He paused before resuming, “Colours are representations of messages from your higher self, some refer to it as their ‘God’ self.

“One doesn’t have to be a Metaphysician to understand the importance of colour in one’s life. It exists in our daily experiences.” He took this opportunity to return my evaluation.

He began again, “I was wildly attracted to your pink aura during class. Your pinkish glow drew me to you magnetically. You, sexy lad, are a loving and giving person. On top of these traits you love to be loved. You have a high regard for your health. You look after your body with a good diet, nutrition and exercise. Am I incorrect?” He did not wait for my reply before resuming, “You’re also a true romantic. Once you’ve found your soul mate, you’ll stay faithful, loving and loyal to him for life.”

I injected, “How do you know so much about auras?”

He did not answer but continued blabbing, “Pink Aura individuals are natural healers. They are highly sensitive to the needs of others and have strong psychic abilities. They also possess innovative ideas and have highly creative imaginations. Because of these personality traits, the Pink Aura person almost always makes a great writer, artist or designer.

“This particular individual (he pressed the tip of his finger to my nose) hates injustice, poverty and conflicts. He will strive to make the world a better place and will make personal sacrifices in the pursuit of this ideal.”

I interrupted before he could comment further, “Where did you locate this information about auras? Did you make this up?”

The BB grinned cheekily, “I have this special talent that not many possess.”

“Do you go around observing peoples’ auras?” I questioned inquisitively.

His grin widened. “Do you want to know more about your pink aura?” he razzed.

I looked at him, puzzled, not knowing what to make of this man. He resumed, “Pink Aura people are strong willed and highly disciplined. They expect high standards from others. They also hold strong values – seldom do they deviate from them. Because of their honesty and likable nature, they are valued by their friends and peers.”

“You nailed it! That’s exactly who I am,” I exclaimed.

Loving Zac

He gave a hearty laugh before kissing me fervently. He acted as if he were afraid that I would reject him – I was already hypnotized by his charm. Melting into his embrace, I was ready for him to possess all of me. Like a bloom waiting to be pollinated by a honey bee, this big brother had lured me into his gossamer entanglement with his intellectual and provocative charm. Without uttering a word, he held my hand and led me inside the grotto below the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Our transcendent connection had amalgamated our souls. No verbal exchange was needed; only the fusion of our physical selves would quench the urgent palpitations we now experienced below our waist.

He lay me on a sheepskin rug. He pried open my tender lips to receive his probing tongue, exploring the part of me that had been sacred to my Valet before this big brother had arrived to claim his prize. Fascinated by his irresistible attractiveness, I surrendered to his adulating magnetism. His nimble fingers tore open my shirt before reveling my yearning perkiness to his devouring mouth. I moaned ecstatically to his curling length as he teased and suckled at its frisky tips stirring my arching back to receive more of this wondrous sensation.

My luring fingers reached to unzip his trousers while I galvanized his throbbing hardness with my wiggling toes. His electrifying fervencies coursed through my person sending jets of vibrating currents across my arching back. I lubricated his pulsating length with my trickling wetness when he shoved all of himself into my receiving oral cavity. I reached to invigorate his stiffness within my stroking palm as we moaned and groaned in jubilant bewilderment.

Our sexual hunger had stripped us bare. He devoured my opening as much as I ached for his burning rod, yet he remained stoically sensual, prolonging our foreplay until my sweltering desires implored him to bury himself deep within my core. I desired him to own me as Andy had before Albert manifested into our midst. I was certain if I allowed this big brother into my soul, he would return my love. After all, he was a giver of time, energy and love to those that would generously accept his offer. He was a “golden boy.”

The power of lust combined with the newness of our acquaintance had intoxicated us. We were infatuated, eager to explore the drunkenness of our fiery intimacy. We were held within the confines of these sensually erotic caverns.

His loving gallantry eased unhindered into my being, unbolting the doorway into the paradise where only lovers have the audacity to cross. His loving affection rocked me back and forth as our French kisses stifled our euphoric cries. Our coition ignited an unyielding resolution to prolong our heated passion. Holding firmly onto his strapping shoulders I rode with abandonment. My virility stiffened with each penetrating stroke. I bounced on his provocateur, arousing his enthusiasm to heights of ecstatic urgency.

Being proficient tantric practitioners, we simultaneously catapulted ourselves to the point of no return, only to revert our rapturous virtuosity back to whence we began. Thus protracting our amatory stimulations to indescribable jubilations, I had thus far never experienced.

Our auras had merged into a cocoon of iridescent red. Fluttering like glow worms, we shimmered in unison within the underground chamber, illuminating our pathway to our eminent sexual nirvana. No longer capable of withholding our pleasurable excitement, I spewed my abundance onto my lover’s muscular chest, face and hair. His release bonded our eroticism as if our union was blessed by the heavenly chorus from the moment we met in “The Anatomy of Romantic Love.”

Chapter Twenty

Falling In Love Again

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.“

E. M. Forster

2012

Andy’s Email

I acted foolishly in 1968 while waiting to be summoned to Sheik Fahrib’s Household. The doctor certainly took his time to prepare our arrival at لصقر في دن (The Falcon’s Den), his townhouse in Amsterdam.

I’m sorry I neglected you during our time at the Bahriji. Too preoccupied with Albert, I had underestimated the nature of our relationship. I was under the impression that Albert was sufficiently mature to conduct a triplet relationship. Regrettably, his emotional puerility created a rift between you and me. On the surface, he acted as if he accepted and loved you as he did me, yet when I was alone with him, his insecurities emerged. He discouraged me from spending time with you. I thought he would come round to accepting you, as I had Oscar. Unfortunately, my sanguine presumptions did not turn out as planned.

As much as I adored Albert, I missed our soul-level connection. This was something I did not share with him. I loved him very much, but it wasn’t the unspoken, nearly telepathic understanding you and I had for each other. No spoken or written words are enough for the way we felt for each other.

You probably think that I’m a sentimental fool, reminiscing about the wonderful moments we shared during our E.R.O.S. years. ☺

1968

A Rollicking Interlude

Although Wilhem was officially my Valet and guardian, I often couldn’t find him. If he wasn’t working out at the gymnasium, he would be playing soccer, basketball, tennis or a number of other sports within the Oasis’ facilities.

I, on the other hand, had resumed my fencing lessons with Professor Richard Lichman. Since BB Zac Christiansen was also an avid fencer, he attended classes with me. Professor Lichman was indeed glad to see me and Zac. At one of his classes, one other couple, a South American Junior named Isaac and his BB Jamie, attended. Together with our fencing instructor, we took turns dueling. This invigorating session bonded our friendship. Although the four of us had known one another in passing, most Bahriji students tended to stick to their own close-knit groups, since we were stationed there for such short periods. Still, many of us did forge new friendships through our various extracurricular and sporting activities.

At that particular session, our invigorating combat not only elevated our energetic exuberance, but also acted as an aphrodisiac. Boys being boys, during communal showers, we monkeyed around. Our privates stiffened as we frolicked wantonly within the confines of the washroom. Jamie and Dr. Lichman were not shy in making known their erotic desires; they began stroking each other. This lively display of unbridled openness served to arouse the rest of us to thrilling voyeuristic enthusiasm. Before long, we had fused into an entangled amatory agglomeration. The steamy sprinkles cascading above us were like glue for our fiery passions. Making no shows of modesty, we flaunted our throbbing concupiscence. Our liberated sensual and sexual studies dissipated the chastity ingrained by religious zealots and replaced it with the purity that it was meant to conceal – the naturalness that had once belonged within the untarnished ‘Garden of Eden’. Our enlightened education had freed us from nefarious guilt, showing us that orgiastic liaisons were not only erotically pleasurable, but also a tactile facet of affection. As taught by prophets of yore and Grand Masters to come, our emotional bond had steered us to an interracial connectedness, affixed by that single universal truth: LOVE knows no colour or race. Our philandery had unconsciously freed us from the immoral bonds imposed by puritans who deemed such behavior an abomination.

Legendary gods, goddesses, mythical immortals, kings and emperors were known for their bacchanalian revelries, and in truth, love-ins had existed since the creation of the Man. But power-hungry elders, seeking to control those they ought to have served, deemed these gratifying recreational pastimes inappropriate. Enslaving and brainwashing their denizens with fear, these eurythmic avocations were determined satanic immorality. As is often the case, these conservatives were the first to commit treachery in the face of self-proclaimed righteousness.

Our nourishing pedagogy had freed us from any erotic constraints. I was simply ecstatic to partake in a spontaneous and uninhibited Dionysian revelry. We were exemplary specimens of the ‘Love that dares not speak its name.’ Our fervid copulation at the showers was a consummate testimony to the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society, for not only was our diverse sexuality revered within the confines of E.R.O.S. and the Bahriji; unbeknownst to me at the time, we were harbingers of a new generation that would liberate homosexuals, bisexuals, and the transgender community from the conventional clutches of the heterosexual world through the infamous 1969 Stonewall and other riots in the western hemisphere.

Back in February 1968, I was oblivious to the radical transformation happening in the larger world. I was happily concealed within a nurturing environment that only a handful had the privilege to experience.

Our five-way tryst did not end at the shower room. Later that evening, Zac and I progressed to our fencing instructor’s lodging to pick up where we left off.

Other Worldly Beings

As hard as I tried to convince myself that my liaison with Zac was nothing more than lust, subconsciously I had fallen in love with this charismatic teaching assistant. During our three-way rendezvous at Dr. Lichman’s residence, I was entranced by the Norwegian’s gentleness. Much like Monsieur Dubois (my private tutor at the Quwah), this big brother was a disciplined spiritual healer.

Zac was the first to notice the abundance of books, tidily stacked and arranged along the walls. “Sir, I see you are an avid inventor and a prolific scientist,” he remarked.

“You’re an observant lad. I love Science Fiction and am writing a research paper on extraplanetary life forms,” the professor said cheerfully.

I chirped inquisitively, “I’m unaware that there is life on other planets.”

Zac chimed before my fencing teacher had a chance to respond. “We are not the only species that exists in this expansive universe. There are life forms on other planets.”

“How do you know?” I questioned.

My professor declared, “Young man, there are many entities that share our infinite universe. Our naked eyes don’t see them.”

I replied curiously, “You mean angels, fairies and mythical beings?”

Dr. Richard laughed. “You see Young, I’m reading Erich von Däniken’s manuscript. He’s a university friend of mine. He, like me, is interested in otherworldly beings. He has suggested that thousands of years ago, space travellers from other planets visited Earth. He believes that these alien beings taught us about technology and influenced ancient religions. In our field of research, he is highly regarded as the father of the ancient astronaut theory, more commonly known as the ancient alien theory.”

Zac inquired, “Is there evidence to support his theory?”

Professor Richard replied, “Erich points to two distinctive types of evidence. The first is found in ancient religious texts, in which human witnesses interact with gods or other heavenly beings descending from the sky in spectacularly powered vehicles resembling spaceships.

“The second is found in physical specimens, such as artworks that depict alien-like figures and ancient architectural marvels, such as Stonehenge and the Egyptian pyramids.”

I queried, “If aliens visited Earth in the past, are they likely to make an appearance again?”

“They already have,” my instructor declared. “Throughout the early twentieth century and even recently, UFO and alien sightings have been documented all over the world. The latest sightings have been in France, Canada and the United States.

“Last August, outside Cussac, France; a young man and his sister claimed they witnessed a brilliant sphere while herding cattle outside their village.

“A month later in Colorado, a horse was mutilated in a most bizarre manner. This unusual death is widely considered to be related to aliens.

“The most recent sighting was in October in Nova Scotia. A large, brightly lit object was reported to have crashed into the water near Shag Harbour. A Canadian naval search team stated that it was a UFO. Several military individuals involved in the search operation also claim that the unknown object was an alien spacecraft. There were other UFO sighting in the area around the same period.”

I questioned, “What is the purpose of this?”

“I think they are here to share their views with the world. And to prepare us for their inevitable arrival here on our planet,” the Norwegian replied.

I pressed, “Yet, neither of you answered my question regarding the existence of angels, fairies, and mythical beings.”

The men laughed at my remark. “You have only to look at yourself, boy. You’ll find a cute, twinky ‘fairy’ staring back at you,” my teacher teased arrestingly, before Zac twittered, “You, angel, do not have to look far. Standing in our midst is the sexiest cupid I could ever witness. His arrow is already standing at attention.” He reached to cup my groin, which was already protruding against my pants. Zac wasted no time in planting a fervent kiss on my lips. Richard, witnessing the unfolding passion, joined in. I melted into their commanding embraces, allowing them to lead me into the doctor’s bed chamber.

Falling In love Again

Zac, like Monsieur Dubois, possessed a je ne sais quoi I found irresistible. His refined mannerisms combined with his cultured upbringing captivated every fiber of my being. The BB’s hypnotizing gaze and beguiling caresses had me longing for more.

The romantic ménage à trois that supervened was a dream come true, not only for me but for all involved. Years of fitness exercises combined with regular tantric practices had made Richard’s hairy physique a masculine powerhouse. He resembled a virile stallion ready for a night of sensual delight.

On the opposite spectrum, Zac’s sinewy musculature mirrored that of a slender figure skater. Not lacking in stamina, he too was an electrifying fireball of maleness, primed for an unbridled evening of debaucherous sexuality.

My boyish libido combined with my spirited enthusiasm spurred my suitors to erotic arousal, impelling our fervent passions to energizing intensity. Not only did we not pause for orgasmic interludes, we propagated our tantric copulations to prolong our hedonistic foreplays, before amplifying our carnal pleasures toward gradations of amatory nirvana.

Needless to say we did not sleep much that night, yet our robust intercourse had left us vitalized. We started the next day with elated buoyancy. I have since ascertained that regular doses of superlative sex are the equivalent to any methodical exercise regimen. It is also a healthy and robust anti-aging remedy for those seeking the fountain of youth.

2012

Continuation of Andy’s Email

I must admit, our renewed friendship is a healing process for me. Reading A Harem Boy’s Saga blog brought back enchanted memories I had since banished to the recesses of my mind. Here, I am re-living the halcyon days through the pages of your provocative writing, revisiting the many exotic places and re-experiencing the numerous erotic adventures (through your tantalizingly enhanced photographic images) we once shared. They brought back many cherished moments I wished would never end.

Although I do not think our E.R.O.S. and Middle Eastern experiences unique, many will consider them unconventional. But I found myself privileged to be chosen for such a momentous mission, to care for your wellbeing and to love you as myself. I would do it all again if unlikely circumstances were to present themselves. I will definitely choose wisely and will not live to regret my decision again.

Until we correspond again, I bid you au revoir, and take excellent care of your handsome self. ☺

Yours truly,

Andy

Chapter Twenty-One

On The Street Where You Live

“Anyone who relishes art will love the extraordinary diversity and psychic magic of Amsterdam.”

Jabril Maciej Levinsky

1968

The Summons

It came as no surprise when, on the day before I received Sheik Fahrib’s summons, Wilhem suffered a severe foot injury while playing soccer. A member of his opposing team had bashed into the robust athlete, sending him rolling in pain from an acute sprained ligament. He had to be carried on a stretcher and helicoptered in to a Dubai hospital for immediate treatment, after which he was instructed by the surgeon to rest and not to move around. Therefore, his accompanying me to my next household assignment was out of the question. An immediate replacement came in the form of none other than the Romanian Norwegian, Zac.

My assigned Bahriji advisor, Dr. Andrew Henderson, broke the news to me. As soon as I sat opposite him, Professor Andrew announced, ”Young, I’ve news for you.” Before I could respond, he added, “You guys will be helicoptered to Dubai airport tomorrow afternoon. Sheik Fahrib’s representative will be there to meet you.”

I questioned, “Who’ll be my Valet, now that Wilhem is grounded?”

“My teaching assistant will stand in for Wilhem. Zac is a capable big brother and will look after you well.” My teacher paused, ”Andy and Albert will be at the same household. The four of you will be travelling together.”

“Zac!” I exclaimed. ”Who will stand in for him while he’s with me?”

“There will be another teaching assistant. I can manage. He’ll be away for only a few months,” my tutor expressed.

He pulled open a drawer and drew out a brown envelope. Handing it to me, he asked, ”Can you give this to your new Valet? You’ll need these documents when you meet the Sheik’s representative.”

He shook my hand and guided me out the door. Before I disappeared, he said, ”I heard you have a good rapport with your new patriarch. Keep him happy! He’s new to the society.”

I didn’t give the doctor’s casual remark much thought until I was at my new household. Only then did I understand the significance of my professor’s statement.

The Representative

A highly polished white limousine was waiting at the Dubai airport to ferry us to a private airfield. There, we were greeted by Jabril, the Sheik’s representative. Hidden behind a loosely fitted thobe, this strapping Arab, or so I thought, looked similar to his employer. He was the doctor’s personal secretary and confidant. At times, he acted as his bodyguard. Another job description for Jabril might be ‘private secretary.’ On that particular day, Jabril was our guard and chaperone. His job was to deliver us safely to his employer’s domain.

لصقر في دن (The Ship)

The sophisticated flying machine that sat waiting for us had a golden body bordered in black with a streamlined underbelly of matte silver. It was like an aerodynamic bald-headed condor. The slick symmetrical interior mirrored that of its owner - perfectly balanced with an air of taciturn velocity, yet the refined magnum opuses that hung solidly on the plane’s windowed walls reflected the inner disquietude of a despondent romantic.

J.M.W. Turner, Moritz von Schwind and Paul Delaroche were just a few of those represented within the confines of this luxury jet.

As soon as we were airborne, Andy, Zac and I seized the opportunity to scrutinize these amazing artworks. The only person who remained disinterested was Albert, who had plonked himself on a comfortable leather sofa, immersed in a comic book.

Jabril, seeing our interest, offered us a guided tour. He proclaimed spiritedly, ”His Excellency is an avid art collector. These are just a few pieces he has acquired. When we arrive in Amsterdam, you’ll be able to appraise more of his acquisitions.”

Andy looked surprised. ”I thought we are heading to Sharjah?”

“His Excellency is expecting you at لصقر في دن (The Falcon’s Den). My job is to make sure you’re well cared for.” The representative then changed the subject and proceeded to explain in detail the origins of each painting.

By the time the pilot announced our imminent arrival at Luchthaven Schiphol (Amsterdam Airport Schiphol), we’d had an art history lesson. Besides being Sheik Abdul Mutmud bin Fahrib’s private secretary, Jabril was also an accomplished scholar of art. He would accompany, or at times represent, his employer at international art fairs and auctions. His knowledgeable expertise extended beyond art acquisition to that of art speculation. He was His Excellency’s private advisor when it came to investments in paintings and sculptures. Little did I know then that this man would soon become my mentor in the field of art.

At the Falcon’s Den

Through the narrow streets of Amsterdam, the gold Jaguar S and our metallic bluish silver vintage Silver Arrow meandered toward Herengracht, a wealthy and expensive enclave of Gouden Bocht (Golden Bend). Double-width mansions and townhouses with inner gardens and coach houses (converted into spacious garages) were built between 1890 and 1915 in the Art Nouveau style. These architectural marvels lined the street along the Patricians’ Canal. The heavily embellished wrought-iron balconies, patterned stone walls, moulded plaster and leaded glass window-panes lined with rows of leafy green trees transported me back to the Belle Epoch era. I couldn’t help but feel as if I was on the film set of “My Fair Lady,” where the handsome Freddy Eynsford-Hill would suddenly appear, singing, “On The Street Where You Live” in hot pursuit of Eliza Doolittle.

Our vehicles stopped in front of a five-story townhouse. No sooner had we alighted onto the front pavement of this charming residence than a butler appeared at the grand oak door to greet us. We were ushered into the high-ceilinged parlour. The vehicles we had arrived in had disappeared to the back of the property, where our luggage was unloaded by resident footmen and servants.

Jabril and the butler, Ricard, showed us to our respective rooms. My newly appointed Valet and I shared a spacious room with an antique four-poster King Bed located on the 3rd floor, while Andy and Albert were on the second. The upper levels were off limits. These were the Sheik’s private chambers. There, he had a spacious penthouse bedroom with a stunning view of the city, a private indoor and outdoor dining area, a rooftop Jacuzzi and a heated dip pool. The floor below was the doctor’s office, his den, and a spacious lounge.

The rooms on the first floor were allocated as the family room, a recreational facility, a drawing room and a well-stocked library that could be used as a music chamber. On the ground floor was the parlour and a conservatory that led out into an inner garden and courtyard. Opposite the staircase was a large dining chamber, used mainly for stately functions and celebratory events.

The servants’ quarters and kitchen were at the back of the house and below the stairs, respectively.

Herengracht

We did not get to meet Dr. Fahrib until the following day. We were advised by his private secretary that the sheik had clinical duties and business meetings around the clock.

Jabril would be our guide if we wanted to explore the nearby vicinity. After freshening up, the five of us set out to explore the city.

The moment we stepped out onto the sidewalk, I was nearly knocked over by a bicyclist. Instead of apologizing for his blunder, the man uttered some obscenities in Dutch. He waved his fist at me before disappearing. This canal city had more pedestrians and bicycles than cars, our guide counselled. Since everything was nearby, our guide suggested we explore on foot.

He explained, ”If any of you get lost and need to find your way to the Falcon’s Den, remember the names; ‘Lord’s Canal’ or ‘Patricians’ Canal’. The locals will know where to direct you. Otherwise, you can tell them Herengracht. This is the Herengracht (he pointed at the waterway in front of us), one of the three major canals within the city centre.”

He continued, ”The canal is named after the Heren Regeerders, who governed the city in the 16th and 17th century.”

Andy asked, ”Who are the Heren Regeerders?”

The Levantine grinned before answering, ”To put it simply, the Heren Regeerders were the male regents who governed our illustrious city. Although they were not formally of the ruling class, they were de facto patricians.”

As we walked further along, Jabril pointed to the house number 598. On the exterior wall was a placard that read, ”Samuel Sarphati (1813 – 1868) lived here.”

“Who is Samuel Sarphati?” Zac enquired.

“He was a Portuguese Sephardic Jew, a physician who later became a prolific politician and a famous Amsterdam city planner,” our guide declared.

When we passed house number 527, the Levantine announced, ”This was Peter the Great’s residence when the Tsar paid our notable city a second visit.”

Until this juncture, none of us were aware that the Arab was Dutch. We had assumed he had been employed in the Middle East by Sheik Fahrib.

I blurted inquisitively, ”Why do you keep referring Amsterdam as ‘our’ illustrious or notable city? Are you a citizen of Holland?” I added, ”I thought you were of Middle Eastern descent!”

The man laughed, ”You are partially correct. My father came from Sham. He married my Jewish mother from Den Haag (The Hague). My siblings and I were born in Den Haag.”

Andy gave the Eurasian a puzzled look before vociferating, ”I don’t understand – are you a Muslim or a Jew?”

He smiled enigmatically. ”Do I have to be one or the other?”

“Not at all,” Zac chirped.

I twittered, ”Then, are you a Muslim Jew?”

The man broke out in laughter. ”I’m neither one nor the other. I’m a Gnostic.”

This time, it was Albert who voiced, ”What’s a Gnostic?”

Andy replied before Jabril had a chance to respond, ”A Gnostic is a believer in esoteric mysticism and intellectual knowledge.”

“That sounds better than being a believer in any religion. I think I’ll become a Gnostic, too,” I expressed cheerfully.

The men laughed at my ditzy remark. “There is a lot more to Gnosticism than just the belief in esoteric mysticism and intellectual knowledge,” the Levantine stated. ”Perhaps, when the opportunity arises, we’ll have a discussion. For now, let’s continue our tour.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Museum Het Rembrandthuis

“A bell is no bell ‘til you ring it,

A song is no song ‘til you sing it,

And love in your heart

Wasn’t put there to stay –

Love isn’t love

‘Til you give it away.”

Oscar Hammerstein, The Sound of Music

“You Are Sixteen (Reprise)”

2012

My Reply to Andy’s Email

My dear ex-Valet,

You don’t have to rebuke yourself for not paying more attention to me than you already were. I’m forever grateful for your guidance and love through our years at the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society. You taught me well and loved me unconditionally. You chartered a course that made me who I am today. This is more than I could ask for. Although our separation was not easy, it strengthened my character and fortified my spirit, so I could cope with life’s ever changing landscape.

I believe if I had remained under your care, I would have walked in your shadow. I would not have come into my own. But the love we shared will always abide in my spirit, even if we are oceans apart. I’m sure that when the opportunity arises, we will be reunited – if not in this lifetime, in another. We will continue where we left off.

As you put it at The Falcon’s Den, “In my life’s education, unconditional love was taught me by The Enlightened Royal Oracle Society.”

1968

Breakfast at The Falcon’s Den

I was astonished to find my Quwah teacher, Monsieur Alain Dubois, engrossed in an animated conversation with my Valet, Zac Christiansen. Andy and Albert had not appeared in the open-air courtyard where our group had assembled for breakfast. I was delighted to see my ex-tutor. We exchanged customary French greetings, with kisses on both cheeks, before he said, “It’s great to be here. I love Amsterdam as much as I love Paris.”

I chirped excitedly, “What brings you to this part of the world, sir?”

He smiled cheerfully, “I’m on loan as your temporary tutor until your appointed teacher is ready to work in Sharjah. He’s waiting for Dr. Henderson to supply him with the approved documents.”

I exclaimed, “Oh my god! I forgot to give you the envelope Professor Henderson asked me to pass to you. I’ll go and get it now.” I dashed upstairs.

As I passed by a second floor bedroom, I heard groaning from within. Before I could stop myself, my inquisitiveness took hold. I peeped through the keyhole. I’d expected to find Andy and his charge in the midst of passion. Instead, I was astonished to witness a man and a woman copulating. Since the man’s backside was facing the door, I couldn’t make out who they were. Within my limited periphery was the man’s sexy buttocks gyrating against a naked female. Her outstretched hands held firmly against the frame of a large French window overlooking the Herengracht.

Mesmerized by this display of eroticism, I continued spying. The woman’s blond mane cascaded seductively over her bare shoulders, concealing her face as the libertine pounded her assertively. Her ecstatic cries were muffled by the man’s hairy arms as she bit into his macho grip. Like a raging stallion, he rode her frenziedly, slapping her buttocks with his bare hands as if racing a horse toward the finish line.

I was startled by a hand on my shoulder. I lost my balance and tumbled backwards onto the floor. Andy laughed before lifting me to a standing position. “What in heavens are you peeping at? You’re supposed to be downstairs, having breakfast,” he reprimanded. “Stop being a nosey bugger and come down with me.” He held onto my collar and steered me down the stairs.

I struggled to run in the opposite direction. His muscular hands lifted me and draped me onto his broad shoulders. I struggled to be free, while trying to be quiet. I explained that I had to retrieve a document for Zac upstairs, but my captor refused to hear my plea. Instead, he slapped my butt playfully to get me to shut up. He carried me to the courtyard before plonking me onto a chair next to my Valet. Before I could adjust my clothes to run back upstairs, he had placed both hands firmly on my shoulders in the event I would escape his clutches. He announced, “I caught this peeping tom spying through a keyhole on the second floor.”

I protested, but the men laughed.

“Who were you spying on, you rascal?” Zac tickled me to make me confess.

“Stop! Stop! I don’t know who they are,” I wiggled skittishly.

“Boys! Stop causing a racket. You’ll wake the entire neighbourhood. The sheik won’t be happy with your appalling behaviours,” Dubois commanded sternly.

No sooner had our rambunctiousness ceased than my teacher resumed, “Where is Albert? We’ll be starting morning tutorials in an hour. He better be at the library for his lesson.”

Andy chimed, “He’s on his way. I’ll make sure he’s in class.”

This incidental commotion had me forgetting to retrieve the package for Zac.

A Field Trip

In the library, I was elated when Monsieur Dubois announced, “We are going on a field trip to an art museum today. Now that we are under the auspices of Sheik Fahrib, we must use our time wisely in this art metropolis. The first museum we are visiting…” he trailed off as Sheik Fahrib’s private secretary and art historian, Jabril Zev Saliba, entered. He declared, “We are going to the famous Museum Het Rembrandthuis, otherwise known as The Rembrandt House Museum.”

Professor Dubois added, “If you haven’t already met, this is Meneer Jabril Zev Saliba.” He paused. “This man is an accomplished art scholar. He is also our guide. You’ll learn much from him, not only about the history of art but also the rich cultural aspects of The Netherlands’ civic life.

“Now, boys, grab your jackets and coats. We’re heading out the door this very minute,” he pronounced.

Museum Het Rembrandthuis

“Not far from the Chinese Quarter and immediately behind the Red Light District, in direct proximity of the Waterlooplein, is the Rembrandt House,” Jabril vociferated as we bicycled to the museum.

The six of us had rented 3 double-seaters from a nearby shop close to our residence. Our guide and Dubois led the way on one bike while Andy and Albert shared another. Zac sat at the helm and I at the back on our bicycle built for two. Since I had never ridden on one of these, I had difficulty balancing when we commenced. But soon, we were merrily whizzing along the busy streets, meandering around the numerous pedestrians who were out shopping on that beautiful spring day.

I was beguiled by the enchanting shop-houses, captivating cafes, and appetizing eateries along the narrow cobblestone streets of this historical canal city. I would have liked to be on foot exploring the many facets of this Netherlandic metropolis, but the joyride was exhilarating. It was an experience I would never forget.

In front of us stood the majestic Dutch painter’s former residence, now one of Holland’s historical landmarks - the Rembrandt House. I noticed the number 1606 painted in gold on the façade of this building before my teacher announced, “This house was built in 1606, but the artist did not purchase this property until the year 1639. Here he lived and worked until his bankruptcy in 1656, when all his belongings went on the auction block.”

The art historian added, “It wasn’t until 1906, during the Rembrandt Year, that the Rembrandt foundation purchased his former residence and converted it into a museum.

“It took three years of restoration before this venue was officially opened to the public. The interior is an identical reconstruction of Rembrandt’s original rooms and workshop, where during the prime of his life, he ran the largest painting studio in Holland. There are more than two hundred and fifty of the master’s rare prints and etchings on display, together with the tools he used and the graphic techniques he applied.”

Inside, what fascinated me most were the intricate etchings on the walls. Rembrandt’s attention to detail, together with the techniques he used to create light and shadow, enthralled me as they had art lovers throughout the centuries. Jabril wasted no time in giving us a history of the artist’s life.

While he was busy holding court, Zac stood next to me and whispered, “What was this morning’s commotion?”

I did not answer until we walked to an adjacent chamber. Only then did I murmur as we trailed behind our entourage, “Andy caught me red-handed while I was witnessing something provocative through a keyhole.”

“What did you see?” my chaperone asked.

I gave him a sly grin. I did not reply until he started tickling me jestingly. I shrieked to avoid my Valet’s playful foray. Heads turned our direction. Dubois stared at us as if we had committed a heinous crime. I immediately hushed as if nothing extraordinary had transpired.

This time around, Zac and I walked several paces behind our entourage. As we admired the legendary artworks, we had a chance to susurrate. I began, “Do you have any idea who is sharing the second floor with Albert and Andy?”

“I believe your teacher is in the adjoining room, and across from them is Jabril’s chamber. Tell me which keyhole you were peeping through!” he sniggered.

I gave him a mischievous wink. “Have a guess?”

“Ohh, I see! What did you see, you little devil?” he pressed. He was about to tickle me again when I squirmed away in time to avoid his hand.

“I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it a secret,” I uttered.

Our guide was next to us before I could retract my sentence. “What secret are you going to tell your Valet?” he chirped.

Caught off guard, I did not know how to react. I avoided his glance skittishly. The Levantine gave me a roguish grin before he remarked nonchalantly, “So, it was you making a racket outside my room this morning while I was practicing my esoteric coitus interruptus.”

Both my Valet and I stared at the art scholar, amazed that he would be so forward. My puzzled look must have given me away. He added mischievously, “If you would like to know the meaning of ‘esoteric coitus interruptus,’ come to my chamber this evening after dinner. I will enlighten you guys about my regular ritual.”

Before either of us could question the guide, he had disappeared to join Monsieur Dubois, who was now admiring a famous etching, titled The Circumcision.

Continuation of my Email to Andy

Andy, your love and guidance was beyond what any Freshman or Junior could expect from a big brother or Valet. Even though you were Albert’s chaperone at Sheik Fahrib’s household, I did not feel neglected. In fact, having Albert in our midst not only enhanced our relationship but also taught me to curb my jealousy.

The rapport between the three of us helped to strengthen my unconditional love for you. This experience drew a path for my open-mindedness to future relationships.

I quote you, my ex-Valet – “In my life’s education, unconditional love was taught me by The Enlightened Royal Oracle Society.”

Love,

Young.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Coitus Interruptus

“Coitus Interruptus is an ice cream sundae, with the marvellous toppings spewed all over except within the container itself.”

Zac R. Christiansen

1968

At Restaurant D’Vijff Vlieghen

That evening after our museum outing, Sheik Fabrib hosted a welcome dinner for the E.R.O.S. recruits at the Restaurant D’Vijff Vlieghen. On the elegant menu’s cover were the words – Restaurant D’Vijff Vlieghen: A Culinary Museum. This historical eatery, located at the Spui in the heart of Amsterdam, occupied five 17th century houses. This establishment was founded by Nicolaas Kroese in 1939. It started life as a public house where guests enjoyed fine French and Hungarian wines with a generous dose of Amstel beer. Under the auspices of Mother Hendrina, an Amsterdammer, the bar transformed into a popular eatery. Kroese appeared on Broadway with a seventeenth-century cage and its inhabitants of five copper flies in 1948, drawing the attention of the American media with his unconventional Public Relations talent. Numerous celebrities, the likes of Walt Disney, Danny Kaye, Orson Welles, Anne Baxter, Ester Williams, Kirk Douglas, and Mick Jagger flocked to dine at his establishment when in Amsterdam.

True to form, this historical eatery treated us to a scrumptious Dutch cuisine. Our dinner conversation soon turned to our day’s outing at the museum.

Dr. Fahrib inquired, “How was your day at the Canal City?”

Dubois replied without hesitation, “Very educational, sir. I’ll be taking the boys to visit more museums during our time here. Would you like to join us on our field trips, sir?”

Before the Sheik could reply, his private secretary commented, “I’m attending a Sotheby’s private estate sales auction in a couple of days. Would you like to attend?”

“I’ll come. Maybe the boys would like to tag along?” the doctor turned to my tutor for a response.

Andy and Zac jumped in to reply. “It’s very kind of you to include us, sir. I, for one, would love to attend,” Andy declared, only to be seconded by Zac and me. The only person who didn’t show any interest was Albert.

As our dinner progressed, Fahrib whispered, “Come to my chambers at eleven tonight.”

I nodded.

At Fahrib’s Chambers

Zac accompanied me to the doctor’s rooftop chambers at the appointed hour. I was surprised to find Meneer Jabril and a blond woman already situated in the lounge. She was the female I had seen through the Levantine’s keyhole that morning. Jabril took no initiative to introduce us. Instead he directed us to the adjoining room. Through the sliding glass doors, I recognized the doctor’s silhouette in the exterior Jacuzzi. He waved for us to join him. Without a word, our guide disrobed, indicating we do the same. Fahrib motioned for me to sit by him. Zac sat on his other side, thus leaving Jabril and the blonde opposite us.

Jabril wasted no time caressing the woman, fondling her voluptuous breasts, and leaning to suckle her pointy nipples. I sat transfixed. The Levantine and his lover never kissed. As quickly as he had commenced foreplay, he turned her on her belly, lifted her to a doggie position and penetrated her. Holding her wrists on the wet tiles, he ploughed her furiously before titillating her vagina with his engorged cockhead. He was pleasuring himself rather than making love to her. She begged for all of him, but to no avail. Her supplications were rewarded with a succession of rapid pounding before he returned to his cocky stance. He paid little attention to her desires, seeking only his personal enjoyment and satisfaction.

My libido was entranced by Jabril’s torturous mind play. I yearned to understand the psychology behind the man’s sadism.

I felt Fahrib’s hand fondling my erection. He stroked my Valet’s throbbing hardness with his other. Mirroring his masturbatory actions, I massaged his stiffness, while Zac teased my Master’s hairy knobbles with his fingers.

I buried my face against my Master’s wet, furry pectorals, nibbling at his protrusions and savouring every turf of his masculinity. He lifted his hands above his head when I enshrouded my face in his fuzzy armpits. All the while, I remained a voyeur of the intercourse playing out opposite us.

My Master, Zac and I bonded in a 3-way kiss. Like mating serpents, we coiled our twirling tongues in passionate fervency. Before long, Zac spewed his passion into the bubbling aqua while I straddled my Master’s face, feeding him my adolescence. He, enchanted by my boyish amorousness, suckled my length until I could no longer withhold my rapturous ardour. I showered onto his face as his probing fingers within my anal orifice urged more of me onto his bearded chin. I rotated my bulbousness around his cheeks, nose and forehead. My lascivious actions drove him to squirt his abundance onto the undulating swell. Our floating deposits whirled around the bubbling flow before merging with the currents of time immortal.

As I submerged into the cleansing, effervescent water, the Levantine emitted his call of the wild. He ejaculated onto the female’s back. By the time he gathered his equilibrium his gooey thickness had slid off her back, joining the remains of our profusions into liquid timelessness.

Jabril handed the woman a towel as she dressed. She disappeared as miraculously as she had appeared with the Levantine in tow. No words were exchanged until the art historian reappeared in our midst. By then, the three of us had dried and donned the luxurious silk robes that the sheik had provided.

A male servant handed me a cup of hot chocolate and glasses of red wine to my Master, Jabril and Zac. As soon as the help departed, the Levantine let out a sigh of relief. He had accomplished that evening’s ritualistic task of coitus interruptus.

Temporary Methods

He announced proudly to Zac and me, “This evening, I’ve demonstrated coitus interruptus to the both of you.”

We stared at the Levantine, confused. The doctor snickered at his secretary’s statement, as if taking part in a private conspiracy.

“Jabril mentioned to me earlier that you didn’t understand the meaning of coitus interruptus. Rather than providing a verbal explanation, we decided to give a demonstration,” our host explained.

Zac and I looked at the men agape. The Levantine smiled lasciviously before adding, “In layman’s terms, coitus interruptus, otherwise known as the rejected sexual intercourse, is the withdrawal or pull-out method.

“In heterosexual terms, it is a form of birth control in which a man, during intercourse, withdraws his penis from a woman’s vagina prior to orgasm. Ejaculating outside her orifice and directing his semen away from the vagina is an effort to avoid insemination.”

Dr. Fahib added, “And in homosexual terms, the medical community believe that by cumming outside of the anal and oral orifices, the majority of venereal diseases can be avoided.”

Zac questioned, “Is this clinically proven to be true?”

“Although this theory is widely accepted by many physicians, I am a sceptic. In my own medical research, only inconclusive evidence suggests that the transmission of venereal diseases can be avoided by practising coitus interruptus,” the doctor expressed seriously.

My Valet asked, “Is contraception allowed in the Islamic faith?” He stammered, as if to retract what he had just said: “What I’m asking is - is contraception - that is, preventing a female from becoming pregnant - allowed in Islam? I’m just curious.”

Although the sheik was temporarily taken aback by my guardian’s straightforwardness, he answered, “That’s a tough question, Zac.” He paused before continuing, “You see, there are fundamentally two methods of contraception, or what we medical professionals term as family planning.

“The first is Medical Termination of Pregnancy, M.T.P. – generally referred to as abortion.

“Islamic scholars unanimously agree that M.T.P. or abortion is haram (prohibited).”

I chirped inquisitively, “Why is it prohibited?”

“Because in the Qur’an, Allah said ’...kill not your children on a plea of want; we provide sustenance for you and for them.’ This is found in Al-Qur’an 6:151.

“In another passage, Allah also mentioned, ‘Kill not your children for fear of want; we shall provide sustenance for them as well as for you; verily the killing of them is a great sin,’ as written in Al-Qur’an 17:31,” the Arab iterated.

Before our host could continue, Zac queried again, “Can women take birth control pills to avoid pregnancy?”

“Although the majority of Islamic scholars agree that the taking of birth control pills (Fataawa al-Marah) is prohibited because of its side effects and the changes that affect normal physiology, I believe differently,” the doctor stated. “This recent contraceptive discovery will assist women in more ways than one.” He paused. “I’m not an Islamic traditionalist or a scholar, but as a medical professional, I do what is best for my patient.” He shook his head as if troubled.

He added, “There is a newly discovered method of temporary contraception known as Copper-T. Although it is generally known as a ‘contraception’, it is technically a contra-implantation.”

Zac asked, “How do contra-implantations work?”

Dr. Fahrib gave him a roguish grin before answering, “Are you planning to become a doctor?”

My Valet did not reply.

“To put it simply - the sperm fertilizes the ovum, but the zygote formed is destroyed by the Copper-T, which prevents it from being implanted in the uterine wall (the woman’s womb, so to speak).” The Arab gave another sigh before resuming, “This is a form of early abortion that, unfortunately, is prohibited by my religion.

“Still, some religious scholars permit this temporary method of family planning without knowing its full implication…

“There is one other temporary method of family planning. The use of condoms.”

Jabril exclaimed, “I hate those things. It’s like fucking with clothes on…”

His employer chimed before the Levantine could continue. “Islamic scholars are divided about their use. After all, Allah has provided a natural method of planning the family, medically known as lactation amenorrhea. You see, Zac, after the women gives birth to a child, until she breast feeds, her menstrual cycle is temporary terminated. Therefore the chances of another pregnancy during lactation is minimal. Now, according to the Qur’an, it says, ‘The mothers shall give suck to their offspring for two whole years…’”

Zac continued to question. “You mentioned permanent methods of contraception. What are these methods?”

Permanent Methods

Fahrib pondered before responding, “Permanent methods include Vasectomy in males and Tubecotomy in females.

“All Islamic scholars unanimously agree that permanent methods of family planning are completely haram (prohibited), since they involve changing the human physiology.”

Jabril had remained silent until now. He burst forth, quoting Al-Qur’an 30:30: “So set you your face steadily and truly to the Faith: establish Allah’s handiwork according to the pattern on which He has made humankind: no change - let there be - in the work wrought by Allah: that is the standard Religion: but many do not understand.” He continued, “The Prophet (pbuh) is reported to have said: ’Marry the one who is loving and fertile, for I will be proud of your great numbers before the nations, meaning - on the Day of Resurrection.”

Fahrib patted his private secretary on the shoulders and spoke, “That said, Jabril, there are always exceptions to the rules. Our religious zealots also unanimously agree that any permanent method of family planning, or even abortion, can be adopted if the life of the mother is in danger.

“For example, if the woman is suffering from certain diseases of the heart or has undergone multiple caesarean operations, the continuation of pregnancy (or another pregnancy) may be a risk to her life. Then, a permanent method of family planning can be adopted, or an abortion can be performed, to save the woman’s life.”

I turned to the art historian and vociferated, “I thought you are going to enlighten us further about coitus interruptus?”

Instead Dr. Fahrib replied on the man’s behalf, “Young, coitus interruptus is permissible in our culture as long as it is performed with the mutual consent of both participants, since they have equal rights to having children.”

Jabril interjected, “This is based on the Hadith of Jabir, who said: ’We used to practice coitus interruptus during the days when the Qur’an was being revealed’.”

The sheik directed our conversation to more light-hearted matters before his private secretary could continue quoting Qur’an verses.

The Mystery Woman

Since my curiosity was eating at me, I asked, “Who is the lady who was here earlier?”

Zac stared at me.

Jabril laughed heartily. He remarked, “She, my boy, is a working girl from the ‘DISTRICT.’”

“What’s a working girl, and what district?” I tweeted.

“Tomorrow evening, with the permission of your tutor, Dubois, we’ll organize a field trip,” he declared merrily.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The District

“People tend to be put off by the idea of selling sex, but if you spend a night with one of them and talk - about life and so on, you’re likely to find that this person is like you or me.”

Maurits De Vries

2012

Andy’s Message

Young, I have clear memories of Amsterdam. Last year, I returned to the canal city for a vacation. ‘The District’ in 1968 was very different compared to 2011. This area is now a well-organized vicinity with numerous cafes, eateries and new editions to the vibrant landscape. The ban on brothels was lifted in 2000. The De Wallen activities are now actively regulated and controlled by the Dutch authorities.

Do you remember the prostitutes were predominantly Dutch, German, French and Belgian back then? Now, there are numerous Latinas, Blacks and Asians (mainly from the Philippines, the Golden Triangle and Thailand) working in the vicinity. They’re now liable for taxes.

Many coffee shops had also sprung up. Though food, alcohol, and tobacco are generally consumed outside the cafes, these establishments are licensed to sell cannabis and soft drugs.

You remember those narrow alleyways that Jabril took us down, where the sex workers sat elegantly in windows that resembled living rooms? These are now one-room cabins that prostitutes rent to offer their sexual services from behind a window or glass door; often illuminated by red lights - better known as “kamers.” ‘The District’ is now a tourist attraction…

1968

To the Bijbels Museum

The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, our tutor announced, “This morning, we are visiting the ‘Biblical Museum,’ generally known as the ’Bijbels Museum.’”

Jabril chirped, “It’s a small parochial museum, founded by Reverend Leendert Schouten in the nineteenth century.”

“What’s in this museum?” Zac queried.

The Arab replied before Dubois could answer. “It houses a collection of antique Bibles, traditional Judeo-Christian religious relics, a first edition of the 1637 Dutch Authorised Version of the Holy Book, and the oldest Bible (1477 Delftse Bijbel) - the first book printed in the Netherlands. This volume is not only a monument in Biblical history but in the history of the printed word.

“This so called ‘Delft Bible,’ was printed in the city of Delft in Southern Holland. It’s a Latin-to-Dutch translation of the Old Testament, created to satisfy the demand of Dutch believers who wanted to read the holy book in their own language. They constructed their own interpretations of its contents.

“Besides its collection of prized Bibles, this museum also features prints of Biblical scenes, circulated at a time when literacy was uncommon.”

He added, “What interests me the most is the facsimile of the Qumran Dead Sea scroll containing the Book of Isaiah. This is definitely worth viewing,” the Gnostic declared.

Andy chimed, “You say that because you’re a gnostic, isn’t it?”

Before the Levantine could burst forth with a mouthful of religious quotations, Zac exclaimed, “This is definitely an interesting excursion. I’m intrigued by handcrafted manuscripts, especially antique hand-written bibles.”

“Those aren’t the only items at the museum. It also features nineteenth-century Egyptian artifacts and relics. Among the collections are clay tablets, oil lamps, coins, pottery pieces, and earthenware from that period. Naturally, these items are of religious significance.

“There are also ancient Herod and Solomon Temple replicas on display, together with a model of the Tabernacle, the sacred shrine that housed the Ark of the Covenant when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt.”

Monsieur Dubois declared, “Other ecclesiastical artifacts include ornately embellished family heirloom prayer books from the seventeenth through the twentieth centuries. To me, the most important display is the ‘Noordwijk Collection’ of prayer books.”

The art historian opined, “For me, the museum’s highly prized possession is the portrait of Jesus. The museum describes this artifact as an ‘attractively small, almost poetic’ depiction of the Messiah called ‘Head of Christ.’ This portraiture was traced to Rembrandt’s studio. Thus far, no one knows for sure if it was created by the Master or by one of his pupils.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go,” Andy commanded.

At the Biblical Museum

During our museum tour, Jabril came to me and uttered exuberantly, “Your teacher has agreed that we may go to ‘The District’ this evening.”

I stared at the man blankly. He giggled. Andy joined us.

“What’s the merriment?” my BB mused.

I looked at the Arab. He stated, “This evening, we are going the ‘The District.’”

“What district?” Andy voiced.

“Shush! Keep your voice down. We don’t want everyone to think we’re perverts,” Jabril muttered. “Although ‘The District’ is a sexual labyrinth, it is ironic that the city’s oldest house of God, ‘De Oude Kerk’ (The Old Church), is situated in the center.

“Maybe the prostitutes go there for penance after an evening of nefariously carnal exultations,” he quipped at his own statement.

“We’re touring the Red Light District?” Andy sallied.

“Shush, not so loud. Yes, we are going to the Red Light District,” the Arab smacked the back of Andy’s head.

He rubbed his head and questioned, “Are Albert and Young allowed?”

The art historian burst out. “Of course! Anyone can visit the area. They are not planning to solicit sexual services during their visit, are they?” he joked.

Zac heard the commotion. He came to join our group. My Valet remarked, “That should be an interesting outing. I couldn’t help eavesdropping, especially when you, Jabril, are in such merriment.”

“Boys, be ready at 9 PM sharp. I’ll take you on a psychedelic magical mystery tour,” he said smugly before disappearing to join my teacher, who was viewing Solomon’s Temple.

The Psychedelic Magical Mystery Tour

As per tradition in most European cities, dinner did not commence until 9 PM. We dined at a charming eatery near ‘The District’ before venturing into the maze of narrow alleyways that is the Rosse Buurt.

Rosse Buurt consists of De Wallen, Singelgebied and Ruysdaelkade, of which De Wallen is the oldest and the busiest. Its architectural layout is typical of fourteenth-century Amsterdam. As the night wore on, the streets became more and more brazen. People from different walks of life came to gawk and experience the sexual liberation of this infamous canal city.

Women in form-fitting dresses sat in store windows resembling living room interiors. Our entourage gawked at the women for sale as we strolled past. Women winked, smiling seductively at us. Some lingered around the doorframes, posing coquettishly. They were like extras from the set of Irma la Douce, the 1963 romantic comedy starring Shirley MacLaine. A couple of the females tried to strike up a conversation with Andy, Dubois and Zac, only to be shushed away by our tour guide, Jabril.

After prowling the bedazzling streets for over an hour, we found a café to rest our tired feet and people-watch. The gallant Jabril returned to our table with a tray full of beverages. He lit a joint and winked wickedly.

“Are you enjoying ‘The District,’ boys?” he asked mischievously.

Albert asked, “Are there men working in ‘The District’ as well?”

Jabril gave the adolescent a waggish grin before blowing a puff of smoke in the boy’s face, causing him to cough from this sudden impish onslaught. “You want a gay joint? I’ll show you one,” the rogue said. “Relax, lad, the night is young. Enjoy your drink, and enjoy the street show,” he commented.

“There must be a high crime rate with such an assortment of eccentric characters lurking about,” Zac remarked.

The Arab replied, “Young man, you are a keen observer. There were several murders in this vicinity a few years back. The most famous was in 1957. Johanna Machelia Scheide-Oudes, known to her clients as Magere Jossie, was brutally murdered. Although her pimp and husband was convicted, he was released because of a lack of evidence.

“There were others, including Barbara Van Der Eng, Chinese Annie, Finse Henni, Zwarte Judith, Blonde Jackie, and not least, a certain Zwarte Jeanne. These hideous crimes were eye-openers for the populace. This lead to the clean-up and legalization of prostitution of Rosse Buurt. The sex workers you see in the shop windows are registered and have to comply with certain codes of decency. They are not allowed to dress overly provocatively, and solicitations can only be conducted within the doorway of the salons and inside shop fronts. It’s forbidden along the walkways and the streets.”

Andy expressed, “No wonder they didn’t accost us when we walked away.”

Just then, a dandily dressed man patted Jabril’s shoulder. Both men embraced as if they were old pals. After a warm Dutch salutation, the Levantine introduced the dandy. “This is Zwarte Jopie, the ‘King of De Wallen’!” he proclaimed.

“Ahh! Everybody calls me Zwarte or Jopie, even though my name is Maurits De Vries,” mused the King. “Thanks, J, for bestowing on me that illustrious title. I’m just a humble citizen of this great city.”

Our guide resumed excitedly, “Zawrte is a great entrepreneur. He’s the owner of our city’s first adult shop. What other projects are you working on, Jopie?”

“I’m launching Casa Rosso this weekend. It’s a three-storey bar and nightclub,” the dandy answered proudly. “You and your friends must come and have a fun evening on the opening night.”

Jabril declared, “Of course we’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss the chance to meet the new ladies.”

The King spotted some acquaintance inside the café. Before he bid us farewell, he made us promise to attend the premiere of Casa Rosso.

2012

Continuation of Andy’s Message

…Young, do you remember the bar and nightclub owned by the ‘King of De Wallen,’ Zwarte Jopie? It is now Theatre Casa Rosso, a historical landmark where burlesque shows are held nightly.

“The Temple of Venus” (a Sex Museum) has replaced Zwarte Jopie’s adult shop. It displays an array of erotic art and historical sexual aids, mainly documenting the history of the Red Light District - from the mid-1960s to the 70s, the Golden era of Western sexual revolution.

In my opinion, this Museum is an erotic theme park. A plaster figure of Venus greets visitors at the entry. There are life-sized wax figures of Mata Hari with her entourage of male lovers and an effigy of Marilyn Monroe with air blowing under her skirt. A pair of humongous plastic phalluses stand erect for those who desire photo ops.

In each of the museum’s tiny anti-chambers, different kinds of muffled noises are broadcast from hidden speakers, accompanying visitors throughout the tour. Each chamber is dedicated to an erotic personality, the likes of Mata Hari, Marquis de Sade, Rudolf Valentino, Oscar Wilde, Marquise de Pompadour, and so on.

The Marquis de Sade’s chamber has repetitive sounds of steam machines, mixed together with distressed, orgasmic screams of women being tortured. To me, this museum resembles an old-fashioned and outdated aesthetic, which I find amusing. Touring this museum is like stepping back in time to a “Ripley’s Believe-It-or-Not” Odditorium, where human deformities were the norm. The difference - the items on display here are erotic; they’re not shrunken skulls or deformed mummified bodies. ☺

This museum has been around for more than 20 years. Nevertheless, I appreciate the unique erotic artifacts and the old and rare pornographic photos. I give credit to the curators for their organizational skills. These objects were well lit and displayed interestingly.

Rosse Buurt itself has miraculously transformed from a seedy erotic district to a mainstream family sightseeing attraction. Although brothels and sex workers continue to exist, this isn’t the charmingly sordid area we knew in 1968.

Last but not least, the gay establishment Jabril took us to is now a menswear boutique, retailing provocative undergarments, sexy swimwear and erotic wear.

Young, I’d love to visit Amsterdam with you. I’m sure we’d have fun reminiscing about our young years in the canal city. ☺

Love, hugs and more,

Andy.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Leather Bar

“A riding crop and a blindfold don’t make it BDSM. There is a big difference between being kinky and being in the scene. It’s not a sexual thing to me; it’s a very spiritual thing.”
Domina Blue

1968

ARGOS

It was close to midnight when Jabril led us down a narrow cobblestone street through an obscure wooden door near ‘De Oude Kerk’ (The Old Church). A regular passer-by wouldn’t have paid attention to this non-descript building. The windows were shielded by heavy black curtains. Upon closer inspection, the signage ARGOS appeared above the doorway. The letters were painted the same colour as the door.

A few husky men clad in leather followed us into the dimly lit interior. The stale smell of acid hit my nostrils the moment I stepped through the threshold. I wanted to sneeze, and I wasn’t the only person affected by this odour. Zac, Andy and Albert covered their noses with their hands, while I had my handkerchief over my nose. Before any of us could sneeze, Jabril led us to an open courtyard out of the busy bar. Our queasiness dissipated when we hit the open courtyard.

Wooden benches together with an array of mismatched chairs and low tables welcomed us. No sooner had our group gathered our equilibrium than did the Levantine puff at the joint he’d rolled. A youngish waiter in tight leather shorts and army boots took our beverage orders.

Several scantily dressed men lurked in shadowy corners, as if in anticipation. All I saw were their husky silhouettes as they puffed on cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They spoke in low voices. The lighting made it impossible for me to see what they were up to.

Andy leaned towards our group and whispered, “What kind of a place is this?”

Our Arab guide leaned across and answered quietly, “It’s a Leather Bar. The first of its kind in the city.”

“What happens in a Leather Bar as compared to a regular bar?” Albert asked inquisitively.

“I went to one in Berlin when I was an E.R.O.S. recruit. My then Master’s cousin was into the BDSM scene. There are bars like these in London and New York,” Dubois susurrated.

Jabril remarked before Alain could continue. “Before ARGOS moved to this location, it was at Hotel Tiemersma’s kitchen. Sako Jan Tiemersma and Anton Johan Kennedy, the owners, operated the hotel solely for sailors and their homosexual friends visiting the city.

“It’s said that their Californian visitors introduced the leather, BDSM and biker trends to our already liberal and mixed sadomasochistic sub-culture.”

Albert questioned again, “What’s BDSM?”

Andy gave a suppressed laugh, said, “Young, do you remember your Kosk Household teacher, Ramiz, who’s into bondage, domination and sadomasochism?”

“So, that’s what BDSM means… Bondage, Domination and Sadomasochism,” Albert iterated.

I directed my question to Andy, “I’m pretty sure Ramiz would love this establishment. Maybe we should introduce him to our guide, don’t you think?”

“This idea of S&M machismo is beyond my comprehension,” Zac murmured to himself.

Jabril continued, “If I remember correctly, Sako and Anton had their first ‘dark’ room in their hotel’s cellar – since the guest rooms don’t have bathrooms, the lodgers had to venture below stairs to the dark, humid and smelly urinals for a leak. Before long, the cellar became a meeting place for gay men.” He paused. “Who’s this Ramiz? I’d like to meet him. Maybe I can show him the seedy side of my illustrious city,” he smirked.

Andy expressed sarcastically, “I’m sure Ramiz would love it here. He’s definitely into this type of ‘foul’ play. By the way, how long has this place been open?”

“It’s been in operation for three and half years.” Jabril remarked. “ARGOS was a tavern before moving here. Under new management.”

Dubois expressed vehemently, “There’s more to this city than sex shows, fetish bars and pot smoking cafes. This metropolis rivals the beautiful Venetian canals and the culture of Paris, not to mention its well-heeled international cuisine and fascinating history.”

Andy leered, “Yet, the decadence begs to be explored by its visitors.”

Zac declared, “This city also has its bastion of freewheeling liberalism, where personal freedom is paramount and good times never end.”

“Before we get too philosophical, let’s do some exploration of our own. Shall we?” our Arab philanderer vociferated as he ushered us back into the building.

The ‘Bathroom’

Zac, like Andy, would not let me out of his sight as our entourage split into groups of twos, except for Jabril, who cruised alone.

My Valet and I stumbled into a dimly lit chamber with blackened walls. A sunken drain ran across the middle of the concrete floor. The pervasive odor of urine lingered in this airless room. The only urinals noted were cartoonish graffiti painted on the walls.

“You’re in the ‘bathroom,’” a voice muttered next to us. The voice pointed to a square tub shoved haphazardly in a corner.

He explained in a thick Dutch accent, “Men sit in there.” He directed our gaze to a low mezzanine balcony overlooking the tub, “You see up there?”

I craned my neck to peer at the small grate set into the ceiling above the tub. “Uh-huh...” my chaperone and I uttered in unison.

“What happens up there?” I twittered.

The bloke chuckled at my innocence. “The men up there,” he said, pointing to the empty balcony, “they piss on the ‘pigs’ in the tub. ‘Water-sports’ time is about to start.”

“Oh, wow!” I stammer. Although I was shocked by his proclamation, I was also intrigued by the slang he used. Even though I had no idea what ‘pigs’ or ‘water-sports’ meant at the time, I guessed as much.

As I stood contemplating to what it would be like to be a ‘pig’ and be pissed upon, a naked man had gotten into the pee-stained tub. Out of nowhere, a couple of guys had miraculously appeared on the balcony. They wore nothing but leather chaps, revealing their exposed groins and nether regions. They whipped out their respective penises to piss on the man below.

My eyes were glued to this surreal scene. As ‘pig’ got drenched from head to toe, to my astonishment, he opened his mouth to receive the yellow fluid down his throat, gulping mouthfuls of urine as if consuming beer from a flowing fountain.

The urinating men were replaced by others as they emptied their bladders onto the guzzling male. He quaffed and swallowed every drop before massaging the remaining liquid over his body. He savored the yellow aqua as if it were from a divinity.

By now, the man next to us had whipped out his cock, jerking himself furiously. Tantalized by the scene before him, he mumbled repeatedly, “Dirty dicks! Shit, I love dirty dicks…”

A mystery man manifested behind Mr. Masturbation. The brawny intruder twitched and pinched Masturbation’s erect nipples, urging him towards the path of no return. He ground his masculinity against the ‘submissive’s’ buttocks.

Wearing no trousers except chaps, his manly groin and derriere revealed a layer of hairy masculinity, common among ‘dominants.’ His protrusion gyrated ferociously against the man’s anal opening. He shoved the man towards the tub. Spitting a wad of saliva onto his bulbousness, the intruder jammed it fiercely into the man’s opening. Cupping the ‘submissive’s’ mouth to halt his cry, he rode him mercilessly.

I felt nauseated by the scathing smell of poppers, the stifling heat, and the sleazy perspiration mixed with pools of rancid urine. I had to get away from the confines of this oppressive ‘bathroom.’

Zac sensed my unease. He steered me urgently towards the open courtyard. The night air gushed into my lungs. I fell to the ground.

Where Am I?

I was a stranger in a strange land, struggling for air within the confines of a post-apocalyptic environment. The darkness, the dank putrid smells lingered.

Suddenly, brilliant rays of bright light swirled around my person. I was no longer in the ‘fuck’ bar. An expansive floral meadow lay before me. Blossoming blooms accompanied by soothing music floated across the distant land. The melodies resembled Vaughan Williams’ ‘Folk Songs from Somerset’ – or were they melodies from Beethoven’s ‘Recollections of Country Life’? I couldn’t tell. Bliss befell me.

Vice had transformed into virtue. And I was lost in this field of dreams. Twirling, whirling and pirouetting, I pranced like a ballerina on pointe. Had I had morphed into a lark? Were my outstretched arms wings? I soared through the cloudless sky. My bird’s eye view imbued an indescribable sense of fearlessness that was both munificent and carefree.

As if by magic, a resplendent forest materialized. This enchanted forest bore a strong resemblance to the place where Nikee, Andy and I had our first ménage à trois.

I’d descended into this winsome pre-Raphaelite terrain. It captivated my soul, as if I’d entered a mystical realm – a garden-scape as Eleanor Fortescue Brickdale had depicted in her painting The Lovers’ World.

Had I transmogrified into an angel? I wondered, perhaps aloud, as colossal wings sprouted on my back. “Am I a bird, a bird-boy, a Pterodactylus, or…? What am I…?” Before I had a chance to ponder, a gaggle of white peacocks encircled my being. Their sonorous cackling noises mixed with the loud swooshing sounds of their splendiferous fan-like tails precipitated around me. I covered my ears in anguish. These fantastical creatures were zooming towards me like vultures ready to devour a kill.

I fell unconscious onto a bed of white florals. I’d lost track of time and space.

The sweet scent of a pasture of sweet peas, Lilies of the Valley, and snowdrops stirred me back to consciousness, if only temporarily. I lay drowsily on a bed of extraordinarily large Madonna Lilies. They enveloped me under their microscopic inspection.

A ravishing stallion made its way towards me. I strained for a better look. “Am I dreaming? Is it an unblemished Unicorn?” I shut my eyes in bewilderment. Before I knew it, the unicorn had lowered its snout onto my cheeks. He gave me a nudge, instructing me to saddle his snowy back.

I mounted the mystical beast as he cantered me to safety. Protected in the bosom of his sinewy frame, I had no idea where he was taking me. I held tightly onto his flowing mane as he careened into the open pasture. Refreshing air filled my lungs once again. I could breathe easily, yet I needed water, lots of water to quench my thirst. This noble creature read my mind. He raced me to a gushing brook and lowered me to drink from the percolating aqua.

My eyes jolted open, as if by magic. Both Andy and Zac were sitting next to me, one on either side of my hospital bed. They held my hands, looking perturbed. My bedside tables were covered with bouquets of flowers, similar to those I had witnessed not so long ago in the otherworldly realm.

“Where am I?” I whispered weakly. My voice was barely audible, even to me.

“Shush. Close your eyes and rest…” my guardians replied simultaneously. I fell into a peaceful slumber.

2012

My Response to Andy

Dearest Andy,

It would be splendid to revisit the canal city and reminisce of our time at the Falcon’s Den – especially that fateful evening when I ended up at Dr. Fahrib’s private hospital. I have no idea why I blacked out. I recalled the vivid dream I experienced while comatose. You and Zac were in such a panic, worried if I’d ever wake. LOL!

The final thing I remember in ARGOS before I collapsed was the unpleasant smell within the ‘bathroom’. Quick-witted Zac ushered me to the open courtyard for air. We weren’t quick enough; I fainted just as we reached the doorway. I was out like a light. I remember you guys trying to revive me. I didn’t come around. You carried me back to the Falcon’s Den hurriedly.

Thank Allah, the good doctor was home. He was already asleep, but you woke him for help. I faintly recall inhaling some kind of smelling salt. It didn’t help. Fahrib had to rush me to his private clinic for urgent care. I remained unconscious until the first ray of light the following day.

When I finally came around, I was hooked to an IV. The doctor couldn’t diagnose the problem until he took a sample of my urine and discovered LSD in my system.

The ARGOS pineapple juice had tasted strange. I suspect the barman had added several drops of the hallucinogenic drug to my drink. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did this to his customers randomly. But why didn’t the rest of our group fall ill? Have you any idea…?

Chapter Twenty-Six

A Show Of Hands

“He who has known himself has …already achieved knowledge about the depth of all.”

The Book of Thomas The Contender

(Gnostic Gospel)

1968

What transpired?

When I finally handed Dr. Andrew Henderson’s package to Zac, I was a day late. Aziz and Count Mario, our Sacred Sex in Sacred Places photographers were already in Amsterdam. They had contacted Dr. Fahrib, informing him that Andy and I were to be on loan to them in the next segment of their controversial photo shoot.

The brown package I handed to Zac contained official employment documents required by the sheik for our new Spanish tutor, Victor Angel Triqueros. Within the package was also a letter addressed to my Household ‘Master,’ which requested our temporary release.

Needless to say, I was reprimanded by both my BBs and Professor Dubois for my negligence in supplying them with this important document sooner. Monsieur Alain was not a happy camper. He was upset with the art historian for having put Albert and me in mortal danger the night before. He, my guardians, and Jabril had a lengthy discussion with our household patriarch over the issue while I was unconscious and Albert was suffering from severe stomach illness.              At the time, I had no idea that Andy’s charge had also been affected by the hallucinogenic drug. No one had mentioned to me that Albert was in the adjacent hospital room until our release. Andy, Zac and Dubois had taken turns watching over us in the event our condition worsened.

Mario and Aziz generously had a local florist deliver an abundance of flowers to my chamber, and so, though comatose, I was lying on a bed of sweetly scented flora.

Conversation at the Salon

Even though I’d recuperated rather quickly my head felt heavy while I was having tea the following afternoon at the Falcon’s Den salon. Albert was in bed, resting. We sat and enjoyed our beverages and snacks quietly before my teacher spoke, “Young, I’m glad you are feeling better. We were in an apprehensive state yesterday…”

Before he could continue, Andy vociferated, “I’m glad you are back with us in one piece.”

Jabril sniggered, “How many pieces do you expect him to be in? I told you, there is nothing to worry about.” He mumbled, under his breath, a quote from the gnostic Apostle Thomas: “When you make the two into one, and when you make the inner as the outer, and the upper as the lower, and when you make male and female into a single one, so that the male shall not be male, and the female shall not be female. . . then you will enter [the kingdom].”

Dubois, overhearing him, countered indignantly, “Jabril, don’t justify your actions as being righteous. I am well aware of the duality between the Yin and Yang being a part of the whole. But it isn’t ethical to put this young man in harm’s way just so he can experience the profane and the profound.”

The gnostic uttered another of his now infamous sayings from the apocryphal Acts of Peter: “Unless you make on the right hand as what is on the left and what is on the left hand as what is on the right and what is above as what is below and what is behind as what is before, you will not have knowledge of the kingdom.” He was obviously provoking my professor.

The Frenchman, flabbergasted by the Levantine’s insensitivity, challenged, “Alright, let’s have a debate about your gnostic beliefs, since you, Mr. Popinjay, are forever reciting sayings from the gnostic gospels.”

We looked at Monsieur, stupefied. Andy remarked, “Now, good people, what transpired last evening is a thing of the past. Young and Albert have recovered. There is no need to dwell…”

Before my chaperone could finish, Dr. Fahrib entered. The room went silent.

Our host announced exuberantly, “Let’s go to the country tomorrow morning. The fresh air will work wonders for the boys. They deserve a break from stuffy Amsterdam. I, too, can do with a break from my duty. We can spend a day in ‘tulip’ country. How about that?”

My BBs and I welcomed the idea. Not only were we charmed by this unexpected suggestion, we were glad the sheik had arrived to dissipate the contentiousness before the Zentologist and the Gnostic could get themselves into a brawl.

Before we left the salon for dinner, my Valet and I overheard the art historian snickering at Alain. “We’ll have a Gnostic debate tomorrow. Bring the boys to my chamber; I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” he whispered to my teacher.

De Silveren Spiegel (The Silver Mirror)

Restaurant De Silveren Spiegel, The Silver Mirror, was housed within a seventeenth-century building. This elegant eatery dates back to 1614, the Golden Age in Dutch genealogy. It was kept in its original state for sophisticated diners to experience ambiance befitting Rembrandt and Vermeer.

Traditional Dutch elegance and hospitality greeted our entourage as our golden Jaguar and vintage Silver Arrow pulled up to the restaurant’s front entrance. The elegantly dressed maitre d’hotel welcomed us with open arms. He led us upstairs to a private dining chamber, where he proceeded to give us an overview of the restaurant’s history.

“Our distinguished establishment was a popular haunt for German soldiers during the war. Unbeknownst to them, the owners had hidden several Jews, helping them with their eventual escape.” He paused for effect. “As you may have noticed, there are not many glass windows in the building. During the seventeenth century, an architectural law was passed: the more glass windows, the higher the tariff for the owners. So, houses were built with deep interiors instead of having windows.

“You may also have noticed that the front of the building tilts forward; this is constructed intentionally for packages to be lifted to the upper floors without damaging the front of the house.

“Last but not least, the upstairs floors slope to the left - this is due to age rather than design,” he bloviated smugly.

My Next Assignment

Just then, who should enter but the notable fashion photographer Count Mario Conti and his equally noteworthy collaborator, Aziz. We greeted the new arrivals. When it came my turn, the count kissed my cheeks and ruffled my hair adoringly, saying, “My, oh my, you’ve blossomed since we last met.”

Entranced by the suave philanderer’s manly countenance, my eyes were glued to his every move. He resumed teasingly, “You’re a naughty boy. You didn’t inform ‘Master’ Fahrib that I’d be here to whisk you away, did you?”

Andy, guessing my thoughts, answered teasingly, “This fella remembers nothing but you.”

The group laughed. “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I apologized sheepishly.

The Italian kissed me full on my lips. With this unexpected flamboyance, I was at once flummoxed and exalted by the rogue. He never failed to frighten and fascinate me.

“I’m sure Young will make it up to you, alright,” Andy said with a mischievous wink.

“Well, in that case, I’ll take him up on his offer,” the photographer razzed.

Dubois jumped in to my rescue. “Where are you planning to shoot the next segment of Sacred Sex in Sacred Places?”

Aziz replied, “We are going to India.”

“India!” Jabril exclaimed. “What fun! Do you need an assistant?”

Before the photographers could reply, the sheik announced, “I’ve already made arrangements with our guests. I’ll continue my regular training for the upcoming Summer Olympic yachting race here, while you boys travel with Mario and Aziz to India. I’ll join you there when I can get away. After the shoot, we’ll return to Sharjah to my family.”

I exclaimed, “Sir, I had no idea you are to be a competitive sailor in the upcoming Summer Olympics?”

The doctor gave a hearty laugh. “Young man, there are many things you don’t know about me.”

He added, “When you are in Sharjah, you can discuss fashion with my wives. They’ll be delighted to talk shop with you.”

I nodded. “I’ll be happy to assist in any way possible. They must be very well dressed and beautiful,” I twittered excitedly.

The sheik did not answer, instead, he directed his enquiries to the photographers. “Where in India are you filming?”

“We’ll start in Madhya Pradesh, at The Khajuraho Monuments,” the count announced. “This region is known for its Hindu and Jain temples.”

Jabril chirped excitedly, “What an excellent destination. These temples are famous for their Nagara-style architectural symbolism, and the erotic sculptures are the best in the world.”

Fahrib stated, “You fellas can leave immediately after the Sotheby’s estate auction, in time for the colourful Khajuraho Dance spectacles.”

“How do you know so much about that region of India?” Aziz enquired.

The Levantine quipped, “During the course of my art career, India has been one of the finest places to study artistic antiquities. I’m an aficionado of Indian art.”

Alain commented, “So am I. Much of my Zentology research has its origins in Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism and Buddhism.”

“Oh, so the two of you experts have things in common,” Zac discerned jestingly. “I, for one, am piqued. I can’t wait for the upcoming debate.”

As soon as my Valet uttered the sentence, he wished he hadn’t.

“What debate?” questioned the sheik.

“Young and I are curious about Gnosticism,” he said carefully. “Since Meneer Jabril and Monsieur Dubois are well versed in sacred texts, we’re hoping to be enlightened by their wisdom.”

“Well, in that case, we can have the debate during our country outing tomorrow. Would you like to join us?” the doctor asked the two photographers.

Mario expressed, “That’ll be wonderful! I can do with some fresh country air.”

“I’ll tag along, since I’ve nothing planned,” Aziz seconded.

Before long, our Netherlandic savoir-vivre had arrived. The top chef at De Silveren Spiegel had prepared a variety of scrumptious seafood specialties for our entourage to savour.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sahasrāra & Samadhi

“When couples get into Karezza, their subconscious opens up like a lotus bloom. Their Buddha and Kun Ying selves begin to explode.”

Alain Dubois

2012

Continuation of My Message to Andy

…I do recall that Albert was also taken ill, but why weren’t you, Zac or Monsieur Dubois? Maybe the waiter only added LSD to the soft drinks and not to the beers you guys had.

I did enjoy our outing to the Dutch countryside with Dr. Fahrib and the gang. The tulips were in full bloom, and so were the poppies and wild flowers. It was a beautiful spring day, wasn’t it? These blossoms were indeed a sight to behold, not to mention the heated debate that went on between Dubois, Jabril and the gang. Those two were at each other’s throats, even though most of their pronouncements held similar universal truths. Their debate was amusing, yet they got themselves into a twist. You would have thought a fisticuff would occur if the sheik or Mario weren’t there to keep peace. I’m sure you, the gallant arbiter, would have stepped in to stop the contretemps, if we were there to witness it all. ☺

Our entourage gained much insight into various religious beliefs. I’m sure we would have found it highly educational if …

1968

The Tulips of Amsterdam

Our entourage departed early in the morning in time for ‘elevenses’ at a charming eatery in the floral seaside resort of Noordwijk aan Zee. This charming seaside town started life as a fishing village in the thirteenth century. By 1866, it had morphed into a beach resort for the wealthy elite, where sea water was believed to have a medicinal effect. With the arrival of steam transportation, many holiday makers made this a holiday destination. With the unique combination of a long sandy beach and an array of colourful floral fields, Noordwijk blossomed to become the floral seaside resort of Europe.

In the early months of spring 1968, the fields outside of Amsterdam turned from sandy patches to carpets of lime green sprouts. We had arrived in time to witness the vicinity swathed in red, pink, purple, orange and yellow blooms, a sight that resembled the film set of The Wizard of Oz.

The Keukenhof Gardens

After a couple of hours of enjoying the refreshing ocean air of Noordwijk aan Zee, we journeyed to the town of Lisse, where Europe’s most spectacular tulip gardens – The Keukenhof Gardens – are located. Approximately thirty miles southwest of Amsterdam, this park showcased millions of blossoming bulbs. It also boasted countless varieties of indoor and outdoor floral blooms. The fairy-tale beauty of the Keukenhof Gardens was a sight to behold.

It was one of those perfect spring days. I could look across the clear blue sky to see nothing but an abundance of colourful flowers stretched across this expansive landscape. It reminded me of the garden-scape I had visited in my comatose dream. Our entourage found a secluded spot to lay out our picnic blankets, enjoying a relaxing afternoon.

I was deep in thought when a voice muttered beside me, “Come on, Young. The debate is about to start. Are you with us or have you gone to another realm?”

Andy knelt beside me as he continued, “Are you okay? You haven’t been yourself since your return from the hospital.”

“I’m fine. I’m enjoying the beautiful landscape. Is it alright if I go for a walk? I’d like to see more of the gardens,” I replied.

“In that case, I’ll stroll with you. I’m sure we’ll never hear the end of Alain and Jabril’s colloquy, and your teacher will continue his ecclesiastical discussions in one of his Zentology sessions even if you miss this debate. As for Jabril, he’s not one to forgo a spirited contention. Rest assured, they’ll still be arguing upon our return,” My BB commented wittily.

I remarked, “Don’t you want to stay with Albert?”

“He’ll be safe with the group. Besides, he’s not as much of an explorer as you are,” he uttered smilingly.

Since Andy had become Albert’s chaperone, we’d hardly spent any alone time. We were always in the company of others. I welcomed the idea of some alone time with my ex-Valet and was glad he offered to accompany me around the park.

An Enlightening Illumination

We walked in silence until we came upon a rolling poppy pasture. The luscious pinks, reds, oranges and yellows drew my breath away as we wandered aimlessly down a country path. I was in awe. Suddenly, Andy pulled me to him and kissed me, prying my mouth open to receive his succulent tongue. Although momentarily astonished, I surrendered to his advances.

Though Albert’s arrival had caused a shift in our intimacy, Andy had never left me out of his periphery, even when Zac had entered the picture. My ex-Valet still considered himself responsible for my wellbeing.

Though there were occasions when pangs of jealousy rose in me upon witnessing Andy and Albert, I managed to keep the green eyed monster at bay, acting nonchalantly when I felt cheated by this game of love. I behaved as if immune to this unsavoury emotion, maintaining decorum even when my heart was breaking. I never spoke of this emotional turmoil to Zac and definitely not to Andy, whom I continued to adore from a distance.

Now, his amorous kiss had stirred in me the unspoken wistfulness I had kept so well hidden within. I willingly opened myself to his affection. As we held each other tightly, I felt his throbbing manhood as if it was our first sensual encounter. His masculinity intoxicated me. When he stared into my eyes, I was at a loss. Just like the time he made love to me with his piercing eyes during my E.R.O.S. initiation ceremony, my knees grew weak. I was frozen in time. I did not know how to respond to this sudden surge of emotional upheaval. I thought I had mastered the art of love, yet I was floored by this man I thought I knew so well.

He led me to a secluded part of the floral pasture, shadowed by several large trees. With utmost urgency, his nimble fingers pulled off my sweatshirt and he lifted up my arms, inhaling the boyish scent from my hairless armpits. He sniffed and lapped at my tenderness. My excitement heaved to his every touch. He tore off his shirt to reveal the muscly splendour of his teenage chest. I wrapped my hands around his brawny neck as he hooked his bulging arms round my slender waist. He unzipped our pants to let them fall around our ankles before yanking them away, leaving our exposed briefs draping haphazardly across our nether regions.

As we continued our French kisses, I reached in to caress his hardness. I released his throbbing protrusion from its confines. He too wasted no time wrenching off my remaining cover, baring me to nature’s elements. Like an unhampered bird, I felt the freedom of the gentle breezes that brushed against my nakedness. Andy lifted me up to straddle him. Leaning me against a massive tree truck, he balanced me on his sturdy arms, easing his tantalizing organ into my willing orifice.

Saddling him, I jounced on his pulsating organ as if taming a wild bull. He bounced my buttocks to the fiery strokes of our love dance. Our synchronized tango palpitated with each rhythmic perforation, as I squeezed and released my inner sanctum to my lover’s pressing necessities. As much as we craved for release, our tantric preoccupations deterred us from surrendering ourselves to love’s triviality. We wanted to bathe in the heavenly glow of our sexual continence, to merge as a single entity where our peripheries dissolved into nothingness.

We continued our coitus reservatus as I mounted my lover in the lotus position. We closed our eyes to relish our unhurried gyrations, stirring an ardent tranquillity within ourselves that defied space and time. We lost track of time in this meditative equilibrium. All we experienced was the intimate connection our souls shared in our consummate union. Our spirits intertwined into a blissful state which the Hindus call Nirvana, the union with Brahman, the divine ground of existence, and the experience of seraphic egolessness.

We were at once the Alpha and the Omega, the Yin and the Yang, the Front and the Back, the Positive and the Negative.

“When you make the two into one, and when you make the inner as the outer, and the upper as the lower, and when you make male (masculine) and female (feminine) into a single entity, so that the male shall not be male, and the female shall not be female… then you will enter [the kingdom],” I remembered Jabril quoting from the gnostic Apostle Thomas.

My lover and I had unconsciously entered the kingdom. Neither of us realized we had attained ‘moksha’ (emancipation, liberation or release) from Saṃsāra - the repeating cycle of birth, life and death. We dwelt in this sensually spirited realm, unaware of time, allowing our unhindered consciousness to guide us towards euphoric provenance, where all things are possible.

A distant voice called us to reality. Neither my lover nor I desired to return. With our sacred gyrations suspended, we had not the need for release, but we wanted to sustain the momentum our divinity beckoned us uninterrupted. This was my first and certainly not the last of such subliminal providence.

When we finally egressed from our cogitation, we found the Zentologist dumbfounded and in awe, overwhelmed by what he later described as witnessing the Sahasrāra (“thousand-petaled” – White Lotus) above our heads. The glowing rainbow halo of Kundalini Shanti illuminated my lover and me, encircling our sacred union with asama-prajnata-samadhi – a state in which there is no activity of the mind, no knower, no knowledge, nothing to be known: knowledge, knower and known become unified and liberated.

His virility was deeply buried within my core. My lover and I remained in our Garden of Love. Our guiltlessness deterred us from separation. We abided in this state until our rapturous Samadhi subsided. Only then did we dress and follow my teacher back towards the madding crowd.

That day at the poppy field, Andy and I regained our spiritual eroticism, which the Zentologist canalized as “Divine Providence.”

2012

Continuation of My Message to Andy

Our simultaneous out-of-body experience was a once-in-a-lifetime one. To be honest with you, Andy, since that “perfect” day at the Keukenhof Gardens, I have not achieved that heavenly occurrence again.

Do you recall our subsequent Zentology sessions with Monsieur Dubois? He went to great lengths to describe what he saw when he found us at the poppy field?

His words rang clearly in my mind. This was how he explained our “astral projection.”

He said, “One of the reasons I’m interested in spiritual travel is that it provides a unique means of approaching distant and extraordinary states of transcendent awareness; especially that of sexual mysticism. This sui generis experience exposes the seeker to a series of spiritual lessons to his or her identity, therefore providing the soul the freedom to journey to various non-physical dimensions. These lessons introduce the traveler to a variety of psychic and metaphysical states, where individual freedom and spiritual awareness are heightened to insurmountable ecstasies. In addition, astral projection provides an inner laboratory where the seeker can experiment with techniques and methods of moving through our limited psychic consciousness, delving into distant realities, what we spiritualists call ‘exploring the heavenly states.’ We loosely term the experience ‘Nirvana,’ turning faith and hope into confidence and spiritual enlightenment.

He continued, “That brings me to Sahasrāra chakra. This is the seat of the parabindu (the supreme bindu), the merging of Kundalini Shakti and Shiva, which emanate from this location. The liberation you and Andy attained is what Hindus believe to be the highest unification of the individual with the universe.

“Above Brahma-randhra (‘the cave of Brahma’) is a hole in the crown of the head. It is through this opening that the soul escapes after death. This is the Sahasrāra chakra. When the soul separates from the physical body, the Brahma-randhra bursts open, freeing the soul from its confines through the ‘Door to Pure Consciousness’ or the ‘Door of Liberation.’ The Hindus call this perforation – Kapala Moksha.”

The Zentologist went on to say that the Kundalini Shakti or “Serpent Power” also ascends through Sushumna to Sahasrāra when the Brahma-randhra unfurls. He added that immortality is achieved within the Sahasrāra Chakra when it reverses its liberation back into the body to rest at the central base of the physical form.

Dubois also explained, “When the Kundalini energy rises to the Sahasrāra Chakra, the illusion of self dissolves, merging with the cosmic principles that govern the universe. The individual is no longer subjected to birth or death, but to immortality.

“The prana (breath of life) moves up to the highest point in the Sahasrāra Chakra. The mind then establishes itself in the void of Shunya Mandala - this is the space between the hemispheres. During this manifestation, all feelings and desires (activities of the mind) are dissolved. In this flawless bliss of inactivity, the seeker becomes his or her authentic self, retaining a nondual consciousness. He/she is untroubled by pleasure, pain, honours or humiliations. Samadhi is achieved.”

My dearest Andy, I’m keen to know your thoughts. I look forward to your reply.

Yours truly,

Young (my love for you never waned)

XOXOXO

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Auction

“The beauty of an auction is that surreptitious things happen when the right players are involved and money is of no object. It’s all about competitiveness and one-upmanship.“

Bernard Tristan Foong

1968

A Certain Art Specialist

Our entourage — Sheik Fahrib, Jabril, Count Mario Conti, Aziz, Monsieur Alain Dubois, Andy, Zac, together with Albert and me – arrived at a huge country home on the outskirts of Amsterdam.

In the spring of 1968, this was the country estate of a recently deceased Graaff – a descendant of Johannes de Graaff, a Dutch military commander and Governor of Sint Eustatine, Saba and Sint Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles back in the seventeen hundreds.

We were ushered into a sophisticated ballroom, now transformed into a private auction room. Representatives from the Sotheby’s Auction House were busy socializing with their potential buyers by serving them luscious caviar and top-of-the line champagne. As we browsed the auction catalogues and wandered around the mansion to view the displayed exhibits, melancholy befell me. I wondered what it would be like to part with these intrinsically valuable objects that were so much a part of the original collector’s life. I was staring at a contemporary painting of the two ‘Marys’ when a voice spoke from behind.

“Are you interested in this painting? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the voice said and paused. “Are you bidding for this masterpiece?”

Caught off guard, I found a gentleman next to me. I fumbled for a response. “Uh… no… I’m here with Sheik Fahrib and his private secretary, Jabril.” I gazed in their direction. They were immersed in conversation with a finely dressed Arab gentleman and his three-person entourage. It was someone I’d never met before.

“I see!” the voice exclaimed. “You’re part of the Arabian delegation.”

I nodded. Just then, my teacher joined us. He extended his hand to greet the man. “Hello, I’m Alain Dubois. This is Young, my student.”

“Nice to meet you, Young,” the man said, extending a hand. “And you, Mr. Dubois. I am Bram. Bram Morsink. Are you here to educate the young man in art history?”

My professor answered genially, “It is a part of my duty to educate my students in the history of Art. Are you a bidder, or a browser like me?”

Mr. Morsink gave a hearty laugh. “A bit of both.” He paused to look at the boldly coloured image of the Marys. “I’m fascinated by contemporary art. I want to be a specialist in this area and have my own gallery.” He added, “You see, penetrating the world of modern art requires patience and an open mind. Only then will the art reveal its spiritual power to enrich my life.”

“You collect modern art, sir?” Dubois inquired.

His response came as no surprise to neither of us: “I do.”

Before Bram could say anything else, my teacher asked, “What’s the secret to collecting contemporary art? How do you assess the worth of a piece of work?”

“I look, observe, and look again. To acquire a trained ‘eye for modernism’ and to develop a feeling for quality, I visit museums, attend exhibitions, visit galleries and go to auctions on a regular basis.

“I learn a great deal just by looking at the paintings. They speak for themselves, as no one image is identical to another. Although at first glance, they may appear similar, I am sensitive to their appeal, and I linger for closer inspection.” He paused. “It’s a prerequisite for penetrating their secrets. Gradually, I become aware of the great diversity of themes. I also notice the variations in style, discovering the individual manner of depiction and expression with each piece of work. Simultaneously, I expand my knowledge by gathering literature about the artists I’m interested in. There are many finely illustrated books on every specialized topic which I use as references when making a purchase.” He went on to explain, “I also visit commercial galleries that deal in contemporary art and ask questions. I learn a great deal from their staff, since they know the works they are selling. Even if I don’t make a purchase, I’m enriched by the experience. The truth is - buying and ultimately living with modernist art is a lifetime of education, and looking at images is only the gateway in to the process.”

Enlivened by his wholeheartedness, I queried, “How do you determine which piece to buy?”

For some reason, he laughed. “Young man, when I intend to purchase a painting or an established collection of paintings, my most important consideration is to buy what I truly love. You see, living with modernism is not a static event; it is a learning process. I buy paintings that appeal to me on a profound level. I look for images that move me.”

He continued with unreserved enthusiasm: “The second rule of buying modern art is to establish contact with reputable galleries or well-respected experts in the field of contemporary art. They’ll advise me about what I should or shouldn’t purchase. Throughout the purchasing process, whether for a single painting or an entire collection, they can guide me. I always work with reputable art dealers who rouse me with their confidence. A serious dealer can advise me on the quality, condition and provenance of art he or she sells and can almost always guarantee its authenticity. There is a famous saying in the art world: ‘Every dealer gets the clients he/she deserves.’”

An Unspoken Rivalry

Jabril, witnessing our conversation, came over to join us with the sheik and the elegantly attired Middle Easterner in tow. The Levantine extended his hand to shake Mr. Morsink’s before introducing Dr. Fahrib and Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, a cousin of the then reigning Emir of Qatar.

Bram spoke, “Nice to meet you, gentlemen, and good to see you again, Meneer Jabril Zev Saliba. I believe the last time we met was at the Postmodernist exhibition in Hague. Your heterodoxy reputation precedes you, Meneer Saliba,” he smirked haughtily.

Alain, Fahrib and I gave each other glances as if we were about to witness another sprightly parley.

“I see you are giving my friends a lesson in contemporary art,” the art historian sniggered.

“Oh, I was just relating my experiences in modern art purchases,” came the contemporary art specialist’s reply.

Before the Sheik, the Munsor or Dubois could comment, Jabril chimed precipitously, “Are you aware that the infamous ‘Mary’ was not the prostitute the creed portrays her to be? On the contrary, she was a proficient businesswoman who owned her own fishery along the Galilean shores.”

This declaration caught us by surprise. He resumed, “She was the first apostle – not Peter, as is generally believed by many.”

Sheik Fahrib added quickly before his assistant could resume, “We should take our places. The auction is about to start.” Our patriarch firmly but subtly dispersed an otherwise volatile contretemps between the hot-headed art historian and the contemporary art expert.

The Auction

Each attendee’s name was elegantly inscribed behind a gold chair. Although attendees were not obliged to bid, flashcards with individualized numbers were placed on each seat. Like a casino employee, an excellent auctioneer could talk up a storm for each lot, rousing a bidder’s adrenaline rush to heights of overwhelming exertion to outbid an opponent. This was precisely what was happening to the impetuous Levantine, the emblematic contemporary art collector, and the Qatari Munsor.

At once, when the auctioneer commenced the bidding, a flurry of activities began in the hall’s periphery. Bidding could also be conducted via telephone if a bidder chose to remain anonymous. As if a flurry of chirping birds had suddenly descended on the hall’s interior, the consistent ringing of telephones filled the auction hall as soon as the first lot was announced.

Sotheby’s administrators recorded each bidder’s number when the auctioneer “knocked down” the hammer price, declaring each item sold to the winning attendee or telephone bidder. The items would then be delivered to the respective buyers through Sotheby’s private delivery service. After a successful bid, an auction representative calculated and summed the hammer price, the buyer’s premium, and the local taxes, and the winning bidder could then choose to pay by cash, cheque, money order or wire transfer.

Sellers, on the other hand, were required to fill out a Sotheby’s Auction Estimate Form, thereby providing genuine and authentic information on the auction item. Once authenticated by Sotheby’s, the seller and the auction house signed a contract to set the reserve price and the seller’s commission. If bidding on a seller’s lot did not reach the reserve price, Sotheby’s would exercise the right not to sell the item at the auction.

War Zone

The auction went as smoothly as one could expect – until the contemporary ‘Marys’ came on the block. A dozen bidders vied for this extraordinary piece of work. Before long, the show of hands went from twelve to three: those belonged to Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, Meneer Jabril Saliba, who was bidding on behalf of Sheik Fahrib, and Mr. Bram Morsink. Bids rose by the second, and so did the attendees’ anticipation. We all held our breath to see how high the offers would reach while the auctioneer vociferated in rapid succession, announcing the bidders’ numbers and the swiftly rising dollar amount.

Never one to lose face, especially in the company of his ultra-wealthy peers, Jabril continued to outbid his opponents, driving the otherwise reasonably priced ‘Marys’ to an insurmountable amount that no collector would have assigned to it.

The equally impetuous Munsor Al Thani upped his bid to counter his Levantine opponent. The otherwise pragmatic Mr. Morsink, who was having second thoughts as to whether he was missing out on a priceless asset, decided to push his offer higher. While the three bidders were busy, a private telephone conversation was also being administered between an anonymous bidder and an auction representative at the room’s periphery.

Seconds before the auctioneer’s final knockdown, the representative held up the anonymous caller’s number and hollered, “One million, five hundred thousand dollars.” Everyone gasped within the hall. No one had paid such an amount for a lesser-known work by this contentious Pop Art artist until that very moment. The hall seemed frozen in time. No sound was heard except the piercing vibration of the auctioneer’s hammer. The three opposing bidders sat speechless, wondering who in the world had outbid them in this art war.

None of us knew the identity of the mystery pre-emptor until a year and half later, when the infamous Count Mario Conti was assigned by “Interview” magazine to catechize his Eminency, Mansoor Jassim bin Abdul Al Thani, a contender to the Qatari throne. Only then did the contemporary art world realize the identity behind the image of the two ‘Marys,’ etched side by side in colourful blocks within a single canvas by none other than the now deceased homosexual painter Andy Warhol.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Our Wistful Melancholy

“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.“

Marquis de Sade

2012

Andy’s Correspondence

Young, Young, Young, you do have a way with words. Your seductive writing is temptation for me to lust after you, not to mention your romantic description of our lovemaking. You’ve charmed me to irresistible covetousness. LOL!

None of my other charges had the magnetism that you did. I’m sure you knew that during our time together. As much as I adored Albert, I was not smitten by him as with you. It would be cynical of me to say I don’t feel the connection you and I shared even to this day. Love never dissipates but grows with each passing day. This emotion lies dormant and buried within our subconscious until the right moment triggers its resurgence. I believe you already know my sentiment. Need I say more? ☺

The poppy-field experience was just one of many soul connections we shared in our journey through oneness and unity. As Laozi wrote in the opening lines of the Tao Te Ching, the Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao; as soon as it is named, a dichotomy is created, and it is lost. Oneness means just that: only one. The instant we label or name it, it’s something else — it’s no longer unity…

1968

In The Dining Hall

The evening after the Sotheby’s auction, Sheik Fahrib organized a lavish private dinner soiree at the Falcon’s Den. The purpose - to showcase the grandiose purchases he had acquired from the estate sale. No expense was spared to entertain his guests, the who’s who of Amsterdam. The Guest of Honour was none other than Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, his Islamic school chum and political ally by marriage. The munsor was a second cousin to Fahrib’s first wife, Shahria. It was he who had spearheaded their union to advance their family ties. In more ways than in the acquisition of fine art, Fahrib and Fayaad were competitors – and the deeper I journeyed into my harem services, the greater their rivalry appeared to me. Beneath the surface of congeniality and respect, their relationship portrayed a very different milieu: that of haughty indifference and thirst for self-assertion.

During our formal dinner, I was assigned to sit next to an understated gentleman by the name of Ernest Heinrich. Zac sat to my left while Ernest occupied the seat to my right.

Mr. Ernest remarked, “Instead of the customary visitants, it is nice to see some fresh faces.”

I responded jestingly, not knowing who the man was, “Are you, then, a jaded veteran of these humdrum events, sir?”

He burst into laughter. Thankfully the guests were busy chatting and paid little attention to his outburst.

“Young man, you are a keen observer,” he remarked. “What’s your motive at this regal affair?”

Zac replied satirically before I could respond: “Like you, we are here to see and be seen.”

I said sincerely, “We are here to experience life at an Arabian household.”

“Ahh! So, you boys are part of the sheik’s harem.”

Surprised by his comment, my Valet and I looked at each other, wondering what to make of this man. He resumed before either of us spoke. “Don’t look so alarmed. I have several wealthy Arabian friends and have stayed at their princely mansions. I’m no novice to their worldly vices.”

Zac asked, “Are you an avid art collector, sir?”

“I’m a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. My field of expertise is in Chinese painting and Indian sculpture,” he effused.

A thought flashed through my mind. I asked, “Do you know Count Guy Phillippe Henri Lannes de Montebello? He is a curatorial assistant at the same museum. We met him at his aunt Vicomtesse Marie-Laure de Noailles’ Parisian residence. He is extremely knowledgeable in European art and offered to show Andy and me some art nouveau architectural marvels when we visited New York, Brussels or Prague.” I gazed momentarily at my BB, seated some distance away. He saw me looking and winked.

Heinrich declared mischievously, “Of course I know Guy. We worked together on a couple of projects for the museum. He is a cognoscente in Orientalist art, especially paintings of Middle Eastern harems.”

My Valet disclosed, “We are leaving the day after tomorrow for Madhya Pradesh, to The Khajuraho Monuments.”

“India is a fascinating country. I know The Khajuraho Monuments well. They are one of the best specimens of Indian erotic carvings the world has ever seen,” the curator opined. “Who are you travelling with?”

“Count Mario Conti and Habiibi Aziz are leading the expedition,” I chirped.

Just then, the sheik announced, “Let’s proceed to the parlor for some after-dinner disport.”

As we filed out of the dining chamber, Ricard, the sheik’s butler, handed me a note. I stuffed it into my pocket and proceeded into the parlor with the male invitees while the women sojourned to the drawing room for their female tittle-tattle.

In the Parlour

Several older gentlemen had gathered around Munsor Al Thani, including Ernest Heinrich. Albert was busy chatting with the charismatic Count Mario, who was obviously tantalizing the twink with his social gossip. Like me, the E.R.O.S. recruit was also falling head-over-heels in love with the Italian Casanova. As I was savouring the déjà vu, I suddenly noticed Andy standing back and allowing Count Mario to continue seducing his charge. “Shouldn’t you be hovering over Albert, making sure he’s not devoured?” I teased.

Andy gave me an alluring smile, answered, “I detect jealousy. Am I incorrect?”

I did not answer. This big brother, my beloved Andy, always saw through me. I turned a shade of red. I dared not look him in the eye, in case I burst into tears.

He continued, “I must confess something to you. I made a mistake.”

His pronouncement startled me. In my eyes, Andy could do no wrong. His sound judgement was his asset. What mistake could he make? I probed, “What are you talking about?”

Just then, Jabril joined us. He uttered, “What did the prince say to you?”

Not knowing who he was referring to, I questioned, “Which prince?”

“Boy, don’t play games with me. You know who I’m referring to.”

I scratched my head in puzzlement. He stared at me as if I was an imbecile. “Prince Aschwin of Lippe-Biesterfeld!” he proclaimed.

“Who?” now, I was truly befuddled.

“Are you dumb? Do I have to repeat myself?” he twittered irritatingly. I gazed at him in silence. “You mean to tell me that you’ve no idea Ernst Aschwin Georg Carol Heinrich Ignatz, Prinz of Lippe-Biesterfeld, the younger brother of Prince Bernhard of Lippe-Biesterfeld – the husband of Queen Juliana, our reigning monarch, was talking to you?” he declared.

I was dumbfounded. When I came to my senses, I muttered, “He told me and Zac that he is an Asian art curator for the New York Metropolitan Museum. He never mentioned being a prince.”

“Boy, oh boy! You have a lot to learn about the House of Orange-Nassau,” the art historian exclaimed.

Andy, intrigued by this piece of information, questioned sarcastically, “Do enlighten us, Mr. Jabril Saliba. I’m piqued.”

“I’m getting a drink. I’ll be back,” he trotted off to procure another refreshment.

My BB and I found a quiet corner to rest our feet. As I fumbled for my handkerchief, the note from Ricard fell to the floor. Andy picked it up and handed it to me expectantly. I was left with little choice but to read it in his presence. The elegantly engraved note read:

Come to my chamber an hour after the guests’ departure.

I want to see you alone.

F.

In The Penthouse

Andy insisted on chaperoning me to the doctor’s chamber, even though I assured him that Zac would accompany me. Unbeknown to me, during the course of our parlour causerie, Andy had arranged to swap places with my Valet.

When the last guest was shown the door, the roguish Jabril, seconded by the libertine Count Mario Conti, had enticed a few enthusiasts, including the infatuated Albert, to come to ‘The Church’ – a twice weekly late-night GLBT sex party, held within a defunct protestant place of worship in the Red Light District. As Albert’s temporary Valet, Zac was left with little choice but to tag along. Although the adolescent would have preferred the Count as his chaperone, Andy would not allow his charge to venture alone with the playboy, even when in the company of trusted friends.

Since I was to adhere to the doctor’s orders to rest and relax after my hospital incident, I was publicly excused from joining the overzealous party. In truth, I had a mission, known only to my temporary Valet and my summoner.

I was surprised to find my teacher behind the entrance of the penthouse door when Andy knocked. He invited us in. “The doctor is in his chamber. He wants to see Young alone. Andy, will you wait with me in the lounge?”

I entered the dimly lit boudoir. The sheik, dressed in a satin robe, had his violin beside him. He motioned for me to sit by him. He began a pensive melody, just as he had the first time I was summoned to his private quarters in Philadelphia during Prince P’s ‘Carousel’ project.

The exquisite music wafted through my ears as wistful tears filled my eyes. I sat mesmerized by the enchanted melody. I could feel my ‘Master’s’ inner turmoil building through the strings of his violin. My heart reached out to the handsome man who had everything that wealth could amass yet had nothing to satisfy his inner chaos. He was pining for the prince, and I was there to lessen his pain. I was his trusted confidant, bringing temporary solace.

When he finished his melancholic recital, he offered me a glass of wine, which I drank in a single gulp. The sheik’s evocative composition had stirred in me a pensive hankering for Andy’s love – the way it had been before Albert appeared on the scene. The wine flooded my mind as I swirled to the momentum of silence.

I met my Master’s gaze and we recognized the yearnings we had for our respective beaus. I wasn’t sure if it was drunken haze or longing craze that brought on this injudicious melancholy, but by divine providence, our tenderness soon morphed to a fiery covetousness. I caressed my Master’s face, as our tongues met in a fervent kiss. I inhaled the muskiness of his sultry beard as he drove his pearly fangs into my tender neck. I, intoxicated by his masculinity, was at his mercy.

I tore at his silken robe, exposing his muscular torso before burying my face into his luscious chest, nuzzling into his soft furry down. I felt safe and loved. All at once, his rousing maleness propelled me to delirious palpitations. He ripped away my flimsy thobe in a single stroke, uncovering my vulnerability with his roving eyes. He bore through my nakedness, stirring me to quivering ecstasy.

He scooped me into his sturdy arms for a lingering kiss. His throbbing hardness bobbed against my backside as he carried me to the king. Our rapturous tongues surged to suckle each other’s craving insobriety as I held onto his sinewy neck.

The pulchritudinous gentleman had transformed into a tempestuous creature. His lascivious stare never left my eyes. He had enslaved me into his turpitudinous lair – yet I knew I would serve willingly and thankfully. He’d seen through my gentility, knowing I desired his assertiveness.

Manhandling me, he spread my hands above my head and planted amorous kisses on my body. This man of distinction responded to my euphoric squirming, which only served to heighten his avid dominance as he lorded over my youthful agility. I did not scream or resist when he cuffed me to the posts. This soulful demigod had appropriated my compassionate innocence. I had fallen into his irresistible web and become his boy toy, his plaything.

I cherished both his masterly dominance and his childlike servility. When he wept against my lissom chest, he’d conquered my unfledged sensitivity. His ascendancy plunged into my tenderness, as if he was avenging his unrequited love for the prince he could not have. Our love-making was at once urgent and at times languid.

Fahrib, like Ramiz (my Kosk Household tutor) was burdened with guilt and invasive social expectations to conform to an image of masculinity he didn’t feel. Sadomasochism, for both, was an erotic escape to salvation, if only a temporary one.

I felt the contrast of my personal unresolved turbulence for the man I loved, who was so near and yet so far, separated by our intimate friend, whom my beloved had so gallantly volunteered to guard and guide. Andy, like Fahrib, was a man of principles; neither would forgo his chivalry for selfish gains.

Tonight, the gods had bestowed a blessing on my Master and me as we comforted one another through our sacred union. No words were required, only willingness to liberate our souls from society’s conventional ideals. He whacked my bottom as he ploughed his thickness into the core of my being with absolution, liberating our pent-up emotions to the call of the wild. Our superficial masquerade discarded, I was his subservient vassal, and he my imperious lord.

His enormity burrowed into the depths of my receptive sanctum, and I felt the yielding essence of his joyful pride. I was his chosen consort, to pleasure his carnality as he did mine. No longer able to withhold our feverish enthusiasm, he glazed my private sanctuary to overflowing capacity with pulsating vibrations, while I unleashed my pensive abundance, coating his athletic arms with my molten fluids.

It was long past midnight before he dismissed me – and not before he’d lapped me clean in every crevice of my hedonistic juvenescence.

In the penthouse foyer, I found Andy and Dubois in heated debate over the Oneness of Being. They had been at it since my entry into the boudoir.

PART THREE

India – Dilli (Delhi), Khajuraho, Bombay (Mumbai)

Chapter Thirty

The Power Of Oneness

“To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.“

Lao Tzu

2012

Continuation of Andy’s Correspondence

Since I’m on the topic of Oneness, I had many heated debates on this subject with your ex-tutor, Alain Dubois. Unlike our material world, which is dependent on pairs of opposites, I believe that the place we originated from is devoid of dichotomies. In this other world, the concepts of up and down are void. The same applies to death and life. There is no north or south, no male or female, no right or wrong. In our current existence, we think in dichotomies and identify ourselves using opposites; we are opinionated about what we like, what tastes good, what feels good, and so on. These polar opposites express what we have liked and disliked among our experiences.

Since we reside in a world of contrasts and contrast requires more than one element, the idea of Oneness is almost impossible to grasp. Therefore, we are constantly dwelling in a world of twoness. How then is it possible for humans to grasp the idea of oneness in the realm of nonbeing we occupied before we came into beingness?

A fine example would be this: we don’t think of our fingers, legs, arms, toes, and eyes as separate entities from our person. Even though they have their unique qualities and character, we don’t refer to our fingers as being separate from ourselves. All these seemingly separate parts are a part of the whole, or oneness, we refer to as ‘self.’ We, the Source or God, were one before we manifested in this world.

Therefore, the concept of Oneness means discarding all ideas of separation from anything and anyone. One of the ways we can simulate Oneness is through silence - where there are no names and no things. In the silence, we can feel our connection to everyone and everything: to the Tao, the Oneness that keeps universal order, where form is created from nothingness and vice versa.

Young, take a moment to imagine that you are free of all labels, separation, and judgments about our world and the life inhabiting it; you’ll then begin to understand Oneness. The Source of being is an energy field where anger or resentment toward anyone or anything are obsolete, since everyone and everything is Spirit. You are this Spirit: the Source/the God. The meaning of life will be revealed to you by easing into the silence, and you can find it without having to leave your body through death. You will be able to return to the Oneness and Nothingness while in physical form. Peace and your life’s purpose will flow easily through you when you are close to your original nature.

I’m sure you are already aware of this without me carrying on about the Oneness of Being. I’ll rest at this juncture and I look forward to your response.

Yours truly,

Andy

1968

Arrival at Dilli

These days, visitors can fly directly to Khajuraho Airport, but back in the 1960s, The Khajuraho Monuments were just being rediscovered by the artsy and fashionable elite. In 1968, there were over eighty temples at the Khajuraho Monuments, enclosed by high walls with eight gates, each flanked by two golden palm trees. Nowadays, only twenty-two temples remain, in disrepair.

The name Khajuraho is derived from the Sanskrit word kharjur, meaning date palm. Therefore, Khajuraho literally means “the road of the date palms,” where a large number of these trees were found scattered over an area of approximately 21 square kilometers. These sacred monuments lie about 385 miles southeast of Delhi, India’s capital city, which locals call Dilli.

Dilli was where the ‘Ship’ (Fahrib’s private plane) landed. As soon as I stepped out of the plane, whiffs of exotic India permeated my nostrils. Dilli smelled like a neurotic bird, desperately seeking paradise lost. This city was once the centre of cultural refinement; now, it held nauseating hordes of deformed vagrants. Their malnourished hands begged for alms from visitors who cared to provide. Never in my young life had I witnessed such extreme poverty, except when I had visited the rural Malayan fishing village, where I wept at creation’s disparity.

Although we had travelled only a short distance between our arrival tarmac to a nearby airfield to board the two helicopters bound for Chhatarpur, the district where Khajuraho town was located, the pitiful crowd had surrounded our luxury vehicles. They smacked at our rolled up windows, beseeching for compassionate succour as if we were heavenly Messiahs sent to deliver them from their misery. Andy impetuously wrapped his muscular arms around my shoulders, as if protecting me from harm. Tears formed in my eyes, and I was afraid for our safety. Zac and Albert gave me disgruntled glances, as if I should man up to face this madding crowd. Our driver honked ruthlessly at the throng as we meandered at a snail’s pace towards the heliport. Andy comforted me to the best of his ability, much to his charge’s disdain. Remorsefulness washed over my person, as if I’d committed a treacherous act against Albert and Andy. I had little control, yet for unfathomable reasons, I felt guilty for coming between my friends.

A temporary relief washed over me as soon as I boarded the helicopter with Zac, Aziz, Alain and Jabril. The other copter carried Andy, Albert and Mario. For the moment, I had a little time to gather myself from the culpability I had felt earlier as we zoomed towards rural Khajuraho – the religious capital of the Chandella Rajputs, a tribal dynasty that ruled this part of central India a thousand years ago.

At the RAJ

Our helicopters landed on the lawn of a large, walled-in estate. Acres of rainforest surrounded this secluded compound. Rising from the middle of the manicured lawn was a colonial-style mansion, restored to its former glory. I felt as if I had stepped back in time to the nineteenth century, when India was the jewel of the British Empire. This private residence belonged to Count Mario Conti’s friend, a wealthy Englishman of the landed gentry whom we addressed as Esquire Snow. The RAJ was his winter retreat, a tropical sanctuary away from his thriving publication business and the chilly dampness of the British Isles. This sultry haven was our home for the few days we filmed the Khajuraho segment of Sacred Sex in Sacred Places.

Several uniformed servants transported our luggage to our spacious chambers. I shared a room with Zac while Andy roomed with his charge. Esquire Snow and a couple of male and female models were already awaiting our arrival at the drawing room. After formal introductions and some light beverages, we sojourned to our respective chambers to freshen up before dinner. Our host had assisted Mario and Aziz in obtaining the necessary filming permits with the local and Madhya Pradesh state authorities. Specific sections of the temple grounds were cordoned off from visitors during our photo sessions. The Indian authorities had granted special permission for our controversial project with flying colours, since funding was not an issue. They had provided a host of security guards to make sure that no unauthorized visitors were allowed into the temples where we were shooting on that particular day.

Dinner Conversations

The moment we entered the RAJ grand dining room, we were ushered to our assigned seats by a couple of uniformed footmen and the butler. Treated like royal dignitaries, we were attended to individually by young, turbaned servants. I was transported back in time to colonial India as described in the Raj Quartet: a four-volume novel by Paul Scott about the concluding years of British rule in the Indian subcontinent. Formal protocol was de rigueur as we dined on spicy Indian cuisine, scrumptiously prepared by local cooks at a nearby kitchen in a separate building.

Jabril sat on my left, while my professor, Dubois occupied the seat to my right. During dinner, the art historian commented, “I didn’t have a chance to continue our discussion about Prince Aschwin.”

Before I could utter a response, my professor remarked, “The prince has quite a history behind him, doesn’t he?”

“That’s precisely the reason I want to know what he said to Young at the Falcon’s Den,” the Levantine gave me a derisive look, as if I was hiding a secret.

“I had no idea Mr. Ernest Heinrich was a prince. He told me he was an art curator at the New York Metropolitan Museum,” I chirped.

Jabril opined, “He is indeed an art curator at the museum, but he is also a strong Nazi supporter. During the war, he was a Wehrmacht officer and worked at the Museum of Art Ostasiatische in the Department of Chinese painting before he fled Germany for New York in 1945.” He added, “The House of Orange-Nassau has a sordid history with the Nazi party, and so does The House of Windsor.”

My teacher declared, “I’ve heard that the abdicated Edward was a scapegoat for the Windsors, so they could claim an unblemished line to the British throne. Edward was labeled a ‘black sheep’ because he openly supported the Nazis.”

“You are indeed correct, Alain. In truth, the British monarchy and the leading Crown bankers from the City of London enthusiastically supported Hitler’s party. They bankrolled the Führer’s election, helping him build the Nazi war machine for the purpose of Britain’s geopolitical war between Germany and Russia.” The Levantine continued, “The House of Windsor has always supported Nazi-style genocide; long before and after the abdication of Edward VIII, they’ve maintained direct Nazi links.”

Mario, opposite us, declared, “The British and several European monarchies have been related to the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha since the days of Victoria’s Albert.”

The art historian had spearheaded a heated debate around the table regarding the various European monarchies’ involvement in the Führer’s war. Andy and Zac snuck grim glances at me, as if I had started this politically incorrect dinner conversation. Albert, on the other hand, gave me a more severe look, as if I’d committed an unforgivable act. I was at a loss amid the monarchical tittle-tattle and the condescending stares directed at me by both big brothers and peer. I sat silent, wondering how I had gotten myself into such a mess.

As soon as we had sojourned into the drawing room for our after-dinner inconsequential conversations, I found a quiet corner to contemplate while our entourage mingled. Professor Dubois came over when I was buried in thoughts. “Are you alright, Young? Is something bothering you? You haven’t been yourself since we boarded the ‘Ship.’”

I put on a congenial smile before answering, “I’m as well as can be, professor. How are you, sir?” In truth, during my time spent with my teacher, I had seldom asked about his wellbeing. He was surprised by my sudden inquiry.

“Oh, I’m well. I’m concerned about you. You know you can tell me anything. I’m here to assist, and so are your BBs.” He paused. “We can meditate, if you feel inclined to search for answers to your dis-ease,” he expressed.

“Thank you, sir. That would be wonderful. I’ll take you up on your offer.”

Dubois suggested, “Come to my chamber in an hour, and we’ll have a Zentology session.”

At My Teacher’s Chamber

Alain had laid a small meditation altar out with burning candles and incense. A couple of decorative cushions lay on the floor for us. The sweet smell of damask rose wafted through my nostrils as we sat naked, facing one another. He extended his hand to mine before we closed our eyes in quiet contemplation.

He muttered an Indian incantation and instructed me to release my thoughts to the stillness of the night. Except for the sound of croaking frogs, chirping crickets and the occasional call of wild animals, this walled sanctuary was silent.

I had trouble calming my mind until Alain’s soothing hands brought me to a place of tranquility. As he guided my restlessness to serenity, I relaxed into his healing touch. Our minds merged. I heard his gentle reveries running through my thoughts as he gleaned my unsettling affliction through our telepathic conveyance. His loving compassion flowed through me.

My rigidity grew in response to his tenderness, yet I did not stir. We stayed unruffled. I felt his erotic energy emanating from his comforting palms. Our hardness throbbed incessantly, yet we made no effort to dispel this sensual connection. Our minds’ lips kissed in conflated exhilaration. Aroused by our mental foreplay, we caressed our sinewy physiques to fervent ecstasies, while our bodies remained motionless except for the palpitations below our waists. There was no sign of physical copulation – yet, the intensity of our passion enveloped us within the confines of our unsheltered minds.

My teacher’s avidity bobbed against my lips as I suckled his bountiful agility within my consciousness. His gaze never left my mind’s eye, staring at my grasping nudity as we amalgamated into lustful nakedness. He’d unveiled my darkest secret, exposing my vulnerability to his heedful resolution. I’d lost my sobriety to this beguiling Zentologist. My pensive rumination transformed into hypnotic sexuality. This rapturous ecstasy had unshackled my guilt-ridden sanctum to effusive saintliness.

The exotic cry from his drumming propensity expelled the remnants of my aching turbulence as streams of delirious amorosity coated my receiving hollow. He had reignited my passion, liberating me from my guilt. I’m made anew by his magic potion. Like the songs of the chirping crickets and croaking frogs, his thrilling ebullience had left its subliminal mark upon the lips of my succulent mind. I spewed my deposits onto my belly as we sat in contemplative silence. The one physical connection we had lay in our consolidated palms. Our hands had not parted throughout our Zentology session.

By the time we opened our eyes our physical excitements had long subsided. Our lips bonded in a lingering kiss when we regained our individuality as student and mentor. I left the professor’s boudoir at the stroke of midnight.

Chapter Thirty-One

A Passage To India

“The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing intemperance. And men and women know from birth that in excessive indulgence is found all sensual delight.”

Charles Baudelaire

2012

My Message to Andy

Since we are on the topic of the Oneness of Being, I have several questions for you:

a)    What are your thoughts on the “Eternity of Life”?

b)    What about on the Oneness of Life in relationship to its Environment?

c)    Last but not least, how do you define “Advaita”?

Andy, please do not construe this as a test. I would simply like to know your perspective on these issues.

Do you remember our time at the Khajuraho Monuments, when we encountered the Maharishi and the Sādhu during our “Sacred Sex in Sacred Places” photo shoot?

1968

A Passage to India

Early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast at the RAJ, our entourage packed itself into five jeeps, together with several chests of photographic equipment. We headed towards the rugged Vindhya mountain terrain where the Khajuraho temples were located. Whereas today, these groups of sacred monuments are India’s biggest single attraction after the Taj Mahal, in 1968, this venue was largely forgotten and unvisited by international tourists. Overgrown with tropical vegetation, these sites resembled film sets from the Indiana Jones movies.

When we arrived at the Black Pagoda, more commonly known as the Konark Sun Temple, a large gathering of Hindu pilgrims together with wandering yogis were being steered away by uniformed guards, whom the Indian authorities had allocated to cordon off the vicinity for our shoot. We were unaware that within a week, the ‘Shivaratri’ (‘Great Night of Shiva’) celebration would take place at this hallowed location. This festive celebration was to honour the Hindu God Shiva’s marriage to Parvati, the Goddess of love, fertility and devotion.

As we approached these ancient temples, built between 950 and 1050 CE by the Chandella dynasty and dedicated to India’s two major religions, Hinduism and Jainism, I was awestruck by these Negara-style architectural wonders. These holy places suggested a tradition of acceptance, respect and tolerance for diverse religious beliefs among Hindus and Jains. The intricately carved sculptures detailed images of couples locked in a variety of sexual embraces. All forms of copulation were represented, regardless of gender. Besides the erotically charged carvings, a variety of animals were also represented, especially elephants and cows. These beasts of burden were depicted on similar pantheons as the revered deities.

Suddenly, two trumpeting elephants, a cortège of chanters, and several musicians headed in our direction. Atop one of the exalted beasts sat the finely dressed Esquire Snow and his protégé. The other elephant carried a yogi, whom the esquire introduced to us as Bal Brahmachari Mahesh.

My teacher and Valet were wonderstruck. They prostrated in front of the holy sage as soon as he alighted, while Count Mario and Jabril bowed and kissed the yogi’s hand. The four men acted as if one of the temple’s deities had manifested in our midst. Aziz, Andy, Albert and I, along with the four models, looked on in bewilderment, wondering what had befallen these four sanctimonious gentlemen.

Before my turn arrived to greet the yogi, Andy whispered, “Do as I do.”

Before I had time to respond, the sage was already in front of me and my big brother. Andy held his palms together and touched his thumbs to his forehead between the eyebrows before putting them to his heart. He uttered, “Namaskār.” I followed suit.

The holy man put his palm on my head and muttered a Hindu invocation before moving forward to bless the person next to me.

The Temple of Love

Our entourage followed the convocation to a temple where erotic figurines lined the outer walls. Against a backdrop of drummers and sitar players, the yogi recited a lengthy incantation, while his followers purified the surrounding area with bushels of burning incense and aromatic essential oils. Our group was stirred to heightened erotic euphoria by the fragrant aromas, the ritualistic chanting and the hypnotic music. By the time the sage had finished purifying the temple’s inner sanctum, Vishnu’s Lakshmana had become an erotic haven of human copulating maithunas.

Mario and Aziz clicked away at the vivacious thespians, who were now in varied forms of unbridled amatory arousals. Sandwiched between Andy and Philip (one of the male models), my supple limbs and limber caresses resembled the images depicted on the outer peripheries of this holy sanctuary. At times, I was the divine Shakti, at others the beatified Shiva. These paradisiacal shifts between Yin and Yang parlayed me into a trance-like state as I moved between the terrestrial and the celestial realms. Was it the intoxicating essential oils, the hypnotic chanting, the mesmerizing drumming, or the bushels of burning hashish? Whatever the stimulant, my lubriciousness had conquered my temperance. My sobriety had disappeared; in its wake came wanton anticipation. Caution was thrown to the wind.

I straddled Andy’s immensity as his palpitations stroked my yearning hallow. He lifted my buttocks away from his throbbing hardness before impaling me back onto his towering lustfulness. My whimpering dexterity served only to heighten Philip’s succulence as he eased into my core with my lover’s thickness already buried deep within. My mouth opened to receive my lovers’ luscious tongues as they drove into every crevice of my longing cavern. Their lascivious motions triggered within me an illicit decadence I had not known I possessed. I backed onto their engorgements. Time had forsaken us as we rocked to the rhythmic sounds of the strumming sitars. We had defied time and space with our tantric trinity, elevating our precipitous penetrations into perforated moksha, the transcendent freedom from Saṃsāra, the cycle of death and rebirth. We were at one with the cosmic soul, the ‘Brahman’. This pleasurable erotic sensation, along with its emotional fulfillment, is but one of the four healthy essentials of human existence. Lost in euphoric tryst, we oscillated into ‘Kāma’.

I embraced both enormities with the ‘sutra’ of Oneness before Philip could no longer withhold his affection. His exhilaration engulfed my being, coating my tenderness to overflowing capacity. His heady masculinity permeated my nostrils as he slumped against my back. His manly hands clutched my sinewy physique as he devoured my slender neck, shoving his remaining deposits deep into my core. His tokens of affection were his territorial markings through which he’d laid claim for future assertions.

After Philip left for his next encounter, Andy sank deeper within my opening, claiming my enclave as his own – but before I could fully perceive this new delirium, a pair of hairy arms reached around my waist as the lusty art historian enveloped my semi-vacancy with gusto, swallowing me whole. His muscular hands pulled my pelvis toward Andy and his pulsating stiffness, compelling my twitching devotion to comply to their unrestrained inhibitions. He, like Philip, gyrated into me. I prevailed in this munificent ‘mukti’, this transcendent liberation, to be pleasured and to pleasure, to be satisfied and to satisfy. This debaucherous blissfulness had consecrated my lover and my sanctification. Our mystic bond had solidified within Vishnu’s holy refuge, even as we forged our sacred reunion with our own world. This supreme preserver and protector had smiled upon Andy and me.

I recall words of Charles Baudelaire: “The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing intemperance. And men and women know from birth that in excessive indulgence is found all sensual delight.”

Swirling sensual energies within and without these temple walls echoed our group’s sentiment as well as our individual ‘atman’. Our respective essence had amalgamated into a unified whole, the cosmic soul, the ‘Brahman’ - the eternal essence of the universe and the ultimate divine reality, the life source of all that has been, is and will be throughout the entire universe. The primal ground of all being and existence laid the foundation throughout our artistry at the Khajuraho monuments.

Jabril and Andy’s atmans surged through my being, awakening my profundity as they slid effortlessly into my orifice, urging my release. Despite its tantalizing urgency, I held my stance. Delving into my tantric practices, I prolonged this overwhelming sensation. My body writhed in synchronicity to their titillating gratifications. It was only a matter of time before our erotic sentiments drove the Levantine across the threshold. He unleashed his bounty into my receiving crevice, filling me and Andy with overflowing copiousness as his masculinity gripped my heaving torso. Jabril’s warm intensity pulsated within my big brother and me. Andy resumed where he’d left off, grinding his enormity against my twice-coated wetness. Although Andy’s liberation was close at hand, he, like me, had no desire to forgo our rhapsodic ‘vimoksha.’ We continued rocking to the rhythmic beat of the strumming sitar until Monsieur Dubois snapped us out of our hypnotic trance. Only then did we reluctantly relinquish our coitus reservatus.

These sacred temples provided the perfect synergies required for our tantric Kāmasūtras, and the photographers were overjoyed by the stunning images they had conceived.

The Delhi Golf Club

That evening, Esquire Snow and the photographers treated us to a lavish Indian feast at Delhi’s oldest and most prestigious golf club. Needless to say, the English publishing tycoon, an honorary member of this colonial style establishment, was given special ministration. Under such affable attention, we were treated to a semi-outdoor savoir-faire dining experience, held within one of several classical-style Lodhi Dynasty structures, located within the grounds of the Delhi Golf Club, once known as the Lodhi Golf Club. Within the confines of this opulently decorated monument, we were all treated like royalty, served by uniformed staff as was de rigueur since the British colonial days. A band of Indian musicians played 1940s and 50s popular western music, only to be serenaded by the squealing peacocks that roamed freely around the golf course.

Monsieur Dubois and Zac sat on either side of the educated seer. Bal Brahmachari Mahesh, otherwise known to the world as Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, was the Beatles’ spiritual advisor and the founding guru of the Transcendental Meditation technique. The trio, immersed in their philosophical discussion, were oblivious to the other conversations around the rectangular table.

Count Mario and Jabril, who were situated across from me, were busy conducting a political debate with the esquire, leaving Albert in the company of the three models, Zentonia, Philip and Arian. I was sandwiched between Andy and Nesrine, a beautiful female Eurasian model of Indian descent. When the appetising Indian cuisine appeared, I was already salivating like a hungry bear. I gobbled every morsel off my silver platter, desiring more, while Andy, ever the politically correct gentleman, gave me unappealing glances. Like the locals, I used my hand to scoop up the scrumptious food. To me, that was the proper manner to eat Indian food, as per Malayan etiquette.

Not able to hold his tongue, my big brother reprimanded, “Young, mind your manners. Can’t you use your knife and fork?”

Nesrine jumped to my aid while I was chewing a mouthful of food.

“Andy,” she expressed smilingly, “the boy is obviously enjoying his meal. Let him be. That’s the way we eat in this part of the world.”

Since I couldn’t speak, she continued, “My family eats the same way. To us Indians it is a sign of reverence to the chef when we wipe our plate clean with our fingers. I’m known to do the same in the company of friends and relatives.”

“Ah! But not in dignified company such as this,” Andy countered.

Sensing she couldn’t win, the model changed the topic, asking me, “Where are you from, Young?”

Since I was munching on a piece of curry chicken, my BB answered on my behalf. “We are from England. We are participating in a cultural exchange programme to the Middle East.”

“How, then, did you guys end up in the photo shoot?”

Andy resumed, “We are assisting Count Mario and Aziz in their photographic project. Besides, this young intern is learning fashion from our Italian Vogue photographer.”

“In that case, I’ll introduce Young to my aunt, Miram. She’s a fashion designer and has several boutiques and fabric stores around the country. She dresses local celebrities and politicians. Indira Ghandi, our prime minister, is one of her clients,” declared the elegant female.

No sooner had Nesrine completed her sentence, I stopped in my tracks, chiming excitedly, “I would love to meet your aunt! Is she based in Delhi?”

“Miram commutes between Delhi and Bombay, where she has her sample room and workshop. She has a boutique in South Delhi. I’ll set up a meeting before you leave,” she recommended.

Just then, an Indian couple, introduced to us as Mr. Romesh Thapar and Mrs. Raj Thapar, arrived to greet Esquire Snow. The esquire and Mr. Thapar had met in England, when Romesh had been a student. When I met him, Romesh was the director of the India International Centre, an artistic and cultural organization and meeting place for the various aesthetic and intellectual offerings of Delhi. One of the Centre’s cultural streams was performing art – dance recitals, film screenings, and drama. The organization also administered intellectual seminars, symposia, meetings and discussions. It boasted a well-stocked library and periodically published papers and articles relating to India’s social, economic and political stance. In addition, the Centre offered a hostel and catering facility that gathered intellectuals, artists and performers together to exchange ideas and information.

The meeting that evening had been specially set up by Snow so that we could meet the director and his lovely wife.

Before dinner was over, Mario and Aziz had agreed to visit the International Centre when they had finished shooting, while Mrs. Raj Thapar, who knew Nesrine and her aunt, had invited the model, Andy and me to join her at Miram’s boutique. I was elated with this opportunity to see one of India’s premier fashion designers in action.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ecstasy & Jealousy

“It is never wise to seek or wish for another’s misfortune.

If malice or jealousy were tangible and had a shape,

It would be the shape of a boomerang.”

Charley Reese

1968

Fashion Shoot

On the final day of our Sacred Sex in Sacred Places shoot, Count Mario had brought with him a selection of haute couture designer gowns. We had travelled first class by train to Orchha, a town by the banks of the Betwa River within the county of Madhya Predesh. As if frozen in time, the palaces and temples within the vicinity had retained their original grandeur. This medieval city was once the capital of Central India’s largest and most powerful kingdom, founded by the Bundela Rajput chieftain Rudra Pratap in the 16th century. An extensive fort enclosed the three palaces within its compound.

Raj Mahal acted as the backdrop for our morning shoot, followed by Jehangir Mahal, and last but not least, Rai Parveen Mahal. Besides being the photographers’ assistant, I was also looped into the shoot as part of the naked posse of male models used as adornments to complement the couture-clad females.

Raj Mahal

This magnificent palace was built in the 17th century by Madhukar Shah. Crowned by arresting chhatris (elevated, dome-shaped pavilions), the otherwise plain exterior soon gave way to vividly coloured murals depicting Hindu religious scenes on the inside.

Philip and I were assigned as naked ‘slaves’ to the sophisticatedly clad Zentonia. Our nakedness was barely concealed by her ethereal outfit as she posed this way and that. I was aroused by Philip’s occasional touch as we grazed our limbs over one another during our joint poses. When Mario requested we stare into one another’s eyes, we became fully erect while the female contorted this way and that for the camera.

On the rear side of the Count, Aziz was capturing our nakedness with his shutters. We did our best to behave professionally while he seized the opportunity to capture our erotic arousal. As much as we craved to make out there and then, our erogenous sensuality only served to heighten our lustful desires. Droplets of excitement formed at the tip of our erect phalluses as we posed like marble statues within these ancient halls, surrounded by ornate Indian deities. Our manhood throbbed uncontrollably.

The clicking cameras stirred our extroverted exhibitionism to unbridled perspicuity. The closer our proximity, the greater our attraction. Even though our hardness palpitated rapaciously and streams of oozing precum dribbled onto the floor, we maintained a deferential decorum. It was an effort to withhold the prurience we felt for one another. While the Arabian had a field day capturing us, the Italian shuttered away unswervingly in the foreground at the exotic female. Zentonia’s diaphanous gown camouflaged our unabated nudity as she pranced around rhythmically to the sound of the accompanying Indian musicians.

I was glad when Mario signalled the end of our session. When my chaperone handed me my clothes, he gave me a knowing grin and remarked, “The both of you gave a great show.”

“It’s nothing but a pontifical performance,” I joked.

“I think there is more than what meets the eye,” my Valet replied. I grinned but did not answer, and before he could resume, the photographers announced that we were to proceed to the adjoining palace. I took the opportunity to accompany my teacher while Zac joined Andy, Albert and a couple of the models to our next destination.

Alain queried, “What’s going on? Are you falling head over heels for the model?”

I chirped, “What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean exactly that. Are you falling in love with Philip?”

We walked in silence for a while before I questioned, “Sir, the Maharishi mentioned a new kind of meditation technique during our golf club dinner. Will you be practicing this technique with us anytime soon?”

“He is an enlightened sage. I am planning to incorporate some of his techniques into my Zentology practices. My research will benefit greatly from his expertise.” He added, “I have requested Prince P’s permission to spend time with the guru when your new teacher arrives. You and Albert will be in capable hands.

“But, in the meantime,” he continued, “come to my chamber this evening. We’ll practice a new approach. You can be my guinea pig, and we’ll continue our discussion.”

Jehangir Mahal

We had arrived at our next destination, the Jehangir Mahal, built in the 17th century A.D. when the then-ruler of the region, Raja Bir Singh Ju Deo, built the structure to commemorate the Mughal Emperor Jahangir during his visit to the city. Artistically arranged turquoise tiles framed the grand gateway. Abutting Timurid style domes, hanging balconies, porches, and a great number of ornately decorated chambers surrounded a spacious courtyard, where a large rectangular fountain took center stage. During the heydays of the Mughal Empire, this expansive courtyard was built to accommodate the entry of war elephants.

True to form, the Italian count had hired a couple of performing elephants for our photo-shoot. Now, Andy, Zac and Arian served as the naked accessories to the two elegantly dressed female models. While we enjoyed the bejewelled models and performing elephants, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was none other than the sinewy male I had partnered with a few moments ago. He signalled for me to follow.

Without stirring anyone’s attention (or so we thought) we snuck out of the courtyard to an inconspicuous section. Phillip pulled me to him roughly. He cupped my mouth, besieging me not to make a sound, uttering, “Trust me, I won’t harm you.” He tied my hands above my head with a kerchief. I was excited yet unsure what to make of this unanticipated action. Throughout our Sacred Sex in Sacred Places liaison, he had been a respectful gentleman, yet I was aroused by his ruttish behaviour now.

Before I had time to assess his actions, he had yanked my pants down, exposing my pulsating excitement. He pushed me against a pillar and planted a desirous kiss in my mouth as our palpitations gyrated against each other. He tied my hands to the decorative column. I had always played by the rules, obeying the directives of my BBs, teachers and mentors; now, I found myself tantalized by this forbidden fruit, this unbridled exaltation that was consuming both my physical and mental sobriety. This unlicensed licentiousness had provoked a rebelliousness I didn’t know I possessed.

Our heated passion kindled a fiery lust I found difficult to resist. Kneeling in front of me, this devilish vagrant plunged onto my throbbing vivaciousness, savouring the heat he had inspired. His roguish masculinity synthesized every fibre of my being as I wiggled my feed into his receiving orifice. This illegitimate intercourse had heightened my sensory vicariousness. I felt like a voyeur keeping secret vigilance over a verboten phenomenon I had no control of.

The oral ecstasy, combined with my bondage, surged my pelvis towards my willing receiver. He gagged on my impalation, gorging my hardness into the furthest reaches of his oesophagus. His sturdy palm gripped my buttocks while the other fondled my hardened jewels. Our eyes met in lecherous pruriency as I plunged into his salivary opening with abandonment. The very sight of my jamming protrusion and his bouncing prominence sent me over the edge. He lapped and gobbled at my rhapsodic delivery, as if thirst had vanquished his sanity.

Craving to revive my fading profundity, he continued kindling my limping stiffness. To my bewilderment, his smouldering oral expertise swiftly readied me for the second round of our impetuous lovemaking.

I reciprocated with gusto, tying his wrists to the column, savouring every inch of his drumming engorgement. I smoked, blew and inhaled his manliness deep into my yearning throat while twisting and pinching his protruding nipples, urging him to climactic ecstasy. But when he was on the verge of release, I withdrew my oral stimulation. Again and again, he begged for my orifice as his hardness bounced with burning anticipation. Only then did I oblige.

The sight of his vulnerability aroused me immensely. I wanted to torment his sex, to see it throb helplessly before pleasuring him again. Watching this satyr surrender had enlivened my ruthlessness. I was enjoying the role of the Master. When he could no longer hold off his exuberance and shot streams of gushing masculinity onto my face, I was ready to caress his warm saltiness back into his hankering mouth. Thus we sealed our secret liaison with our effervescent deposits in a lingering kiss. We melted effortlessly into an unspoken infatuation that would soon prove devastating to our emotional wellbeing.

Rai Parveen Mahal

By the time we rejoined our entourage, the models and photographers were already proceeding to the third location. The elephants had departed. In their place, the hired hands were loading the photographic equipment into vehicles bound for the final locale. Since this palace was within walking distance, the majority of us went on foot to the lush gardens, built in honor of the beautiful Rai Parveen. Legend has it that this charismatic poetess and musician, more commonly known as the Nightingale of Orchha, was also the paramour of Raja Idrajit Singh of Orchha. During the reign of Emperor Akbar, she was summoned to his court, but although the emperor was smitten by her beauty and talents, he was equally impressed by her love for the Raja. Being an honorable ruler, Akbar returned her to Orchha without destroying her dignity or her kingdom. Rai Parveen Mahal was now a befitting memorial to this great lady.

A group of Indian classical dancers were already waiting for our entourage. This time around, Albert and I modeled, partly clothed, alongside the flamboyantly adorned females.

Both Mario and Aziz installed their loincloth-clad lads into seductive poses. When the cameras clicked over the sounds of the musicians and dancers, Albert whispered audaciously, “I saw what you and Philip did at Jehangir Mahal.”

I pretended not to have heard him and continued posing.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I saw the two of you making out,” he continued.

I kept quiet and concentrated on my task.

“I’m going to tell on the both of you,” he threatened irritatingly.

The boy was obviously provoking me. I did not answer. With every pronouncement, he became angrier, fuming with signs of visible displeasure at my unresponsiveness. Although the accompanying dancers had no idea what Albert was carrying on about, his conduct had roused an air of discontentment and was affecting their performance. Hoping his egocentric monologue would dissipate sooner rather than later, they gave the juvenile unappealing glances but continued dancing.

By now, the count had detected the disquietude and bid the group to take a break. Without warning, Albert hurdled a slew of verbal abuses at me. Our entourage was shocked, especially Andy.

He quickly escorted the teenager to a quiet corner to see what had come over him. Albert sobbed uncontrollably. Judging by his demeanor, he was obviously giving his Valet an invidious account of Philp’s and my comportment at Jehangir Mahal. I then understood that the juvenile was not jealous of my tryst with Phillip but was instead secretly hoping his declaration would fracture Andy’s relationship with me.

By the time we recommenced the photography, Albert had apologized and asked my forgiveness. I looked at Andy for assurance, not knowing what to make of this sudden transformation. He smiled and winked, indicating that all was resolved.

Although I accepted my friend’s apology, this incident had created an unspoken apprehension between us, and likewise between Albert and Andy.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Imperial Jurisdictions

“Negotiations are not policies, but techniques you use to your advantage.”

Count Mario Conti

2012

Continuation of my message to Andy

Andy, I hope you don’t mind me asking a personal question. I will understand if you choose not to answer, since it is none of my business. I’m curious to find out your current dating and relationship status. ☺

Are you single, dating, or happily re-partnered after Albert’s passing?

Yours truly,

Young

1968

Mr. Romesh Thapar

Mr. Romesh Thapar, the then director of India International Centre, was a connected man, even when he was a journalist with The Times of India during the early days of his career. With his family’s wealth, he started Cross Roads, an English language magazine offering views rather than news, and combining high-brow intellectualism with communist ideology. His magazine was banned by the Madras State government for supposedly publishing critical and defamatory views of India’s Congress party, which had just begun ruling India after spearheading the country’s independence movement. True to form, he petitioned the Supreme Court to overturn the ban. This led to the First Amendment of the Constitution of India, in which Parliament placed restrictions on the freedom of speech and expression of Hindus, making it a crime to incite public disorder.

Thapar was also associated with Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA), a society of left-wing theatre-artists. Its goal - to bring cultural awakening among the people of India. But, in reality, it was the cultural wing of India’s communist party. Romesh’s involvement was in script writing and story formulation for films inspired by communist ideology.

During the time of our acquaintance, the Indian and his wife had become part of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s inner circle. This connection brought the man significant clout in society and government. Numerous patronages were showered on him, including directorship of the India International Centre, the National Books Development Board, the India Tourism Development Corporation (ITDC), and last but not least, a vice- chairpersonship of the National Bal Bhavan, an institution which aims to enhance the creative potential of children by providing them with activities, opportunities and a common platform to interact, experiment, create and perform according to their age, aptitude and ability. All these sinecures were government conferrals by successive congressional party organisations.

Therefore, it came as no surprise when Esquire Snow introduced our wealthy and accomplished photographer Count Mario Conti and our equally wealthy Arabians to Mr. Thapar and his wife. Snow’s political agenda was to be in the good graces of all parties involved. Through this edifying liaison, the Indian politician hoped to expand India’s cultural artistry to a wider audience, especially the Bollywood film industry, until then unknown to the western world. He also hoped to generate investments from oil-rich Arab nations to grow India’s economy, thereby strengthening his position within Indira Gandhi’s favour.

The Imperial New Delhi

I was surprised to see Sheik Fahrib with Prince P and Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani at the Art Deco style Tea Lounge within Delhi’s finest historical hotel – The Imperial New Delhi. This monumental oasis of calm and comfort sums up the understated elegance of its creator, the architect Lutyens’ grand vision for India’s Capital City’s original master plan.

The Imperial welcomed our three Rolls Royces down its driveway, flanked by twenty-four royal king palms. We were then greeted by several immaculately dressed turbaned doormen. I experienced déjà vu of time spent with my mother at the Old Colonial-style Singapore Raffles, and of the Edwardian opulence of the Hong Kong Peninsular. Awash in white, this Grande Dame had successfully preserved her historical aura, presenting residents with an air of imperial British India. The mélange of high ceilings, stunning crystal chandeliers, sparkling marble floors, and large mahogany tables, along with impressive collections of original 18th and 19th century art, adorned the corridors of her priceless heritage. This Legendary Lady had indeed played host to some celebrated moments between the British and Indian aristocracy.

My halcyon Malayan childhood came flooding to the forefront as remembrance of my mother and female relatives brought tears to my eyes. I missed them terribly. They had been an important part of my pre-pubescent years.

As if by divine sagacity, Andy, who sat next to me, reached his hand inconspicuously to hold mine. I stared out the car window without uttering a word. None of the passengers but my big brother felt my melancholy. His gentle fingers caressed my palm, soothing away the inquietude that had suddenly befallen my person. This guardian of mine seemed to know every part of me; my thoughts and needs were his alone to decrypt. As if by magic, my melancholia dissipated as quickly as it came. We had not exchanged glances, or even a single syllable, yet love had miraculously encircled us, merging us into a Oneness of Being, a knowingness that required no explanation – only subliminal acceptance. Ours to share was this love, which truly dared not speak its name.

The Tea Lounge

Sitting with the three Arabs at the Imperial tea lounge was a pretty young female, Narnia, and her attractive big sister, Coraline. I knew instinctively that they were both E.R.O.S. recruits. They had an irrefutable air of beauty, poise and social grace that all E.R.O.S. members possess. I immediately took a liking to Narnia, who was two months older than me. She had been allocated to the prince’s household, the Quwah, shortly after my departure. Like me, she was curious to explore the vast array of priceless objects displayed along the walls and corridors of this museum hotel. Since the Imperial’s inauguration by Lord Willingdon in 1936, it had been a repository of art and a home to many famous British artists, the likes of Thomas and William Daniells, William Simpson, William Hodges, John Zollony, James Ferguson, J.B. Fraser, Emily Eden, and Charles D’Oyly, among others too numerous to name.

We E.R.O.S. recruits and our respective chaperones, together with Professor Dubois and the art historian Jabril, excused ourselves to inspect the extensive collections, while the rest of our entourage discussed various business and social propositions over tea and alcoholic beverages.

Jabril began to give us a historical run-down of this resplendent establishment. “Are you aware that the hotel’s Lion insignia was conferred by Lady Willingdon?” he proclaimed to Alain, then to the rest of us.

Dubois shook his head. He countered, “Did you know The Imperial was the first amongst the legendary ‘Four Maidens of the East,’ - The Strand in Rangoon, Raffles in Singapore, and The Lalit Great Eastern & Oriental in Calcutta?”

Before either men could commence a deliberation over who knew more of the hotel’s history, Coraline injected, “India was writing the last chapters of its saga of independence when The Imperial opened its doors in the 1930s.”

She paused before proceeding, “Pandit Nehru, Mahatama Gandhi, Muhammad Ali Jinnah and Lord Mountbatten met under congenial conditions to discuss the partition of India and the creation of Pakistan on the very ground we stand on. Adding to that, the Nehru family also had a permanent suite within the walls of this ‘Maiden of the East.’” She let out a discreet chuckle that I think only I caught.

Both men stared at the female, not knowing how to respond. Before either one of them could opine, she continued, “If only walls could speak. Here indeed is a repository of fascinating anecdotal material for authors of romantic and detective fiction. It was here, at this very site, that one could clink glasses for the Royals to their war efforts, urge Gandhi to quit the India movement, or dance to the strains of Blue Danube, belly dance like a belle from Beirut or be serenaded by an orchestra from London.”

The group of us stared at the big sister, wondering how in the world she knew so much about The Imperial. My teacher and Jabril pressed for affirmation. Instead, she vociferated, “Notably, The Imperial has the largest collection on display of land war gallantry awards in India and among its neighbouring countries such as Afghanistan, Burma, Bhutan and China. It also holds a sizeable record of orders and decorations bestowed by the British Royalties to the Emperor of India as an honour to the local Maharajas, Sultans and ruling Princes from the various Indian states.”

While Narnia’s chaperone continued her historical spiel, the recruit pulled me aside and whispered amusingly, “Although everything my big sister said is true, she’s having fun with you guys. Her information is from the hotel’s brochure in the guest rooms.”

I quipped. “Why didn’t you tell the rest of our group? I thought she was an expert in India’s history!”

She gave me a wet kiss and said saucily, “I’m telling you because I like you.”

Stunned by her raciness, I was speechless. I couldn’t decide whether to tell her there and then that I was gay – but at that very moment, Andy appeared from around the corner.

“Where did you two disappear to?” he inquired.

When Narnia was out of earshot, I muttered knowingly to my BB, “I’ll tell you later.”, as we continued the art tour browsing portraitures of India’s Princely Rulers of yore.

As the art historian Jabril so rightly commented after the tour, “The Imperial depends on its art collections. These are beyond doubt among the most arresting public displays of colonial images and memorabilia in all of Asia.” We couldn’t agree more!

Within the Presidential Suite

That evening, Andy insisted on accompanying me to Prince P’s chambers after a formal dinner and cultural performance at the hotel’s opulent ballroom. The director of India International Centre and India Tourism Development Corporation, Mr. Romesh Thapar, alongside his beloved wife Raj, had organized this lavish event. Over the eight-course gourmet banquet, a tentative deal was struck between our Arab contingent, the Italian Count and India’s cultural director.

Count Mario Conti was entrusted with the task of artistic consultant for a multi-million dollar Bollywood movie funded by the Arabian financiers and endorsed by none other than the director of India International Centre and India Tourism Development Corporation. It would be a major silver-screen production featuring an array of A-list Indian and Western movie stars.

To celebrate this cross-cultural collaboration, we E.R.O.S. recruits were summoned privately to end this celebratory day. We obliged without any hesitation, since we were well aware we would be rewarded handsomely if we performed our tasks excellently. Prince P had specifically requested my presence, while Munsor Fayaad adjured Narnia, leaving Albert, who I assumed was entreated to the sheik.

Andy had traded places with Zac, leaving him to escort me to the prince’s Presidential Suite. When P’s bodyguard let us in, I was startled to find my household Master, Dr. Fahrib, seated comfortably in the spacious living room, surrounded by Fragonard amenities. A sweet floral scent emanated from breathtaking flower arrangements, created by French artisans and specially flown in by The Imperial to honor their distinguished luminaries.

Dazzled by such opulence, I did not notice the Zentologist seated in our midst before he spoke, “I had mentioned to you, Young, a new meditation technique I’ve developed with the Maharishi’s guidance. Are you and Andy game to give this new technique a try?” It was more a command than a request.

He declared confidently, “I’d like the two of you to demonstrate to His Highnesses my new method - TransZendent Introspection.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

TransZendental Introspection

“This is love: the contemplation of love is active introspection. Aah! But the flowering of love is divine meditation.“

Jiddu Krishnamurti

2012

Andy’s Reply

Young, you should already know your ex-teacher Alain Dubois’ and my cogitations on the Oneness of Being. That hasn’t changed since we were together. Since you asked, I’ll recap my ruminations for you and your readers.

The “Eternity of Life”

As you are well aware, some religions teach that we live only a lifetime. When we die, we either go to some beautiful hereafter such as Heaven or to some horrific eternal torture chamber known as Hell. On the opposite end of the spectrum, the Buddhist view of eternal life posits that one’s life or essence has no real beginning or end. We live many lifetimes, repeating the cycle of birth and death. Much like sleeping, we refresh our bodies and wake anew.

My beliefs are similar to these - that my life possesses an eternal and unchanging aspect. When I die, my bodily functions stop, but the essence, my soul or spirit - my eternal identity - continues in a dimension the naked eye cannot see. Death becomes the potential for rebirth. Death, to me is similar to a rosebush in the winter; it contains the flowering (life) potential within. When the correct external circumstances present themselves, the roses will bloom (re-birth).

Everything I’ve done up to this moment adds up to who I am. This is the law of cause and effect. For every cause, there must be an effect. This, to me, is karma. I make a myriad of causes every day through my thoughts, words and deeds. For each cause, I receive an effect.

In essence, my belief reflects what many Eastern religions teach - the law of cause and effect is simultaneous. The moment a cause is created, an effect is registered - like a seed planted in the depths of life. This law is often symbolized by the lotus flower, it seeds and blooms simultaneously, even though it may not appear instantly to the naked eye. My karma is like a bank balance of latent effects; it’ll manifest under the right environmental conditions.

As I live my life (making causes), effects reside within me. When I pass, these effects then dictate the circumstances of my rebirth into the next life. Karma or causes from my previous life continue after I’m reborn. Therefore, this cause and effect explains the reason why people are born under such different circumstances. To put it plainly, every individual has a different karma.

Therefore, this same principle proposes I have the capabilities to change my karma or destiny. This promise offers hope to me and to Buddhist practitioners. Theoretically, all I have to do is to make the best causes in order to obtain the best effects, yet many a time, I feel I’ve little control over the causes I make.

Let me cite an example. When I’m angry and say things I don’t really mean to the people closest to me, the condition of anger may appear more powerful than my general nature. However, when I practice ‘Transzendental Introspection’ (Alain Dubois’ meditation practices), I’m able to transform an out-of-control situation into one of wisdom, compassion and enlightenment.

The Oneness of Life in Relationship to My Environment

I can describe the principle of the Oneness of Life and my environment as the inseparable relationship between me and my milieu. Most people have a tendency to regard their surroundings as something separate from themselves. However, from my viewpoint of ultimate reality, the natural world and I are one and inseparable. You see, Young, life manifests itself in both a living subject and an objective environment.

“Life” indicates a subjective “self” that experiences the karmic effects of past actions. The environment is the objective realm where the karmic effects of life come together. Environment, in this context, does not mean an overall frame of reference where all beings live. Instead, every living being has its own unique environment in which the effects of karma appear. The effects of my karma, both positive and negative, manifest both within my person and in the environment. These phases are of the same entity.

Since both my life and my environment are one, whichever world I manifest internally will mirror my surroundings.

An example: a person in the state of ‘Hell’ will perceive his or her milieu to be hellish. On the other hand, a person in the world of ‘animality’ will perceive the same environment to be a jungle where only the fittest survive.

This idea has crucial implications.

First and foremost, as I had already mentioned, I need not seek enlightenment in a particular place. Whatever the circumstances I’m in, I have the ability to call forth my innate ‘Buddhahood’ through my TransZendental practices, thus transforming my environmental experience into an enlightened state. I can also free myself to control my circumstances through my own action.

I’ll not be crushed by adversity when I can sufficiently elevate my life’s condition. By harnessing this constructive energy for personal development, I’m able to command the strength and wisdom required to overcome calamities.

Moreover, as I accumulate good karma through my TransZendental practices, the effects of my karma will become apparent not only within the self but also in my surroundings - in the form of improved material circumstances, greater respect from others, and so on.

From this perspective, my environment stretches out to encompass the dimension of space. My enlightenment is therefore not confined only to me but exerts an influence on my family, community, nation, and ultimately, all humanity. The principle of the Oneness of Life and my environment is the rationale for asserting my TransZendental practice. This will eventually transform the society I’m in. TransZendental Introspection expands my life’s reality and shows me the way to live a winning life and a fulfilling existence.

Advaita

You may be asking: how am I responsible for my karma? How can I change it? One popular Western theory is that when we are born, our lives are like a clean slate where nothing is written. Each life develops as a result of its surroundings and the forces acting on it such as parents, friends, society, their dominant culture, etc.

However, TransZendental Introspection teaches the eternity of life – that I’ve lived countless lives before this current manifestation. This means that when I am born, I am not a collection of blank pages, but rather pages with countless impressions. In TransZentalism, life is forever existing in the cosmos. At times, it is manifested; at other times, latent. When I sleep and awaken, my conscious mind awakens and my body is refreshed. My consciousness carries on in a sub-conscious state between sleeping and awakening. Similarly, my life continues eternally in alternating states of life and death. Therefore, death is a part of the process of living.

Karma is a Sanskrit word that means ‘action.’ It is the accumulation of effects from the positive and negative causes I brought with me from my former lives, together with the causes I make in this life, thus shaping my future. My thoughts, words and deeds are manifested in my appearance, behavior, attitudes, good and bad fortune, where I’m born or live - in short, everything about me is the effect of my karma.

Unlike some philosophies, TransZendental Introspection does not consider one’s karma or destiny to be fixed; since my mind changes from moment to moment, even the habitual and destructive tendencies I possess can be altered. In other words, I have in me the potential to change my destiny.

Last but not least, Advaita is the non-duality - The Oneness, the fundamental quality of everything conscious.

1968

TransZendental Introspection

Andy and I looked at the Zentologist, wondering what we were supposed to do. My professor advised, “Do what you normally do when preparing for meditation. Once you are naked and comfortably seated in your lotus position opposite each other, I’ll give you verbal queues.”

We did as told. A Ganesha murti (the removal of obstacles and restorer of life) had been installed in the centre of the room, at a low alter surrounded by burning sandalwood candles and incense. The arresting aroma reminded me of P – This was the prince’s signature scent. But since we had entered the chamber, His Highness had not made an appearance.

The Zentologist harnessed me with a padded leather eye mask, similar to the ones I wore during my early days at the Middle Eastern households. This very contraption would now assist me to concentrate during my meditation with little exterior disturbance to detract my focus.

A soft Sanskrit chant filled the room as my teacher’s soothing voice instructed me to look inwards for concealed unhappiness, traumas or physical dis-ease. I was to release these hidden negativities through deep inhalation and exhalation, nullifying these damaging experiences and expelling them into the universe.

In the beginning, I had difficulty concentrating, although the hypnotic chants kept me focused. Gushes of invidious encounters with my father rushed to the foreground. My dad’s indignation of my effeminacy and his disapproval of my artistic pursuits stirred an invisible vexation I never knew existed. Like a crustacean retreating into its shell from imminent danger, I trembled whenever Foong Senior was present.

But then, a pair of consoling hands embraced my shoulders, easing my disquietude as I sat, quivering. I felt the man’s breath against the tenderness of my neck, yet I could not decipher to whom it belonged. I longed for his lips on mine, yet they never arrived; instead, his heaving nakedness straddled my rear as his hands caressed my hairless body, stirring me to involuntary excitement. Goosebumps formed on my skin. His musculature enveloped me. He laid my hands upon his as we sat in a joined meditative position.

In the pensive silence, the man’s fuzzy chin grazed arrestingly against the softness of my neck. Images of my mercurial father nullified as my mind sought the identity of this mystery person. My thoughts flitted back and forth between curiosity and self-analysis as our involuntary stiffness throbbed in rhythmic synchronicity to the sounds of hypnotic chants.

I struggled for mental equilibrium, only to waver again and again to the sensual arousal that dominated my physical promulgation. Alain’s assertive voice challenged me to spurn the external stimuli and to focus on my introspective contemplation, harnessing the conflicting energies through mental negation.

“When you can control your ejaculation through gentle sensual foreplay, without the goal of orgasm, supernal fulfillment and longevity can be yours. Regular practise of TranZendental Introspection will lead to the annulment of mental turmoil,” he advised.

The man and I were getting more and more aroused as Alain continued his delivery. My harness did nothing to deter my excitement. On the contrary, it served to heighten my erotic imagination as his member drummed unceasingly against my coccyx. He held firmly onto my wrists as if to restrain me from touching myself.

Dubois repeatedly urged me to work through this external exhilaration and remain focused on the pleasurable experience rather than the expectancy of an imminent orgasmic reverie. I found it difficult to concentrate on his directive.

He added, “Possessing a phlegmatic and loving penis is the hallmark of true male authority. Reverse your idea of your manhood as a desensitized ‘getting’ device. Instead of using it to ‘get your rocks off,’ see it as an energetic ‘giving’ instrument. Open your heart, cultivate loving feelings and kindness to your partner. It is through unconditional giving that you’ll receive your ‘Grove of Love.’

“This practice is essential for couples to bond on a soul level and experience a richly rewarding relationship.”

That evening was the beginning. It was then that my partner and I discovered the sacred ‘Grove of Love’; through the Zentologist technique, I had eased into an enchanted sensuality, prolonging our foreplay without any orgasmic interlude. TransZendental Introspection had worked its magic.

2012

Continuation of Andy’s Reply

My dearest Young, you never fail to amaze me after these many years. You are still the inquisitive young man I’ve come to cherish and love. ☺

It wasn’t easy to nurse and care for Albert during his final days. Being an honourable and independent man, it was extremely difficult for him to be dependent on me or anyone for assistance. He fought me every step of the way; only when his health had deteriorated to within an inch of what it once was did he succour my aid. It was a dark moment, but I slowly manoeuvred my way back from depression after Albert’s passing.

There isn’t a day I do not miss his presence. I’m still getting used to being single again, though my passion for rowing and the camaraderie of my rowing buddies kept me from falling into despondency. The ocean has a healing effect on my desolate soul.

Back to your question – I am currently single and enjoying life as a single man. There are a couple of guys I see on and off, nothing serious. I’m not looking for love but allowing the universe to bring forth what is in store for me. I recall the words you wrote to Sam in A Harem Boy’s Saga – book II – Unbridled, during our winter holiday in 1966: “Follow love and it will flee; flee love and it will follow.” So, boy, here I am, waiting for love to find me. ☺

Love,

Andy

XOXOXO

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sehnsucht

“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

1968

Lakshmi लक्ष्मी

Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of beauty, wealth, fortune, and prosperity (material and spiritual), is also the active energy, Vishnu’s consort. Her four hands represent the four goals of humanity sacred to the Hindus – Dharma (cosmic order), Kama (erotic love), Artha (meaning, sense, goal, purpose or essence) and Moksha (liberation from the cycle of rebirth).

Smack in the poshest district of South Delhi stood Mariam’s LAKSHMI - a haute couture boutique and salon amidst a sea of fancy shops that sold anything from imported European designer labels to imitation designer watches, handbags and brit-a-brats.

The moment our Rolls Royce pulled up to LAKSHMI’s entrance, a couple of manservants stood at attention before they proceeded to open our car doors. The infamous Mrs. Raj Thapar was the first to step out, followed by the stunningly beautiful Nesrine. The suave Count Mario Conti appeared next to my gorgeously handsome Valet. Being the youngest in our entourage, I was the last to emerge.

A crowd of bystanders stood gawking at us, as if they had unexpectedly witnessed the arrival of movie stars. Mario, being a famed photographer, welcomed the disport, as did the two ladies, who were obviously celebrities within their country. On the opposite spectrum, Andy and I felt awkward in this unanticipated avidity.

Within the boutique appeared three young maidens, who presented each of us with a garland of scented marigolds. We imitated Mrs. Thapar’s gratuitous gesture to the presenters before filing into the salon.

Seated like the Queen of Sheba waiting for our arrival was Miram, dressed in an emerald coloured embroidered sari. She greeted us with welcome embraces instead of the traditional Hindu salutations. This pretentious gesture was reserved solely for guests and clients whom she considered capable of facilitating her career advancements. Mrs. Thapar and the Count were the ones she buttered up in case she needed a favour.

Her shop, filled with faux French ne plus ultra accoutrement was a gaudy version of an Indian haute couture salon. Framed photographs of Nesrine in her aunt’s latest designs lined the walls of her spacious boutique. Ranks of exquisitely crafted saris filled every inch of the racks. Unlike the French or Italian couture houses, where chic simplicity reigned supreme, this maison was a bohemian hodgepodge of fashion novelties. Beaded purses and feathered hats, down to intricately crafted costume jewellery, lay disparagingly next to one another.

The three gay men, Mario, Andy and I, looked at each other in tacit cognizance of the reproachable sin that had befallen these items. But when the Queen of Sheba flaunted sari after sari of almost identical design for our inspection, we gave smiles to her and each other. The saving grace to this seemingly endless array of garment (or rather, fabric) display was the decorative craftsmanship.

When the boutique tour finally concluded and the three maidens had served us tea, our hostess inquired of the Count, “A little birdie told me of a forthcoming film collaboration between our cultural minister and your illustrious self?”

Mario, the shrewd impresario, parried, “Oh, these hear-sayers always have something to tittle-tattle about. It is far from the truth.”

Obviously, the Count was evading the Queen’s prod. “The subject was broached, but nothing firm,” he finalized.

Mrs. Thapar chimed light-heartedly, “Miram, you’ll be the first to know if this collaboration does happen.”

Changing the topic, Nesrine chirped, “You guys should make a trip to Bombay, to Miram’s sample room and workshop. She has a group of artisans under her charge, and her factory also produces other designer labels.”

“I’ve never been to a clothing factory before. What’s it like?” I remarked.

“I’ll be happy to show you my factory. You guys should come to Bombay,” our host answered swiftly.

Andy vociferated before I could answer, “This inquisitive young man is always inviting himself to places…”

“I’m open to an exploratory trip to Bombaim,” the Count offered, using the old Portuguese to mean ‘good little bay,’ “and a visit to your factory.” The sybarite gave me a wicked wink before he ruffled my hair. This was Mario’s flirtatious private language with me for ‘good little boy.’ I remained silent, since I did not understand the Count’s wisecrack at the time.

Andy, who caught the quip, gave me an affectionate squeeze. The ladies looked on with befuddlement, not comprehending the lovey-dovey child’s play any more than I did. But what I relished was my chaperone’s playful chivalry and his quirky way of making me feel loved.

And so it was decided our next adventure was to Bombaim. After Delhi, to the ‘good little bay’ we ventured.

My Teacher Told Me

Monsieur Dubois waited for me at his suite to commence our private tutorial. Since his other students Albert and Narnia had their lessons in the morning, they were at The Imperial’s swimming pool frolicking with their respective chaperones, leaving me alone with my professor. The moment I walked in, he said, “Young, you did well at last evening’s TransZendental session.”

“I thought I had been summoned by the prince but he wasn’t there,” I commented.

“He was! Didn’t you see him?” Alain remarked sarcastically.

“He was?” This piece of information piqued my interest. I continued, “By the way, who was the man I was paired with?”

“Don’t you recognize him?” my teacher teased.

“No, who?”

“Couldn’t you identify his touch and smell?”

I remarked fondly, “All I could smell was sandalwood and the man’s loving touch. I couldn’t help melting into his gallantry. Who was he?”

Just then my Valet came into the room.

“Talking about the devil, here he is.”

“Andy! It was Andy!” I exclaimed.

“Your burka harnesses had worked wonders to revivify the fervent connections you felt for each other. That’s the reason I chose the two of you, to demonstrate to the prince and the sheik how they, too, could open themselves up to one another,” my teacher declared.

Surprised by Dubois’ exposition, I questioned, “You mean they are together? I mean, they’re an item?”

Alain gave a gratifying laugh before answering, “That’s correct. They are now unofficially a couple.”

“But…” I was puzzled.

“But how did it come about?” my teacher finished my question.

Dubois gave me a solemn glance. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you; you know that they’ve liked each other since they were in school. Their religious and cultural upbringing made it difficult for them to yield to their saudade.”

“What’s ‘saudade’?” I questioned.

Andy jumped at the opportunity to explicate before Alain could. “‘Saudade’ is a Portuguese word. It describes a profound emotional state of nostalgia, or a deep melancholic longing for something or someone who one loves intensely but cannot possess. It often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never materialize.

“A stronger form of saudade might be felt towards people and things whose whereabouts are unknown, such as a lover whom one can never have, or a family member who is missing, separated, or passed away.”

My teacher interjected, “An alternative German word is ‘sehnsucht.’ Loosely translated, it means longing, yearning or craving. In a wider perspective, it’s a type of intensified missing.”

“You mean infatuation?” I twittered.

Amused by my juvenile assessment, Dubois resumed, “Not quite. ‘Sehnsucht’ represents thoughts and feelings on all facets of life that are unfinished or imperfect. It pairs with a yearning for ideal alternative experiences. Oftentimes, it has also been referred to as ‘life’s longing,’ or an individual’s search for happiness while coping with the reality of unattainable wishes.

“‘Sehnsucht’ is usually profound, and tends to be accompanied by other feelings, both positive and negative. This has often been described as an ambiguous emotional occurrence.”

Andy couldn’t wait to speak.

“This inner dis-ease can also be described as ‘the love that remains’ after someone is gone. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one alive again.

“It’s also an emptiness, like someone (e.g., one’s children, parents, sibling, grandparents, friends, or pets) or something (places, things one used to do in childhood, or other activities performed in the past) that should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. It brings sadness and happiness simultaneously - sadness from missing and happiness from having experienced that feeling of joy.”

I quipped, “The times I spent alone with Sheik Fahrib, I could feel his depression. That’s when he drowned his sorrows with wine and tristful music on his violin. Most times, I managed to chase his melancholy away, if only temporarily.”

Andy ruffled my hair affectionately. “That’s my Young. Always playing the role of a spritely Puck.”

“It is of little wonder the doctor is smitten by your bubbly charm and made you his confidant,” Alain added.

The inquisitive moi craved to know when the sheik and the prince had consummated their love. I sallied, “When did they make out?”

“Shortly after we left for India, P went to Amsterdam to spend time with his pal, to catch up on their business dealings. For the most part, they were alone together. One thing led to another, and it happened,” my professor expressed.

When Dubois resumed, an emotional surge had overtaken his person. Although his eyes welled up, he kept his composure. “The majority of people who experience ‘sehnsucht’ are not even conscious of what or who the longed for object is; the longing is of such intense profundity that the subject may only be aware of the emotion itself and not cognizant that there is a something or a person longed for.

“When P and the doctor came to me in private asking my assistance, I mentioned the new TransZendental Introspection technique I’m developing with the Maharishi. I told them that by practising this meditation, loving joyfulness can be achieved, of the kind I had witnessed between the two of you. They wanted to observe and experiment first-hand, with the pair of you as their guide. So, the two of you were summoned last evening to demonstrate my TransZendental Introspection technique.

“Your harnesses blinded you from seeing them, but your amatory devotions paved the way for them to experience the same. Being the docent, I documented and photographed my congeries, which I will use for my doctoral dissertation.”

We gazed at the Zentologist, wide-eyed. He continued, “The experience is one of such significance that ordinary reality pales in comparison. As in Walt Whitman’s closing lines to ‘Song of the Universal’:

“Is it a dream?

Nay but the lack of it the dream,

And failing it life’s lore and wealth a dream

And all the world a dream.”

2012

My Response to Andy’s Message

Thank you, Andy, for your candidness. I’m sure you will not fail to attract the right man into your life again when the time is ripe, or are you still waiting for my hand? LOL!

On a more serious note, would you like to give your impression of our time in India? I’m sure readers of A Harem Boy’s Saga would love to see your side of the story. I, too, would like to know in greater detail what transpired in your life during our years of absence. As the saying goes, it takes two to tango. I will reciprocate if you take me up on this. ☺

Your adoring ex-lover and ex-charge,

Young

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Accident & The Incident

“You do not know me, but I come in peace; if you think that is strange, then you are the stranger.”

Justin K. McFarlane Beau

1968

Calamity

Narnia stared at me adoringly that morning while waiting for Professor Dubois to appear in a chamber within the historic Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, Bombay. Our entourage had arrived in ‘good little bay’ to the fanfare of a torrential downpour. Three top-of-the-line Bentleys, compliments of the hotel, sat waiting for the Ship (Sheik Fahrib’s private jet) to touch down on the private airstrip.

Under massive logoed umbrellas, the chauffeurs and their respective attendants guided us to our sedans. An accompanying vehicle followed with our luggage as our motorcade meandered away from the airfield under sheets of pelting rain.

As we snaked along the crowded dirt roads at a snail’s pace, street vendors, hawkers and peddlers scrambled for shelter. Some did their best to salvage their merchandise from the unforgiving thunderstorm. The scene resembled a flock of cackling, riotous chickens clamoring aimlessly as if bound for the slaughterhouse.

An overwhelming uneasiness overtook me as I sat watching through the comfort of my luxury sedan. My heart reached out to these impecunious souls, yet I knew there was little I could do to assist.

Andy’s hand crept up next to mine and held it to his for consolation as I ruminated on the massive poverty of this Asian sub-continent. Soothed by my lover’s healing energy, I recalled the words of my Bahriji teacher, Andrew Henderson: “Envy not those you deem more fortuitous, but be grateful for what you have. For there are many that are less serendipitous.”

Suddenly, a deafening babble plagued my ears. I was thrown forward atop Zac, Albert, Coraline, Andy and Narnia, already lying in a heap on the car floor. A sudden, thunderous rumpus had sent us into shock. Before we could catch our breath, a piercing crush sent us tumbling the opposite direction. Blood gushed out of my big brother’s arm as he gripped the car seat for equilibrium. Narnia and Albert had blood splattered all over their knees, ankles and thighs while Andy twisted in pain under the pile of bodies atop him. The two people who were cushioned by this confusion were Coraline and me, although we all suffered minor concussions. Nausea overtook me when I tried to gain composure to see out the window. The commotion outside was impossible to assess, as sheets of rain assailed the window rampantly. My vision fogged, and before I knew it, flashing lights surrounded our vehicles.

It was chaos, but through the windshield, I recognized the faint silhouette of Doctor Fahrib helping a figure onto a stretcher to a stationary ambulance.

It was made clear to us that our baggage van had hit a large waterlogged pothole, splattering sludge all over a disconcerted pedestrian running for shelter. The van then slammed against the temporarily blinded woman, throwing her in the air before she landed on top of our car’s hood. She fell unconscious onto the muddy road, severely injured. Doctor Fahrib got out of his vehicle posthaste to aid the unconscious female before the ambulance arrived to deliver her to the nearest hospital.

The doctor had insisted on accompanying the victim to the hospital, and P had joined him to assist.

No major damage had been done to our vehicles, except for some minor dents. We were back on the road to the Taj Mahal Palace hotel in no time. As soon as we arrived, Monsieur Dubois advised his students and chaperones to retire early.

At Tutorial

When I arrived at the appointed tutorial venue the following morning, Narnia was already present, but Albert was nowhere in sight. She gawked at me smugly. I decided to come clean with my friend before our professor arrived.

“I hope you are not hurt, Young,” she said before I could begin.

Caught off guard by her query, I reciprocated, “I’m sure we’ll both heal in no time.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet.”

She reached to pinch my cheeks playfully.

“Narnia, I need to tell you something…” I uttered, avoiding her touch.

She twittered before I could continue: “You want to tell me you’re gay!”

Dumbfounded by her comment, I stared at her.

“I knew you were gay when we first met,” she edified me. “You are too winsome and decorous to be straight.”

“Aren’t you making false assumptions that attractive and well-mannered boys can’t be heterosexual?” I retaliated, wondering how or why she could have formed such notions.

“Young, we are E.R.O.S. recruits; we have ways of knowing what is. A sixth sense.”

“Why, then, did you kiss me?” I asked.

She grinned wickedly.

“Can’t I kiss a cute and adorable boy if I want to? Do I have to get my big sister’s permission to kiss a boy?”

It was obvious that she was challenging me to defy the E.R.O.S. status quo of requesting permission from a chaperone before performing a task of our own accord.

Narnia resumed conceitedly, “Be a man and act on your impulse instead of running to your big brothers and teachers for everything.”

“But…” I muttered.

“But what?” she exclaimed. “Let’s do something daring!”

I gazed at her, stupefied. Seizing the opportunity, she pulled me to her and French-kissed my gaping mouth while unbuttoning my shirt. I didn’t know how to react.

At that very moment, in walked our professor. He gave a commanding cough that caused me to jump. Narnia pretended as if she didn’t hear Alain’s gesticulation. She continued exerting herself on me.

“Narnia!” Dubois vociferated sternly. “We will talk after class.”

She pushed away reluctantly and gave me a sly wink. I stuttered, not comprehending such an out-of-character situation.

“I, err… am sorry, sir…”

“It’s not your fault Young,” he asserted before changing the topic as if everything were back to normal.

“Where is Albert?” he asked. “The two of you look rested from last evening’s accident.” We nodded.

“I’ll see how the boy is when we are done here,” Dubois added.

“What happened to the injured woman?” I blurted.

Dubois said, concerned, “I’m afraid she is not doing well, boy. She is in a coma. Doctor Fahrib is doing his best to stabilize her condition. He was in the hospital with her the entire night. I just left him and the prince now.

“The prince is assisting the woman’s family. They are distraught over finding the money to pay for her intensive care treatment.

“The hotel should be footing the bill, since it’s their employee’s fault, yet they are being difficult. It’s a classic case of corporate injustice, since they know the woman’s family doesn’t have the financial resources to sue them.

“The victim is lucky to have found a champion in His Highness. He is pressuring the hotel for full compensation to the woman. On behalf of the victim, P threatened to take legal action if they don’t comply.”

I opined, “His Highness is a benevolent man. His father should make him the heir to the Bahraini throne, rather than his younger sadomasochistic brother, Hamad.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. Family dynamics are chafed when the patriarch displays favoritism toward a particular child. Sibling rivalry often happens on the road to a dynastic meltdown, bound to occur if the situation is not handled justly by the patriarch,” Dubois lamented.

I expressed vehemently, “Is Prince P making Paris his home, now that…” I saw Alain give me a subtle glance, and I trailed off, realizing that Narnia was in our midst.

“Well, lad and lass, let’s get to some serious studies instead of idle speculations about your household patriarchs.” Our conversation came to an end.

Over Lunch

Zac and Andy were chatting animatedly when I found them after my tutorial. They were discussing the previous night’s accident when I suggested leaving the hotel for some authentic Indian food. Since Albert was in session with Dubois and the females were off doing their own thing, we ventured to a local eatery, a short walk from the Taj.

Bombaim’s pungent smell wafted through the humidity as hordes of aimless pedestrians, street vendors, tooting motorcyclists, ladened bicyclists, graffiti tutus, colorful taxis and motorcars whisked by, ignoring all forms of traffic regulation. Not to mention, India’s sacred beasts of burden, the cows, were vying for space on single-lane roads. It was a madhouse on foot and wheels.

As we wandered in search of an eatery, locals gawked at us as if we had descended from an alien planet. Obviously, the presence of three perfectly symmetrized foreign males walking among them was not a common occurrence. It was of little wonder to us that when Europeans first set foot on this Indian sub-continent, the natives thought them gods descended from heaven.

An awkward gaucheness washed over the three of us when a group of vagrants gathered around with begging hands. Their pitiful faces and deformed bodies rattled the same emotional queasiness I had felt in the poverty-stricken Malayan fishing village. A feeling of helplessness sluiced through me, but Zac admonished, “Keep walking and don’t look them in the eye. If we dole out money to one, they’ll be upon us like hornets.”

Andy seconded. “Young, I know we like to help, but Zac is correct. If we give to one, we won’t get out of this alive.” The two ushered me to keep pace with them when we spotted an air-conditioned roadside restaurant. As soon as we entered, the hobos left us alone. They knew the proprietor would boot them out if they entered.

The moment we stepped in, all heads turned our direction. A young waiter, not much older than I, waved us to a table he had just wiped clean. In broken English, he uttered, “Order food – there.” He pointed to a long counter by the cashier where steaming local dishes sat invitingly for our selection. “What you want drink. Get food, pay, and I bring drink to table,” he said.

The delectable smell of spicy Indian cooking wafted up my nostrils as we stood in line to select our pre-cooked meal. Everything on display looked mouth-wateringly delicious. I piled my plate to the brim when Andy declared, “Young, once again, your eyes are bigger than your stomach. How can you possibly eat all that?”

“I can! Watch me devour every scrap,” I responded unapologetically. Both BBs shook their heads in horror.

When the waiter came back with our beverages, Zac commented, “The restaurant’s owner should give the beggars outside something to eat.”

“We give left-over food, outside back kitchen,” he chirped.

“Why do they beg when they are fed by the restaurant?” Zac queried.

“They want money. Give to ‘master’ of gang,” the waiter replied.

We looked at the Indian, confused. He continued, “Gang ‘master’ beat them if no money to give him.”

The three of us were astonished by this piece of information. “Don’t the law enforcement officers do anything about this problem?” Andy queried.

The Indian gazed incomprehensibly at my chaperone when Andy re-stated. “Doesn’t the police arrest the ‘masters’?”

The teenager looked around stealthily before muttering, “Police corrupt. Shop owner pay police to keep peace. Otherwise, beggars come in to ask money from customer. Not good business for shop.”

Over lunch, both big brothers discussed corruption, not just in Bombay but in other major metropolises infested by repressionist governments.

The Sadhu

The moment we left the eatery, we were again mobbed by vagabonds. Seemingly out of thin air, a bedraggled holy man appeared in our midst. He commanded the rabble to halt when he came towards the foreigners. With traditional Hindu salutations, he greeted us before extending his bony hand to mine. I did not know what to do. But suddenly, an English speaking college student named Jayru came to offer assistance as our interpreter.

The Sadhu closed his eyes, held my hand, and recited a Sanskrit incantation. The bystanders watched in anticipation, as if waiting for a street performance. When he finally vociferated in a chain of indecipherable Hindi sentences, I was perplexed by his divination.

“Young man, I see many successes in your life,” Jayru expounded.

“But, there is one thing you must be vigilant of: Your future tells me that you will lose the greatest love of your life, and you will regret the choice you made. This crucial decision will affect your career, relationships and health.”

The sage’s augury rustled my chaperones, especially Andy, who glanced at me, disquieted by this piece of unwelcome information. This wasn’t the first time we had heard this prophecy, and it would not be the last.

“You will suffer a major illness in your fifties. If you recover from this affliction, the years ahead will be filled with great wealth, good health and international professional recognition. Fame is at your feet, young man,” the ascetic resumed.

“I am sent to forewarn you that a thundercloud is looming. It is up to you to take heed or spurn my admonition.”

Without much ado, the sage clasped my hands to his and recited a blessing before disappearing to whence he came.

Jayru advised Andy, Zac and me, “It is customary to give a donation to the Sadhu as a token of goodwill and appreciation for his words of wisdom.”

But the holy sage had vanished by the time Andy had fumbled for some rupees from his wallet.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lakshmi’s Abode

“I always like to look on the optimistic side of life, but I am realistic enough to know that life’s duality is a complex matter.“

Walt Disney

Late 2012

Andy’s Correspondence

Young, India has a way of changing a worldview. It was everything I had expected, still unexpected. Although I had seen poverty, I had not witnessed impoverishment such as I saw in India. Much like you, I found it trying, to keep a jaunty demeanor in the company of our hosts, when the majority of India’s denizens suffer from malnourishment and poverty. It was difficult to refrain from extending a helping hand – but, I knew I could not reach out to one, without becoming vulnerable to all.

I shed many a tear pondering over this universal question, asked by many, “Why is this happening, and how will it end for these destitute souls?” These are unanswerable questions to which only the Creator can reply.

During times of uncertainty, I was grateful to have your teacher, Dubois, to provide me with his admirable insights. His work (on Zentology) had helped many find equilibrium and solace within their inner and outer worlds. After he received his doctorate, I read several of his books, which helped me during my tumultuous years in New Zealand.

What transpired after our separation I have mentioned earlier – Tony, my ex-boyfriend, was not an easy person. His concept of love bordered on maniacal possession, not an easing into life’s rhythmic synergies, nor allowing rather than controlling. Maneuvering within his taxing negativity left me drained. Dubois’ books and meditation techniques helped me distance myself from this challenging situation, and after some time, I was left with little choice but to depart for Canada.

Some years later, during a heart-to-heart chat, a friend of mine remarked that I have the propensity to disappear, when faced with hindrances. He advised me to face problems head-on, instead of avoiding confrontations and running away like a coward, much as I had with my dad, with you, and with Tony. This is a liability I’m learning to confront. And, it isn’t easy.

Thanks to my sister, Aria, I was able to make peace with my father, before he passed. For years, I had resented the way he treated us, during our Christmas vacation at Vaduz. I couldn’t bring myself to forgive the insults he flung at us. Although my mother did her best to assuage the damage, I fled as quickly and as far as I could. I had refused to meet with my dad unless he apologized; he refused to budge.

During his final days, Aria and Ari begged me to return home, to pay my respects. It was then and there that we made peace. Before he took his final breath, he apologized and asked my forgiveness. When he finally accepted me for who I am, an immense relief flooded me. I came to the realization that our time on earth is short, and if either one of us had been less difficult, our years of estrangement could have been resolved long before.

Relief followed apprehension, for I knew he had died in peace; for this, I am eternally grateful.

What about you? How did you get on with your father? When we parted ways, you had unresolved issues with him, as I did with mine. Now that the ball is in your court, send me your chronicles. ☺

1968

“Lakshmi’s Abode”

Miram, in the form of the ‘Queen of Sheba,’ came to bring us to her production facility, some distance outside the city center. This fenced-in compound housed a large factory, plus a series of two-storied lodgings where her eighty or so employees lived with their respective families; each floor had its own communal showers and toilet facilities.

Crying babies, children, parents and their grandparents lived within close proximity. Near the workers’ quarters was a barn, filled with chickens and other farm animals. Rice fields formed the periphery of the factory’s extensive grounds, which were managed by the workers’ families. In short, “Lakshmi’s Abode,” as the Queen referred to her manufacturing facility, was a self-reliant village.

Meals were prepared within a large communal kitchen, attended to by the workers’ parents, grandparents and female relatives, within the commune. Workers’ schedules were highly regulated: the factory came alive at eight in the morning, six days a week; communal lunches were served between 1:00 and 2:00 pm daily; the work day finished at six in the evening; and Sunday was their day of rest.

The machinists were between the ages of twenty and forty. Since food and lodging were part of their work package, their monthly income depended on the number of garments they produced. Each worker was allocated a monthly production quota. If they exceeded it, they were then paid per finished garment. This gave them the incentive to be productive and work faster, thus earning more than their regulated stipend.

The Throne Room

The Queen guided our entourage up a flight of stairs, through the main building, into an air-conditioned chamber.

She announced proudly, “Welcome to my office.” An ornate teak desk, with a high back chair (her throne, I decided), sat opposite the carved doorway. A comfortable settee, located nearby, was where she entertained visiting dignitaries. Photographs of Nesrine, in her aunt’s creations, surrounded us on the walls. Behind the throne, hung a large portrait of Her Serene Highness.

Partitioned off, in a corner, near an ornately sculpted peacock screen, sat Miram’s secretary and assistant, Anuja. The Queen had recruited her into the workforce when she was fourteen, as an embroidery apprentice. Now, she was twenty years of age. Even though English wasn’t her mother tongue, we could communicate sufficiently to understand each other.

Our guided tour began, after some brief chitchat, over cups of tea and delicious Indian pastries, served by an elderly maid. The first destination was the embroidery and beading studio, followed by a visit to the print room and sample room. We finished with a factory inspection.

The Embroidery and Beading Studio

This compact chamber housed several full and part-time embroiderers and beaders, between the ages of twelve and nineteen. The skilled girls were busy working on intricate paisley-patterned embroidery, while others embellished colorful materials with beaded floral designs. I had never seen such skilled craftsmanship, or in this case, craftswomanship, before. I exclaimed, “This embroidery is exquisite!”

Miram laughed at my naiveté. “Young man, these girls learned to embroider and bead when they were children, by watching the older girls and practicing assiduously, until they were proficient enough to join the professional team.”

Mario, also awed by the level of workmanship, chirped, “How old are they when they start their apprenticeships?”

“Most were taught by their mothers or grandmothers when they were seven or eight.”

Andy asked, “Are they paid?”

The ‘Queen’ thought this an inconsequential question.

“Andy, do you think me a slave mistress?” she rejoined. “Of course they get paid. And I give them the opportunity to learn a skill. If they perform well, they are rewarded nicely. But if they don’t live up to the required standard, I transfer them to work in other sectors of the trade.”

Coraline inquired, “Is there a cut-off age for such involute craft?”

Miram hesitated before answering.

“The prime years for this kind of complicated work are the teenage years,” she said. “When they reach their twenties, I transfer them to the sewing or fabric-printing divisions.”

“Why?” I blurted out.

The woman did not reply; instead, she changed the subject, rapidly.

“See how beautiful their work is?” she cooed, before patting the backs of an embroiderer and a beader, to show her appreciation for their hard work.

I decided to talk with Anuja, whenever the Queen was suitably preoccupied.

The Screen-Printing Workshop

Several large printing tables sat, adjacent to the embroidery studio, in a spacious antechamber. Unlike the previous studio, the artisans here were males, between the ages of fourteen and thirty-five.

Pairs of workers were busy scraping dyes on large rectangular wooden screens, from one end of the table to the other, before transferring the wooden blocks to a set of wedges, in synchronized motions. The repetitious process began all over again when the pairs reached the end of the table.

Miram explained, “These men have been working for me since I started this workshop, eight years ago. They are my loyal employees.”

She pointed to an adolescent boy and an older Indian, who were pouring dyes onto a flattened silk panel.

“Patta is following in his father’s footsteps; Kallik joined my company when he was Patta’s age – I recruited him from an orphanage and gave him a job. He would’ve ended up a street urchin or a gang member if I hadn’t come to his rescue.”

The father turned and gave us a toothy grin, as if he knew his employer was discussing his well-being. Miram waved to them, before resuming, “Silk screen printing requires heavy lifting; that’s why men are more suited to this craft than women.”

I queried, “Who designs the patterns and motifs?”

“We’ll get to the design studio in a moment,” our hostess declared.

The Sample Room

Here, young adults were copying traditional motifs and patterns, from a pile of books and magazines given to them by their employer as “research” materials. Instead of recreating a different design, based on what they observed, they copied the exact motifs, down to the minutest detail. These gifted artisans were, in reality, human duplicators, like today’s Xerox machines. They would have made great art counterfeiters!

Although our proprietress referred to them as “designers,” our entourage knew better than to catechize Her Serene Highness. Instead, we exchanged conceited smirks.

Nonetheless, this peremptory artistry was not to be devalued; not many possessed this talent, and some industry requirements did demand such mastery. Yet, Mario, Alain, Andy, Jabril, Zac and I, being creative artists, found this skill set restrictive and forbidding.

In the next chamber, a couple of sample machinists were pinning, draping and molding yards of exquisitely printed fabrics on dress forms for Her Highness’ perusal.

“This is one of the latest models for my upcoming fashion show,” Miram announced proudly. “What do you think?”

Before anyone of us could reply, she resumed, “It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

The females in our group applauded, while the men smiled and nodded polite acknowledgment. Oblivious to our actual thoughts, our hostess continued, “Will you like to attend my fashion presentation? It will be held at the Mughal Gardens in Delhi.” She was anticipating that the Count would cover her fashion presentation in Vogue Italia.

“When is the fashion extravaganza?” the Italian inquired.

“I’m showcasing my new collection, for couture clients and press, three weeks from today. I would be honored by your presence.”

“I’ve got to check my schedule, but I will get back to you. Can’t make any promises,” the photographer commented.

Sweatshop or Workshop?

At last, when Miram was busy chatting with several members of our group, I found a chance to approach Anuja. “Do you like being Miram’s personal assistant?” I inquired. Taken aback by my forwardness, she forced a polite smile, without responding. I pressed, “Do you miss being an embroiderer and beader?”

A lengthy silence followed, before she released a sigh: “I do miss doing what I enjoy, but my eyesight is not as good as it used to be.”

Her unexpected response threw me off guard. “What’s wrong with your eyes? You look like a young woman who can see sharply.”

“When I was an embroiderer, I had perfect sight. That kind of intricate work wears on the eyes. Now, I wear glasses.”

“Is that the reason the embroidery staff are teenagers? So they can perform these delicate tasks with precision?” I questioned.

“That’s correct,” came Anuja’s reply. “Now, I sit behind a desk, to take calls and type my boss’ correspondence.”

She paused before resuming, “Not that I mind doing it, but it’s not something I enjoy.”

“Can’t you go back to your old job?” I asked.

“Not really. My boss prefers to hire teenagers to do the delicate work. Their eyesight is better. Mistakes are seldom made. In my country, there are many young people looking to be trained in skilled jobs. There are many applicants for my boss to choose from.”

I offered, “Can’t you become a teacher for the young apprentices?”

“It is not as simple as you think,” she sighed.

“Why not?”

“There are many older ex-embroiders and beaders who want to be instructors. There’s tough competition; Miram selects only the best. That’s why I opted to be her personal assistant – so I can learn to run a company. Someday, I want to have my own fashion firm,” the secretary explained, before looking around precipitously to make sure no one heard her pronouncement.

She pleaded, “Please, promise not to mention what I said to my boss. I don’t want anyone to know my plans.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I’m simply curious about the operational aspect of a fashion business,” I responded.

We had arrived at a large chamber, with high ceilings lined with fans. Rows of industrial sewing machines filled the entire space. Forty to fifty workers were busy sewing garments of a similar design. Not having seen clothes produced in such quantities, I was intrigued by the production line. At the far end of the room, a long cutting table occupied the entire side. Eight to ten workmen laid out yards of fabric, one atop another, to approximately six inches deep. Paper patterns were then secured on top; several heavy cutting machines worked their way round the patterns. Operators, who stood on both sides of the long table, maneuvered these industrial cutters with precision. I stood gawking, mesmerized by the entire process.

This experience was my first, but, it would not be my last. Throughout the course of my professional life, as an international fashion designer, I’ve worked with numerous ready-to-wear (RTW) garment production factories in Europe, India, S. E. Asia, China and the Americas. The process is similar; the only differences are the color, language and culture of the workers.

Time to Say Goodbye

I was in a reverential state, when our entourage returned to the throne room. This factory tour had awed me, in more ways than one. Besides learning the inner workings of an off-the-rack clothing production company, I had also come to the realization that haute couture was my true calling. Designing ready-to-wear was a means to an end; I felt much like the Queen, who preferred to dress celebrity clients. Mass producing for other designers and department store labels provided Miram the monetary means to succor her love for haute couture.

As we filed into our limousines, we were each handed personal invitations by Her Serene Highness. Inside the decorative hand-crafted note, I read:

Master Young Foong

You are cordially invited

To

THE JEWEL OF INDIA

Miram Mahārājñī Kunnathuparambil

Fashion Extravaganza

At

THE BUTTERFLY GARDEN

Rashtrapati Bhavan

(President’s House)

On the

Thirtieth day of March, 1968

At

Six o’clock, post meridian

I look forward to seeing you

Sincerely,

Miram M. K.

Répondez s’il vous plait

To Miss Anuja Singh

Before the fifteenth Day of March, 1968

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bollywood to Hollywood

“Bollywood stars are versatile;

Not only can they act,

But each has the dance skills of John Travolta in ‘Saturday Night Fever’.”

Christian Louboutin

1968

From Tollywood to Bollywood

The name “Bollywood” was inspired by “Tollywood,” which referred to the cinema of West Bengal. Dating back to 1932, “Tollywood” was the earliest Hollywood-inspired name. It refers to the Bengali film industry based in Tollygunge, Calcutta. This was the center of Indian movie industry at the time, and the chance juxtaposition of two pairs of rhyming syllables - Holly and Tolly - led to the portmanteau “Tollywood.”

In the years that followed, “Tollywood” became a nickname for the Bengali film industry. This blending of words set a precedent for other film industries to use similar-sounding prefixes; that’s where we got “Bollywood” in the late 1960s, when India overtook America as the world’s largest film producer. However, Tollywood is still around, now used to refer to the Telugu Film Industry in Telangana & Andhra Pradesh.

Since there’s a large Indian population in Kuala Lumpur, Mother was awed and in love with these Tamil-language movies, which were shown regularly on the Malayan silver screens. She was mesmerized by the hodgepodge of action, romance, comedy and the abundance of musical numbers that were de rigueur in each and every one of these films, even though she did not understand the dialogue.

Since I wanted to spend time with my beloved mother and had nothing planned during my summer vacation from Daltonbury Hall, I tagged along to these escapist fluffs to keep her company. This was my way to revive our solicitous mother-son relationship before I returned to England for another year.

In 1968, our entourage met Manmohan Desai, the father of the Masala film, a piece of Indian cinema that freely mixes action, comedy, romance, and drama into one work. This genre is named after the masala, a mixture of spices in Indian cuisine. He iterated to Count Mario, and to us, in 1968: “I want people to forget their misery. I want to take them into a dream world where there is no poverty, where there are no beggars, where fate is kind and god is busy looking after his flock.” He added, “In many cases, sheer star power accounts for a film’s success rather than plot, character development and dramatic tension.”

Therefore, it came as no surprise when Count Mario informed us that we would visit the Natraj film Studios while in Bombay.

Natraj Studios

Esquire Snow and Mr. Romesh Thapar had organized the Count’s visit with an accomplished film director and screenwriter, Kamal Amrohi. In 1968, the Kamal Amrohi Studios, also known as the Kamalistan Studios, had become the Natraj Studios. This massive property located in Jogeshwari East, off Jogeshwari – Vikhroli Link Road, spread over 15 acres.

I learned then that unlike Hollywood, Bollywood does not exist as a physical place, and some deplored the name, arguing that it made the Indian film industry look like a poor cousin of Hollywood. Yet, the name stuck, and “Bollywood” has its own entry in the Oxford English Dictionary as the sobriquet for Hindi cinema. Though it is often used incorrectly as synecdoche to refer to the whole of Indian cinema, in reality, it is only a part of the large Indian film industry – a large part, which remains a sizable centre for film production in the world.

During our tour to Natraj Studios, I was transfixed by the number of costume changes the actresses went through. Although many were variations of the sari, they did come in a blazon of vivid colours. Like those from Miram’s haute couture boutique and “Lakshmi’s Abode,” these garments were ornately embellished. Lining the racks of the costume department were brocade taffetas in gold, silver, emerald, ruby, sapphire, topaz, and every conceivable shades under the sun.

An abundance of sewers, seamstresses, beaders and embroiderers were busy working on various projects. The only difference between Lakshmi’s factory and this costume workshop was the attitude of its workers.

In this establishment, males and females sang and tapped their feet to the rhythmic Indian melodies played on the radio. They reminded me of Walt Disney’s movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, in which the dwarfs sang while they worked. These artisans were obviously enjoying their craft. Their infectious radiance had a way of creeping into visitors like us, and soon, Narnia and I were swaying our hips to the mellifluous music.

When a couple of dancers in the midst of their costume fittings saw us undulating, they pranced around our entourage, encouraging us to follow. Fascinated, Narnia and I imitated their moves. Not letting go of such an unanticipated spontaneity, the photographers - Mario and Aziz clicked away as Coraline, Zac, Narnia and I gyrated in synchronicity with these professionals. Although Narnia and I encountered no problem during a particular head isolation move, a trait of traditional Indian dance, Coraline and Zac had difficulty mimicking it. To show Zac how to do it, the handsome dancer guided my chaperone to a nearby mirror to demonstrate. So did the beautiful female to Coraline.

Jamal and Lihaar

By the end of our impromptu performance, we had made friends with the troupe, especially the two principals, Jamal and Lihaar. They had taken a liking to us.

When we arrived at the studio where the film crew was shooting an invigorating dance segment, Jamal was busy directing and cueing the dancers through their respective routines. We had no idea that Jamal was one of Bollywood’s successful dancers and choreographers of his day. He had several Hindi films under his belt and was now the chief choreographer for a couple of shows the studio was filming.

This exuberant youth had attracted Count Mario Conti while Aziz was busy having eyes for the talented Lihaar. Not only were they magnificent dancers, they were also Bollywood’s most romantic screen actors – it didn’t take long for us to discover that Jamal and Lihaar were the reigning golden couple in Hindi moviedom, the Indian equivalent of Hollywood’s Doris Day and Rock Hudson.

Off screen and away from public scrutiny, their secret lives, known only to their inner circles, portrayed a different story. Like Ms. Day and Mr. Hudson, Lihaar and Jamal’s implied public personas were a front for their homosexual activities. Since the Indian film censor board did not permit on-screen kissing or love-making, the golden couple’s relationship was wholly platonic. They had been friends since age twelve.

Jamal’s father, an accomplished cricketer, was also the titular Nawab of a Princely State in Northern India. As a result, the actor-dancer acquired the nickname ‘Prince Jamal’ from his bosom buddies.

Lihaar’s heritage was equally impressive. She was the fourth child of a successful British-educated Punjabi neurosurgeon. Though her well-connected family did not take kindly to her wanting to be a dancer-actress, since it conflicted with the traditional maternal duties and responsibilities of women, her willpower to come into her own propelled her to stardom.

The duo, after watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in Flying Down to Rio, got hooked on dancing. Before long, they were regular participants in national dance competitions, winning trophies up and down the Ganges.

Versed in Indian classical dances and western style disco craze, they both soon became Bollywood’s hot property, since the majority of masala films have an average of four to six dance sequences per movie. From the late sixties to the mid-seventies, Jamal and Lihaar’s choreographies were as much in demand as their performances.

Mario and Aziz had invited both principals for dinner with our entourage by the end of our studio tour, plus an evening of club hopping.

Satyajit Ray

In the grand scheme of things, our visit to the Natraj Studios was an auxiliary exercise. Mario had gotten wind from Esquire Snow that the renowned Indian cinematographer, Satyajit Ray of The Apu Trilogy, had written a script called The Alien, and Columbia Pictures was interested. However, the collaboration was cancelled due to Hollywood’s multi-leveled bureaucracies. Now, our photographer wanted to be acquainted with Satyajit to see if he was a possible contender for his upcoming movie collaboration with Mr. Romesh Thapar.

Although our meeting went well, Mr. Ray had reservations about the Count’s motives, due largely to his discourse with Columbia Pictures. Even though the project was presented as an alliance between the Arabs, the Italians, the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA), and last but not least, the India Tourism Development Corporation (ITDC), the Indian cinematographer was cynical about working with another western enterprise.

When Steven Spielberg debuted E.T. in 1982, it was widely believed that the blockbuster had been inspired by Satyajit Ray’s The Alien.

End of December 2012

My Message to Andy

Hello Loverboy,

I’m glad you made peace with your dad before he passed. In regards to my relationship with Mr. S. S. Foong, I never got to know the man I called father. As you were aware, my summer vacations in Kuala Lumpur were more a drudgery than a holiday. The fundamental reason I returned home was to spend time with my mother and female relatives. As had been the status quo, my old man would devise this or that regimen to try to butch me up. In the summer of 1970, he enrolled me at the Outward Bound School of Singapore (OBSS).

At OBSS

An unexpected occurrence did come of this escapade, even though I didn’t care for the program. Andy, you may or may not be aware that Outward Bound teaches interpersonal and leadership skills, not to mention wilderness survival. The first two skillsets were not unlike our education at the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society (E.R.O.S.) or the Dale Carnegie course in which I had participated before leaving Malaya for school in England.

It was the wilderness survival program I abhorred. Since I wasn’t rugged by nature (and remain that way to this day), this arduous experience was made worse by your absence.

In 1970, OBSS was under the management of Singapore Ministry of Defence, and used primarily as a facility to prepare young men for compulsory ’National Service,’ commonly known as NS. All young and able 18+ Singaporean male citizens and second-generation permanent residents had to register for National Service compulsorily. They would serve either a two-year or twenty-two-month period as Full Time National Servicemen after completing the Outward Bound course. Pending on their individual physical and medical fitness, these young men would enter the Singapore Armed Forces (SAF), Singapore Police Force (SPF), or the Singapore Civil Defense Force (SCDF).

Father, through his extensive contacts, enrolled me into the twenty-one-day Outward Bound summer course. There were twenty boys in my class. We were divided into small units under the guidance of an instructor.

During the first few days at the base camp, we trained for outdoor recreation activities such as adventure racing, backpacking, cycling, camping, canoeing, canyoning, fishing, hiking, kayaking, mountaineering, horseback riding, photography, rock climbing, running, sailing, skiing, swimming, and a variety of sporting activities.

I hated all of these pursuits, except photography and horseback riding, and little did the organizers know, I was already versed in a variety of social and leadership skills. After these confidence-building challenges, the various units headed off on separate expeditions. As the individual group developed the capacity to face challenges, the instructor would ask his allotted unit to make its own decisions.

I was teamed with a group of five older boys between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Our Portuguese-French instructor was a twenty-three-year-old named Jules – the moment I’d set eyes on him, I was enthralled by his handsome ruggedness, and I had made it a point to join his team no matter what it took.

Meanwhile, my “gaydar” also detected a half-Chinese and part Hispanic-American teammate called Kim. He, too, was checking out our instructor, and me. I befriended Kim and roomed with him on camping trips. Singapore, being a conservative society, did not condone homosexuality, let alone at this super ‘macho’ outpost.

During a swimming sojourn, I decided to pretend to drown to get the instructor to come to my rescue. Sure enough, when I feigned suffocation in the ocean, Jules headed my direction. While swimming to pull me ashore, I reached to brush his groin, as if by accident. I did this several times and felt his growing penis with every touch. By the time he’d pulled me aground, he had sprouted a full erection behind his speedo. When he gave me the kiss of life, I jabbed my tongue into his mouth. Taken aback, he withdrew contact before resuming the revitalization process. This time, he lingered when his mouth was on mine.

He played it cool, since our patrol was watching the entire incident. He ordered my teammates back to their respective duties when he carried me to the tent I shared with Kim.

Although he knew I was capering with him, no words were exchanged throughout the entire process; neither did he make any attestation that he was aroused by what had transpired.

Before leaving the tent, he uttered, “I’ll check in later to make sure you are okay…”

He trailed off when Kim entered.

My dearest ex, I’m sure you are intrigued to hear the rest of my story. You will… eventually. LOL!

For now, I bid you adios, because my significant other is calling me to dinner. ☺

Love and hugs.

Your loving ex,

Young

XOXOXO

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Exotic Erotic Delights

“I think I could fall madly in bed with you.”

Count Mario Conti

1968

Britannia & Co

The evening before we left Bombay for the Sheikhdom of Sharjah, Mario and our Arabian hosts invited us and the Golden Couple of Hindi moviedom for dinner at a Parsi café, the Britannia & Co.

“This family-style Zoroastrian restaurant is the best and the oldest in my city,” said Jamal.

“There are around 500 Parsi restaurants in south Bombay, and Britannia is our favourite hangout. The food is delicious,” Lihaar finished.

I questioned, “What is Zoroastrian?”

“Cutie,” the actress grinned, “Zoroastrianism is the world’s oldest religion. The believers reckon that the purpose in life is to ‘be among those who renew the world...to make the world progress towards perfection.’”

Dubois added, “Its basic maxims are:

●     Humata, Hukhta, Huvarshta: Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds.

●     There is only one path and that is the path of Truth.

●     Do the right thing because it is the right thing to do, and all beneficial rewards will return to you.”

“Are both of you Zoroastrian?” I asked the Golden Couple.

Jamal responded, “Although I do live by similar principles to those Alain mentioned, you don’t have to be a Zoroastrian to eat here.”

Our group laughed when I raised my hand to ask another question. But Narnia and Albert gave me facetious glances, as if implying – here he goes again, the teacher’s pet.

I resumed, “What is Parsi?”

Sheik Fabrib remarked, “Young, Parsi is one of two Zoroastrian communities in India.”

“What’s the other?” I questioned.

“The Iranians,” came the reply.

“How did they come to be in India?” I asked.

“During the time of the Muslim Conquest of Persia, Zoroastrianism was the main religion in the region. Throughout the ‘Two Centuries of Silence’, the 200-year period when the Iranians rebelled against the Arab invaders; many Iranians who are now Parsis took refuge in India,” P verified.

My questioning came to a halt when we dug in to an appetizing meal of sali boti (mutton gravy with crispy fries), dhansak (chicken or mutton in a lentil gravy) and last but not least, Patra ni Macchi (steamed fish in banana leaf).

Digestif

As I sat having my after dinner digestif at the Taj, Dubois counselled, “Young, since you are interested in Zoroastrianism and the Parsi’s history, we’ll have a lesson on this subject at our next tutorial.”

As if I’d opened a can of worms, Albert and Narnia sneered at me when our teacher wasn’t looking. It was obvious the two didn’t care to sit through these tutorials about what I considered interesting topics.

Albert was all ears to the Count’s and Jamal’s flirtatious innuendoes, while Narnia was intrigued by the coquettish tittle-tattle of Aziz, Jabril, Coraline and Lihaar. My friends were obviously riveted by the possibility of an orgiastically charged evening. The prince, the sheik, Alain, Andy, Zac and I were left talking among ourselves.

Since the two aristocrats’ arrival in India, they had spent a large part of time together, especially in the evenings. Though they bid us goodnight separately, my professor, Valet and I knew they would be catching up on lost time in each other’s company when no one was watching, emerging independently from their respective chambers for their scheduled meetings the following mornings.

That evening was no exception to the rule, since it was their final evening together before P returned to Paris and Fahrib’s family visit to Sharjah – a junket he didn’t particularly care for.

When the three females trooped off to the powder room, Aziz adjured, “Young, be at my chamber in an hour with your chaperone. I’d like you to do something for me.”

“What do you wish me to do?” I asked.

“Come into my room an hour after the ladies and I bid our farewells. I’d like you and Andy to take some pictures for me. I’ll have my camera ready.” The Arab gave me an iniquitous wink before he added, “You know what I mean?”

“I’ll be there with this fella,” Andy answered. “We’ll capture some ‘engaging’ shots for you, sir.”

A few moments later, when I appeared from the washroom, Zac was waiting with a pronouncement, “Young, the Count wants you in his chamber in an hour.”

“But, I already promised Aziz to do his bidding. I can’t be in two places at the same time,” I exclaimed, bewildered.

“I’ll tell the Count you’ll be there as soon as you are available.”

“What does he want me for?” I questioned.

The BB whispered, “He wants you to be his cameraman.”

“Holy moly! Can’t you be the cameraman on my behalf?” I twittered.

“I’m not his apprentice; you are. I guess he prefers your artistic input.”

“I don’t know how long Aziz wants me to be with him. I can’t leave halfway through his shoot.”

By the time Andy, Zac and I had finished our private deliberation, both chaperones agreed that I could be perceived to be in two places at the same time.

The Sultan Suite

Since Aziz had given us permission to access, Andy and I entered the Sultan Suite without knocking. As we drew closer to the bedchamber, whiffs of sensual sexuality wafted to my nose. Intertwined bodies in throes of passionate foreplay greeted my guardian and me within the candlelit room. The Arab photographer and the Levantine historian, encircled by three semi-naked women, were in stages of amorous dispositions. The women rotated their oral stimulations in synchronicity on their throbbing prized possessions.

We were stirred to involuntary hardness by this sexual decadence. The men’s glistening stiffness had blossomed into shades of irresistible rosiness. When Andy detected my urge to partake in this arousing feast, he held me back, instead guiding me to the pre-set camera on the table.

The camera took on a life of its own when I clicked at every ravishing angle my eyes beheld. While this erotica unfolded before me, images of my first photo-shoot with the Count at the “Countess Cornaro” flashed through my mind. In the most beguiling way, this fashion maverick had captured his models by contorting this way and that, as I did now. He once said, “Electrifying images of remarkable flair are the ultimate valour of true artistry.”

I found myself emulating the Count’s gander as I rotated around the candlelit boudoir for details. With professional precision, I had become my master’s apprentice.

My involuntary erection refused to subside as the amatory panorama played out enticingly, luring me to partake in its debaucherous web of carnal indulgence. In heated passion, the females yearned to receive the men’s bulbaceous virility as their fiery flames burned incessantly with each passing moment.

I was absorbed by my task at hand when Andy indicated that the time had arrived to hand over my assignment to him. My next venture would be to the Maharajah chamber, to capture the Count’s erotic quest.

The Maharajah Chamber

I snuck unnoticed into the adjacent room, where another orgiastic indulgence was in full swing. It was Zac who guided me into the dimly lit chamber and handed me a loaded camera.

“Go and have a ball,” my big-brother whispered sardonically. “Hey, don’t forget, you are the sorcerer’s apprentice, and your master wizard expects superb pictures from you.”

Giving my BB an uncanny smile, I uttered, “I don’t know if I can live up to such a task.”

On the King were two sinewy males actively servicing the strapping Italian. The strikingly handsome dancer was straddling the hairy photographer, his drumming hardness coddled inside the machismo’s mouth as Mario relished the protrusion with feverous gusto, wetting the throbbing length with salivary potency.

Behind Jamal, Albert was suckling the Italian’s bulging protuberance and lapping at the plumpness below. The dancer’s seductive buttocks plummeted rhythmically as he fed his stiffness into the Count’s oral hollow.

This homoeroticism had inflamed my libido. Transfixed on their erotic prowess, my palpitating puissance throbbed unceasingly within my trousers. I craved to partake in their uninhibited proclivities and be free of the constraints of my apparel.

Zac was the one who nudged me back to my photographic sorcery. I clicked away from left to right and from above to below, capturing the fiery intensity that prevailed throughout the course of my arousing mission.

When Jamal’s pulsating organ eased conspicuously down Albert’s throat and Mario’s hardness came close to impaling the boy’s silky bottom, Zac initiated my return to the Sultan Suite.

I left the Maharajah reluctantly, hoping upon my return to engage in this irrepressible propensity and to share in this turpitudinous folly that had so stirred me.

In the Sultan Suite

Andy was eagerly awaiting my reappearance. He had nailed as many engaging pictures as he could, and he had done superbly – but I didn’t know that yet.

When I regained position, Lihaar had straddled Aziz’s firmness, and Jabril’s thickness was gyrating within her derriere. The men rocked into her in rhythmic synchronicity while moans of zealous fervencies rose in crescendo from the singer’s throat.

Coraline seized the opportunity and plunged her tilting pelvis onto the actress’s face. As if executing a perfect dance the Indian twirled her lecherous tongue into the big sister’s blossoming crevice. Afraid the dark-haired female would evade her pleasure vault, Coraline’s tenacious hands gripped her tightly.

Aziz drove his slithering tongue into Narnia’s wetness, teasing her nether region to groans of rapturous ecstasy. His probing fingers buried deep in her rousing bottom, driving her to bouts of climactic liberations. She shuttered unquenchably to each heaving motion of intimate deliverance. Waves of euphoric ecstasies filled her girlishness. She delivered her youthful exuberance again and again until her heaving breasts laid heavy against the Arab’s muscular chest.

After all, I had been taught by great masters of the day – and I was the sorcerer’s apprentice. Therefore, no encouragements were required for me to capture affectionate kisses and private embraces from every bewitching angle. But my task was by no means over. Exotic shots of erotic discharges arrived in the shapely form of Ms. Lihaar riding both phalluses with abandon.

Like her little sister Narnia, Coraline had delivered curls of billowing euphoria onto the actress’s face, coating the flawless beauty with dribbling wetness before lapping at her deliverance with sensual jubilations.

The men could no longer withhold their deposits. Sprays of masculinity filled the actress as she milked their pounding manliness to blissful nirvana.

Together, my chaperone and I had garnered superlative shots for our patron when we left the Sultan cavern quietly, returning to the Maharajah in pursuit of a saturnalia of unbridled revelry.

Within The Maharajah

Andy, Zac, and I could no longer stifle our manhood to ignore participation within the confines of this erotic boudoir.

I clambered naked onto the King, to receive the men who, thus far, had tantalized my libido to heightened states of satyriasis.

Albert and I shared the Count’s jouncing obelisk with unrestrained fervour as we took turns devouring this prized delicacy as if it were our last supper. At the boy’s rear, the actor plundered my friend’s tenderness with the athletic virtuosity that only seasoned dancers possess.

Zac’s insertion filled my being in a single stroke. I received his manhood with whimpering moans as our lips met in fervent kisses. His seductive succulence twirled into my receiving hollow as his amatory masculinity dominated my core with absolution.

Andy beckoned his charge to straddle his throbbing column when he laid next to the Italian. Albert did as was told, leaving the Indian free to explore other uncharted enclaves. Straddling his guardian, the boy bounced jubilantly on his big brother’s curved pillar before Mario replenished his virility into the adolescent’s yearning recess. It was sweetened by my memories of my first double entendre with the Count and my Valet at Casa Rossa not so long ago.

Jamal’s rhapsodic entry caused me to shudder at the gliding length alongside Zac. Sporadic tears of agony and ecstasy overcame my person as I welcomed the onslaught of my very own double entrée. This eclectic liberality elevated my soul to waves of undulated bliss. The engorgements had suffused me into an emotional provenance.

No longer able to withhold this rapturous enchantment, I spewed my potency onto Zac, coating his sinewy torso with creamy fluidity. Their rhythmic gyrations within the tightness of my being enthralled their synchronized ejaculations, filling my core to overflowing capacity, just as our partnering group had contemporized their climaxes in consummated harmony.

As we savoured the afterglow of an evening of exotic erotic delights, our bodies remained entwined until slumber overshadowed our exhaustion. Only then did we return to our tranquil chambers before tomorrow’s adventure to the city of Sharjah.

PART FOUR

United Arab Emirates – Sharjah

Singapore – Singapore City

Sultanate of Oman - Musandam Dibba Al Hisn

Chapter Forty

Forbidden Fruits

“The more things are forbidden, the more popular they become.“

Mark Twain

Christmas Eve 2012

Continuation of my Message to Andy (part one)

Hi Loverboy,

I wish you a very Merry Yuletide, and I hope 2012 had been good to you. I’m back to tantalize you with my 1970 experience at OBSS. LOL!

Without further ado, this is how I remember the unfolding events.

Curious Kim was eager to find out what had transpired after Jules left our tent. I was pretty sure my tent-mate was gay. He, like me, had the hots for our handsome instructor.

Though I revised the story to that of Jules sticking his tongue into my mouth during my resuscitation process rather than the other way round, Kim found my narration titillating. He pressed me to tell him what it was like to kiss Jules.

I queried, “Why don’t you make a move on him to find out?”

He was shocked by my suggestion and exclaimed, “I would never do such a thing!”

“Why not?”

“Because… because I’m not that way inclined,” he said.

Although I did not press him to admit his homosexual tendencies, I asked, “Are you afraid of getting caught?”

He was taken aback by my boldness. He went silent before commiserating, “No one is a homosexual in Singapore, let alone at the Outward Bound School.”

I burst out in laughter. “Are you kidding me? What planet do you come from?”

The Eurasian added, “It’s illegal to be a homosexual in this country.”

I challenged, “Just because the government ruled against homosexuality doesn’t mean gay people don’t exist.”

He looked around conspicuously before he countered, “If you say these kinds of things, you’ll be expelled.”

“Are you telling me you don’t fancy our instructor?” I pressed.

As if I had cornered him, he stammered, “I… er… like him. He’s my teacher. Of course I like him.”

“You don’t get aroused when he’s close to you?” I exerted.

Caught off guard by my question, he looked confused. He did his best to look composed.

“I’m not Singaporean,” I stated. “If they expel me, I’ll return to England where I can be who I am.”

My line of reasoning seemed to relieve his anxiety somewhat. “Will you promise to keep a secret if I confide in you?” he muttered.

“Off course, mate. You can tell me anything. Anything at all. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

I made the sign of a cross with my hand to show my sincerity.

Kim whispered, “Some years ago, my American uncle came to Singapore to visit us. We shared the same room.”

He continued, “When he slept in his underwear next to me, I was enthralled by his butchness. I turned on my side in an attempt to hide my arousal. In the wee hours of the night, he would sprout an erection.

“I was afraid and confused, yet extremely excited. I masturbated quietly, while desiring to touch the hardness that had peeked out from his brief. I couldn’t fall asleep until I jerked off.

“One night while wanking, his hand moved up my thigh. Before long, he was jerking my dick. I reciprocated.

“In the morning, there was no mention of what transpired. But we would play by night and pretend nothing unusual had happened by day.”

I twittered, “Did anything develop from the liaisons?”

“No. We never exchanged words about it. It was purely to get our rocks off. But…” he went silent.

“But? Carry on,” I encouraged.

“It was difficult. I cried and missed him terribly after he returned to the States.”

“Did he write to you?”

He said remorsefully, “He wrote me a generic letter but mentioned nothing about our encounters.”

“Do you still miss him?” I asked.

The boy sobbed quietly before replying. “I haven’t told anyone about this until now.”

Putting my arm around him, I enquired, “Would you like to have a fling with Jules?”

“I can’t. It’s not allowed.” My tent-mate turned away uneasily.

“Not allowed by whom?” I questioned.

“By the authorities.”

“The only authority that’s stopping you is you. Are all Singaporeans afraid of authority?”

He hadn’t expected me to ask such an unorthodox question. “You don’t know who is listening or watching your every move,” he shushed.

“Where I come from, we speak our minds.”

“You are one of the lucky ones to go to school in England. I wish I could go to an American school.”

He paused before resuming, “My parents are very strict. That’s why I’m here at OBSS.”

I injected, “You don’t want to be here?”

He shook his head timidly.

“Neither do I. Let’s do something roguish and get expelled together,” I joked.

The lad exclaimed, thinking my deliberation serious. “Good god, No! My parents will be furious. They’ll lose face and be devastated if I misbehave.”

“Are you going to be forever under your parents’ control?” I voiced. “You are here to learn to take responsibility for yourself. Now is the perfect time to come into your own,” I championed. “Do something you truly desire, not what others want you to do.”

The lad did not know how to respond to my suggestion. Neither did he contradict me.

When Jules entreated me privately for an after-dinner stroll that evening, little did I imagine what would happen.

1968

Sharjah

Sharjah is the third-largest of the seven Emirates that joined the UAE on December 2nd, 1971. During the mid-nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this tranquil port owned a major pearl-fishing industry. That was until the discovery of the Mubarak oilfield in 1971. This Emirate, along with Sheik Fahrib’s family fortune, changed forever.

In 1968, when the Ship arrived at Sharjah Airport, the airfield was located two miles across the desert from the city center. All provisions for air travelers, including the in-flight catering and water services were brought by donkeys from nearby settlements. Traders arrived from towns by camel to do business with foreigners.

Sharjah was then a Trucial and a Salute State. It was also a regional base for the British Royal Airforce, under British protection and run by The Trucial Oman Scouts (a paramilitary force raised by the British as the Trucial Oman Levies, to serve in the Trucial States). The Levies were later renamed the Trucial Oman Scouts.

Our landing strip was used mainly by Imperial Airways flights en route from England to India, until British presence officially ended in 1971 with Sharjah’s independence.

Though I knew my patriarch was of royal descent, I had thought him a cousin to Sharjah’s ruling family, the Al Qaawasim family. Little did I realize that the highly educated Dr. Sheik Fahrib was a sibling of the reigning monarch. He had barely spoken about his royal heritage before our arrival to his hometown.

The sheik was the first to descend from our plane. A troop of uniformed men and several gun salutes greeted him.

Among all those I met during my time with my various household patriarchs, Sheik Fahrib was by far the most august and the most unassuming aristocrat.

Before long, we were ushered into a couple of luxury sedans speeding towards the sheik’s royal residence.

Within the Rolls Royce

Monsieur Alain Dubois had left with Prince P to Paris, and I was missing my professor’s presence. Not paying attention to our group’s chitter-chatter, I stared out at the desert-scape. Soon, my mind drifted to speculations of what my new tutor, Victor Angel Triqueros would be like – before Zac uttered the word ‘homosexuality’.

My chaperone had vociferated, “Do you know that homosexuality is an offense in Sharjah?”

“We were taught that at the Bahriji,” came Andy’s response.

Coraline chimed, “We know that adultery and fornication in this country are punishable by lashes and death. Therefore, we have to be secretive about what we do in private.”

“Aren’t these ‘crimes’ committed by the same people who created these laws?” Narnia remarked.

Zac riposted instantaneously, “These rules and regulations are created by the Brits and the Islamic clerics to control the masses, and to bring fear to the people they govern.”

Andy declared, “We also know that the rich and the elite live double lives. Most of them say one thing but live by another. They can do whatever they like, as long as it’s hidden behind closed doors.”

Albert opined, “Can they commit murder and get away with it?”

As if the lad had opened a can of worms, our discussion came to an abrupt silence. Finally, Andy put an end to that question, “Well, boy, I don’t think we’ll go there.”

The Man Who Would be King

Suddenly, a thought flashed through my mind. “Will Sheik Fahrib be the future ruler of this Sheikdom?” I questioned.

All eyes were fixed on me before Andy muttered, “Maybe, maybe not.”

I resumed, “If his brother is the current ruler, wouldn’t Fahrib be next in line to the throne?”

Zac pronounced, “That is, if the current ruler dies or abdicates, then it is likely that Fahrib will be next in line. Young, politics is dirty and complicated. Nobody can predict what the future holds. You’ll have to wait to see how things play out.”

How did things play out?

This was how things played out four and half years later, after our party had left the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society and our various Arabian households.

In 1965, the ruler of Sharjah, Sheik Saqr, was deposed. Speculation circled that this dethronement was a British connivance, since they were seeking an exit strategy from the gulf. The British had tried to encourage a federation of the Sheikhdoms that could survive after they left. The man most likely to take the lead in this federation was Sheikh Raschid of Dubai.

The problem: Sharjah and Dubai had been in dispute for centuries. Therefore it was highly unlikely that Sheikh Saqr and his followers would accept the dominance of a Dubai ruler. This conjecture was what led up to the decision that Saqr had to go.

Sheikh Khalid III, a young modernist and an older sibling of Dr. Fahrib, was appointed as the new ruler of Sharjah. Khalid III was a stalwart friend of Sheikh Raschid of Dubai, who seemed to be his mentor.

Although Sheikh Saqr was banished into exile to Cairo, he was by no means finished. No one knew he had returned to Sharjah six years later to make an unexpected comeback. When a group of armed men led by Saqr fought their way into Sharjah Palace and assassinated Khalid III, the British were taken by surprise.

Sheikh Saqr regained rule, but it didn’t last. The ruler of Dubai, together with British troops from Oman, once again forced Saqr into exile. This time around, a new ruler of Sharjah was proclaimed. He was the brother of the assassinated Sheikh Khalid III – you guessed it; it was none other than the one and only learned Doctor of Science, Philosophy and a string of other Honorary Doctorates.

Throughout his rule, this princely philanthropist had done much to improve the lives of its denizens – and in 2015, Sharjah was hailed by UNESCO as the ‘Cultural Capital of the Arab World’.

Yet, forbidden thoroughfares are slow to change, if they change at all, since they offer charms that are unspeakably desirable. I recall what the seventh-century clergyman Ali ibn Abi Talib so rightly wrote:

“Do not share the knowledge with which you have been blessed with everyone in general, as you do with some people in particular; and know that there are some men in whom Allah, may He be glorified, has placed hidden secrets, which they are forbidden to reveal.“

Chapter Forty-One

Assalamu Alaikum

“Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational.“

Hugh Mackay

1968

Assalamu Alaikum (Peace Be Upon You)

Like many palatial residences within Arab nations, Assalamu Alaikum was an expansive compound, surrounded by high walls guarded by security personnel twenty-four seven, like a contemporary fortress. Some may consider these grand mansions private playgrounds for the rich and elite, while others view them as opulent prisons – protection against the general populace that may rise against their dictatorial monarchy.

Several princely buildings were attractively positioned so that the royal household could enjoy panoramic views of the Persian Gulf. It was in this milieu that the learned Dr Fahrib and his siblings grew up.

As teenagers, Prince P, his bosom pal, encouraged the young sheik to explore the larger world. Like most privileged children of royal descent, Sheik Abdul Mutmud bin Fahrib attended exclusive schools before obtaining his doctorate at a foreign university.

This humanitarian patriarch made a vow that he would help better the lives of the less fortunate both in his country and abroad. Like Prince P, he had difficulty coming to grips with a couple of his nephews, who, like Hamad (P’s brother), were spoiled and uncontrollable.

Although our arrival at Assalamu Alaikum brought much jubilation the first few days, our presence soon morphed to apprehension. Though the sheik’s wives were pleased to see their husband after a long absence, the patriarch felt otherwise. The veiled womenfolk greeted us, especially the two foreign females, Narnia and Coraline, with disquietude.

Even though their shrouded expressions were difficult to discern, when the males were introduced to the sizable household, the women’s body language radiated blithe excitement.

As in the Quwah, the dynamic complexities within this royal household were a minefield for us students to trudge through with sagacity and perspicacity. It would be easy to get on the wrong footing with any of its members.

Most of the time, we were treated with complaisance, but when backs were turned, gossip abounded, especially among the idle womenfolk and scandalmongering servants. Except for my private tutor Señor Victor Angel Triqueros, who, like Dubois, spoke fluent Arabic, none of us students understood their native tongue.

Señor Victor Angel Triqueros

Our newly appointed professor was already waiting for us at the mansion when we arrived. This elegantly attired and good-looking savant was a man of philosophy, a soon-to-be specialist in human behavioural psychology. He came highly recommended by Dr Henderson and was a friend and ex-classmate of Monsieur Dubois. While effectuating his Master of Science degree, Triqueros had been hired by the sheik, both as an apprentice to his practice and as a private tutor to the royal household.

The Sheik was delighted to have a subordinate with whom he could discuss psychological intellectualism that neither chaperones nor students understood.

Although Victor was charming and personable, he also maintained a certain garder la distance between us, as students. Though I could discuss any topic with the Señor, unlike the spontaneous Dubois, he took time to ponder my questions before providing definitive responses. I found this trait endearing but did not mention it to anyone.

When I was in his company, his commanding voice and authoritative presence engendered thrilling anticipation. It was eventually made known to me that the psychological prodigy was quelling to gain approval from an imperious father, a classic case of “Prodigy of Narcissistic Injury” – more potently chronicled by none other than the Spaniard during one of our private tutorials.

The Señor explained, “The prodigy – the precocious ‘genius’ – feels entitled to special treatment. Yet, he rarely gets it. This frustrates him and renders him even more aggressively driven and overachieving than he is by nature.

“This child prodigy is dehumanised and instrumentalized. His parents or one of his parents love him not for what he really is – but for what the father or the mother or both wish and imagine him to be: the fulfilment of their dreams and frustrated wishes. The child becomes the vessel of his parents’ discontented lives: a tool, a magic brush with which they can transform their failures into successes, their humiliation into victory, and their frustrations into happiness.”

My Valet, on the other hand, found my teacher haughty. Andy, being Andy, commented not on his empathy but gave my professor the benefit of the doubt nevertheless. When I asked my chaperone his thoughts of the Señor, his reply was, “The truth will ultimately reveal what the naked eyes fail to unravel.” Then, he left me to ponder that answer.

Meanwhile, birds of a feather flock together; Zac took to Victor like fish to water. My big brother was enamored by the Señor’s style, poise and controlled deportment. Since my BB spoke fluent Spanish, they communicated in Castilian when in each other’s company. They would chatter away like old chums when no one was paying attention. Pragmatism would return instantaneously when a household member approached.

One day, I asked my guardian the reason behind that concerted effort to switch from lighthearted joviality to pensive sobriety.

Zac vented, “Boy oh boy, tongues may wag when backs are turned.”

“How can tongues wag when the two of you speak a language no one understands?” I countered.

“It is better to be cautious than bemoan one’s action at a later date.”

I remarked, “How can anyone live freely when they have to watch their backs constantly?”

“Young man, it’s a part of your E.R.O.S. discipline to practice discretion,” he said jestingly, though his remark did contain an element of truth.

Narnia’s rapport with him was cordial in their early encounters, but this willful female would soon come to challenge her professor’s tutelage, even though his noble concerns were for her own good. This young lady was at the age where rebelliousness was to her the hallmark of individuality. Coraline had to intervene on several occasions to defuse mounting eruptions between student and educator. Quite often their incompatibility extended beyond the walls of the classroom.

Our vocation in Sharjah was indeed a trying time, not only for Narnia but also for our host. Known to only a few, the sheik was suffering from a severe case of saudade. No longer in his homeland, he was missing the Bharani prince. His desire to return to Europe only made his temporal stay less than attractive when his recalcitrant nephews took to heavy drug abuse and rape.

On the surface, Albert and I showed no signs of any emotional meltdowns. Andy, my Valet once again, certainly helped me through those arduous weeks, not to mention the welcomed diversions that came my way via Shahria and Roya, Fahrib’s senior and junior wives, who solicited me for fashion advice.

Zac was better suited to Albert than to me. Neither Zac nor I were in love with one another, although we had spent intimate moments together. We were but teammates in a game, playing the field while the game lasted. As soon as the game was over and the referee blew the whistle to quit, we resumed our respective roles as guardian and charge.

With Andy, our relationship extended beyond the call of duty. We were soulmates destined to be together, like the doctor and the prince. Neither my Valet nor I envisioned our fate coming to a devastating halt two years later.

Christmas Day 2012

Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 2)

After the evening’s ‘Kumbayah’ singalong at the OBSS camp, we had some alone time before returning to our respective tents for a good night’s sleep, fresh and ready for the following day’s Outward Bound events.

Just as I was ready to garner some quality time to myself, Jules asked, “How are you feeling, Young?”

“I’m good sir, and you?” I answered.

“Care for a stroll with me?”

“Sure. I was about to find a quiet spot to contemplate,” I said.

“What are you contemplating?”

“Oh. This, that and the other,” I remarked nonchalantly.

“Is something bothering you?” he pressed.

I looked at him for a brief second. “Maybe there’s something that’s bothering you?” I countered.

He went silent, thinking of an appropriate parry.

“Err, err… there is nothing bothering me. I’m concerned about your recovery… from the swimming incident.”

“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

Silence followed, before the instructor muttered, “Shall we walk? I’d like to get to know you better.”

We headed away from the camp, but remained silent. When out of earshot, Jules began, “You are different from the other boys at the camp.”

“How so?”

“You are mature beyond your age,” he opined. “Most of the boys who come to OBSS lack social and human relationship skills. But you… you seem to know a lot more than meets the eye.”

The Caucasian was inveigling me to confide in him.

“I learned the art of social conversation and human relationships at my English boarding school.”

“It must be an excellent school,” he declared.

“It sure is. I learned a lot of invaluable skills, not taught in regular classes,” I commented sportively.

Jules pressed, “What exactly did they teach you?”

“Oh, I’d rather show than tell,” I teased. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”

I moved closer to him. He did not back away, but stood entranced in the dark. I pulled him towards me. I heard his palpitating heart booming through the quiet night. Yet, I encountered no resistance. As I reached to unzip his jeans, his sinewy body trembled. His awkwardness was a sign of inexperience in the gutsy game of seduction, and I was eager to entice this callow Caucasian into my web of sensual delight.

Flashes of my Bahriji schooling rushed through my mind as my lips caressed the tautness of his comely mouth, teasing him open with my slithering tongue. Heartened by my gutsiness, his tension slowly melted to flames of sizzling arousal. I grabbed his wrist and led us deeper into the darken forest. Pinning him against a towering tree our twirling tongues coalesced wantonly. Our pent-up desires burst forth like torrid infernos, consuming our sanity to debaucherous lunacy. We tore at each other’s clothes, athirst to ravage our lusty lubriciousness within the stillness of this stifling forest. Fervent tongues caressed with yearning intimacy over, around and atop every desirous crevice of our fiery souls.

Our pulsating hardness drummed in capricious potency, demanding satisfaction within our forbidden orifices, where only sacred mystics dared to venture. Throwing caution to the wind, I suckled at his bulging protuberance. Beguiled by my prowess, he jabbed his bulbous rosiness down my craving throat while my pleasuring hand evoked a rhythmic carnality that had wooed mankind since the dawn of humanity.

The Caucasian unleashed his deliverance in a flourish of heaving crescendos. Jets of piquant liberation gushed down my yearning orifice, as I drank his nourishing fill with gusto.

Not much coaxing was needed to spew my abundance onto Jules’ athletic frame. My seething virility coated his musculature. We amalgamated in a passionate kiss before the instructor returned alone to camp.

I stayed to gather myself, to cherish an end to a licentious evening with a closeted homosexual. He had spoken no words after our frenzied indulgence.

Little did I suspect a lurking snooper nearby when faint rustling sounds, muffled by the careening wind, tantalized the stillness of the night.

Chapter Forty-Two

Rotten Apples

“The key is to keep company only with people who uplift you, whose presence calls forth your best.“

Epictetus

1968

At Tutorials

“We’ll be discussing the similarities and differences between four monotheistic religions this morning,” our newly appointed professor articulated. “Do any of you know the meaning of ‘monotheistic?’”

Narnia chirped, “It is the belief that there is only one God.”

Señor Triqueros evinced, “Clever girl. Judaism, Christianity and Islam share several common elements. They are referred to as Abrahamic religions because they trace their origins to a common prophet, Abraham.”

Just as our teacher was about to continue, in burst two Arab teenagers. They stood superciliously at the entrance as if class shouldn’t have begun without their presence. The boys plonked themselves between Narnia and Albert without apologies for their tardiness.

Señor Victor glared at them for their excuses. None came. Instead, they sniggered as if they had every right to be late for class.

“Haalib and Azil, will you please explain why you are late for class?” the teacher reprimanded.

In protest to Señor Triqueros’ admonishment, they both pushed their chairs back forcefully causing them to fall to the floor with loud bangs.

The teenagers stood waiting to see what the Señor would do. This stirred our professor to greater exasperation. “Boys! I’m going to say this one more time: please explain why you are late.”

Before the boys could answer, Triqueros vociferated with indignation, “It is extremely bad manners to disrupt class when we are in the midst of a lesson. I’ll be having a word with your father after class.”

Only then did they abate, muttering a lame excuse for their lateness.

Haalib and Azil were fidgeting in their seats when the Señor finally resumed our tutorial.

Victor continued, “Judaism started as the religion of the ancient Hebrew civilization, when the Jewish population was held captive by the Egyptians.

“On the other hand, Christianity began as a radical offshoot of Judaism during the 1st century AD, when Judea was a province of the Roman Empire.” He paused before adding, “In regards to the Islamic faith, it started when the prophet Mohammed gathered followers in Mecca, and its followers are called Muslims.

“Zoroastrianism, a post-polytheistic religion of ancient Persia, appeared after Judaism, before Christianity or Islam. Hence, it plays an important role in the development of both faiths.”

As soon as the professor’s back was turned, both brothers, acting like immature delinquents, made funny faces at him, prompting Narnia and Albert to chuckle incessantly.

Seemingly oblivious to their buffoonery, Señor Triqueros continued, “Although each religion names God differently, all the names translate as ‘God.’ The Jews name their god Yahweh or Jehovah. The Christians refer to their almighty as Jehovah, or just God, while Muslims call god Allah. And last but not least, the Zoroastrians refer to their Supreme Being as Ahura Mazda. All these names refer to a single divine being - God.

“As each religion refers their divinity by a different name, similarly, the evil entity or nemesis takes various names – except in Judaism, which primarily has no evil being.

“Christians call their evil entity Satan or ‘the Devil,’ which is like calling Santa Claus ‘the Toymaker.’ It is descriptive but not a name.

“Muslims refer to their evil one as Shaitaan or Iblis. Zoroastrians name god’s arch enemy Ahriman, or Aura Mainyu.

“Although this evil entity is not equivalent to God or Allah, it is a fallen being jealous of the attention lavished upon humans by the Supreme Power.”

The two doofuses, having garnered Narnia and Albert’s attention, winked and gesticulated lewdly at them when the professor wasn’t looking. Narnia reciprocated with mischievous air-kisses, Albert with obscene gestures. Before long, I was targeted by the four as I looked on with distaste.

Paper airplanes with pugnacious messages flew my way, provoking me to partake in their misdemeanor. Instead, I listened attentively to Señor Victor, paying no attention to their childishness.

Our tutor vociferated, “The main prophets in Judaism were Abraham and Moses. The Jewish faith does not recognize Jesus or Mohammed as proclaimers of God’s will.

“Christians recognize all pre-Christian Jewish prophets, especially Abraham and Moses. The physical manifestation of the word of God is culminated in Jesus. But Christianity does not acknowledge the prophet Mohammed.

“Furthermore, Christianity adheres to the belief that Jesus is God’s son, sent to Earth to be borne of a virgin female as their savior. Neither Judaism nor Islam recognize this aspect of Jesus’ life.

“Yet, the Islamic faith celebrates all four prophets - Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and the last prophet, Mohammed.

“This brings us to the founder of Zoroastrianism, the prophet Zoroaster. Like Moses and Jesus, Zoroaster wandered alone in the desert until God imparted the truth to him, which he spread to the Indo-Iranians, otherwise known as Aryans.

“In Judaism, Moses conferred solely to the Jewish population.”

Haalib and Azil rocked back and forth on the hind legs of their chairs, paying no attention to Señor Triquero.

The professor expressed, “You see, boys and girl, the Torah is the holy book of Judaism, and it comprises the first 5 books of the Christian Old Testament - Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy.

“Although the Torah is considered the word of God, Jews also study the Talmud, a collection of oral interpretations of the Torah that were recorded by scholars in later years.

“As you are aware, the holy book of Christianity is the Bible, and it consists of two parts. Judaism accepts the Old Testament but not the New. Although many translations and interpretations exist of the Holy Book, no other manuals are accepted by the Christians except the Holy Bible.

“Muslims revere the Koran or Quran, though Islam recognizes the Torah, the book of Psalms, and a book called the Gospel, which chronicles Jesus’ life as a prophet, not the son of God. This Islamic Gospel contains God’s messages bestowed to and taught specifically by the prophet Jesus.

“Now, when it comes to Zoroastrianism - Zend Avesta is their sacred scripture. Christians and Muslims will find this text familiar because it describes angels, demons, saviors, messiahs, heaven, hell, rituals, penance, burial rites, festivals, so on and so forth. Therefore, it’s irrefutable that Christianity and Islam are heavily influenced by Zoroastrianism.”

Throughout the lesson, both boys had become more audacious. Haalib smooched mischievously with Narnia while Azil groped Albert. I tried desperately to concentrate on the Señor’s words when he asserted, “Both Christianity and Islam descry that Jesus was the Messiah and will one day return to earth to judge all humanity. Those who are saved will go to Heaven or Jannah, the Islamic equivalent to Paradise. Those who are damned will be cast into Hell or Jahannam, Islam’s parallel to Hell.

“In Judaism, on Judgment Day, the saved will proceed to Olam Haba, which loosely translates to ‘world to come’ while resurrection will be rebuffed for the condemned. Unlike Christianity or Islam, there is no Hell or its equivalent in Judaism or Zoroastrianism.

“Zoroastrians believe that their God, Ahura Mazda, is the source of all ‘Good,’ while Ahriman, God’s nemesis, is the source of all ‘Evil.’

“Humans are given free will to choose between Good or Evil, and their souls hang in the balance between them. If the believer is fifty-one percent ‘Good’, then he or she will spend his/her afterlife in ‘Elysium’ or ‘the Elysian Fields,’ and otherwise, in eternal damnation.”

I questioned, “What is Elysium or the Elysian Fields?”

“In Greek mythology, it is the final abode of the blessed after death,” Victor explained.

Just as he finished his elucidation, a loud rumpus was heard. Haalib had loss balance and fallen backwards when balancing his chair on its hind legs. The nitwit was squealing in pain from a twisted ankle.

Azil, Albert and Narnia chuckled at the boy’s mishap, until our professor chastised their childishness. When the boy’s bodyguards burst into the room to see what had transpired, they stopped sniggering and took the matter seriously.

Haalib’s bratty screeching horrified our group. An ambulance was summoned posthaste to cart the heir apparent to the local hospital, where he received premier treatment. The royal physician was convoked to attend to the boy and ensure there were no broken bones or internal injuries.

Needless to say, the heir presumptive, fuming with indignation, was looking for someone to blame for his calamity. Unfortunately for him, we, the eyewitnesses, were on hand to confirm that the misfortune was of his own doing. To his chagrin, he was bandaged and on crutches for a week.

Cautionary Advice

After Haalib, Azil and the two bodyguards left with the ambulance, Señor Triqueros gathered his three remaining students, saying, “A person’s actions will tell you everything you need to know. It is up to you to make what you will of this incident.

“My advice: tread with caution. Associate with the virtuous. Bite not the rotten apples, for the worms will wiggle into you when you least expect it.”

Narnia paid no heed to the Señor’s advice.

Albert turned a deaf ear to Victor’s counsel.

I, the teacher’s pet (appropriated by my fellow classmates) pronounced what had transpired to my Valet.

“Young man, you’re here to be educated and to learn the ways of the world. Appropriation, intuition and discretion - exercise these three, and they’ll aid you through trying times,” Andy postulated.

Chapter Forty-Three

Courtly Propositions

“When I’m good,

I’m very good,

But when I’m bad,

I’m better.”

Mae West

Boxing Day 2012

Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 3)

You already know, Andy, many S. E. Asian countries, with the exception of countries within the Golden Triangle and Japan (which are predominantly Buddhist), are fairly priggish about homosexuality. Since the emergence of Europeans, Western ideology – especially that of Christian doctrines – has penetrated the East, making what was once sociologically acceptable nefariously immoral.

Since Malaysia and Singapore were once British colonies, austere Victorian dogmas continued to prevail to this day, especially with the advent of Islam.

Singapore, being a homophobic democratic socialist society, acquired a legal system modelled after the Great Empire. The colonial system criminalised sodomy under Singapore’s Penal Code - section 377. These laws reinforced the values of the ruling British elite, which set the tone for other classes and ethnicities. Over time, and to appear ‘civilised,’ many Asians disavowed their longstanding cultural tolerance for sexual minorities.

When the Japanese invaded Singapore during World War II, Japanese laws replaced colonial ordinances. Gay sex had never been criminalized in Japan and would have been technically legal in Singapore. However, given the lack of human rights and rule of law under the Japanese occupation, this change in statute was a technical and historical quirk – a reflection of a different legal tradition, rather than an expansion of equal rights for the GLBT community.

Anecdotally, gay ’cruising‘ continued in post-war Singapore within back alleys, public parks and toilets. For the most part, this was ignored by the police, and no one was charged.

Meanwhile, transvestite prostitution in Bugis Street (a sleazy ‘cruising’ area in the heart of this Merlion city) became increasingly prominent. Initially the State and mainstream society accepted it as a vaguely undesirable but inevitable vice, in harmony with the pragmatic and worldly attitudes towards prostitution in this cosmopolitan city-port.

The transvestites of Bugis Street became a tourist attraction, drawing local and foreign visitors nightly. Much as transgendered people had been in traditional Malay society, Bugis Street and its associated transgender community was the most visible face of sexual minorities in post-war Singapore. The major difference was that the community was now more public, urban and multi-ethnic. Prostitution and interaction with international visitors also added a new dimension to the life of this community.

Another arena in which GLBT issues were being played out was the Singapore National Service. Compulsory uniformed (often military) service was implemented in 1967. All 18-year-old Singaporean males were obligated to train for two or two and a half years, depending on their level of education. Homosexuality and transsexuality were listed as conditions in a Singapore Armed Forces (SAF) ‘Directory of Diseases’ (disease code 302).

Prior to enlistment, all enlistees underwent a medical examination, during which they were asked to declare their homosexuality and/or transgender status (the medics conducting the examination had little awareness of the difference between the two). New recruits who came out were deployed to non-combat, non-sensitive vocations. They were generally downgraded to a Public Employment Status and assigned only light clerical duties.

Although the SAF was concerned for the safety of ‘out’ gay and transgender males living and working in close proximity with straight servicemen, this government organization was also reluctant to exempt them from National Service.

These circumstance governed my brief quedarse at OBSS. Neither Jules nor Kim had envisioned that their tide would turn by the time we concluded our twenty-one days at the training camp.

An Unexpected Revelation

A couple of days after my tryst with Jules, our group, under the auspices of our Portuguese-French instructor, went on a biking expedition. Kim fell alongside my bike when we were trailing behind our group. I detected his intention when he spoke, “How’s it going with you-know-who?”

“Who?” I reprised.

“You know who.”

“No, I don’t.” I feigned ignorance.

“What happened the other night?” the boy responded smirkingly.

“What happened?” I continued my pretense.

“In the forest with Jules,” he muttered.

“We talked.”

He continued to press. “Come on, do tell?”

At that moment, our leader appeared next to us. Jules had turned his bike around to steer us forward. “Tell you what?” he questioned.

“Kim wants to know what happened when we went for a stroll the other night,” I chirped.

Both of their faces turned red by my pronouncement. An awkward silence followed before Jules stuttered, “I… err… was asking Young about his English school education…” he trailed off before motioning us to catch up with the group.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Kim reproached, “How can you say that?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted to know? You may as well hear it from the horse’s mouth,” I sniggered winningly.

“It’s so embarrassing. Now I won’t be able to look him in the eye.”

“Why not? The two of you haven’t done anything unseemly… what’s with these cat and mouse games?” I tittered. “Why don’t you go after him if you want him so badly?”

The boy exclaimed, “He’ll think I’m a slut. My reputation will be ruined.”

“Are you going to pine for his affection or make a move? The ball is in your court, now that he has an inkling.”

The boy rode ahead, ignoring my sentiment. I shrugged and rejoined the cyclists.

Misadventure

As I turned my bike round a corner, a loud screeching sound was heard down the country lane. Kim tumbled down the rutty slope when he lost balance riding over a mound. His bicycle had fallen into a ditch when one of the tires bounced downhill, disappearing into a ravine.

Our numero uno instructor came to his rescue. Apart from some minor scratches and bruises, Kim was able to hobble about when he balanced on the Caucasian.

Jules bid us to ride ahead, to solicit assistance from the first aid division while he waited with Kim for the ambulance. We did as told. I couldn’t help but wonder if this mishap had been instigated on purpose, or whether it was Mother Nature’s way to shepherd the closeted gays together. I didn’t have long to wait before the truth was revealed.

1968

Within the Royal Chamber

Aziz and Mario had left hefty rewards for me and my two chaperones after our saturnalian photo sessions. Both photographers seemed confident we had done a more than amicable job, even though I hadn’t seen the pictures. They would show us the photos when we met in Acapulco for Sheik Fahrib’s sailing competition.

The doctor was aware of the tryst, since his private secretary was one of the participants in Aziz’s orgiastic liaison.

I was summoned to the sheik’s chamber on the third evening of our stay at Assalamu Alaikum. As was his habit, I found him playing a melancholy refrain on his fiddle while consuming a bottle of red wine. As was often the case with this saudade sufferer, I found myself reaching out to this dysphoric man of few words. Pensive tears glistened in the corners of my eyes as I listened attentively to his musical mastery. My master’s despondency had a way of burrowing into my heartstrings as I capitulated with compassionate reverie.

I wasn’t sure whether I was falling for this man or whether commiserating with his angst. For now, no verbal comfort was needed, only my presence to ease his inner turmoil, if only for a brief moment in time.

By the time he finished the last note of Chopin Nocturne No. 2, my head was resting on his furry chest. He lifted my face and planted a passionate kiss on my tender lips. He caressed my hair as if reminiscing the intimate moments spent with his beloved prince. His succulent tongue probed open my willing mouth, exploring the deepest recesses of my proffering hollow. My sensual reciprocation had stirred him to a posthumous rejuvenation.

When my affectionate palms reached down his loosened robe, he made no attempt to back away. Instead, his masculinity throbbed incessantly against my naked torso while our yearning mouths enveloped in amorous embrace. We frivoled, as if this would be our only opportunity to cavort within the walls of this ‘Forbidden City,’ this metropolis that would soon be his to claim.

Dazzled by this sudden burst of uninhibitedness, I bared my soul to his virility, receiving every part of his otherwise reticent identity. Within the sheikhdom of Sharjah he was the benevolent family man, and I, his scrupulous confidant, an adolescent half his age who rendered to my master’s every need.

As our affection grew in volume, so did his spirit. The gloom that had engulfed him not so long ago was dissipating with each invigorating stroke of my magical hands. I was enveloped within his intoxicating cocoon of unrestrained sensuality when he eased into my kernel with avid intensity. Every fiber of my being rose to receive his fiery potency as he rotated into my core with loving precision. Aflame and adrift in his rugged gentility, I was the lost sheep and he my good shepherd.

It was only a matter of time before our heady kisses and ardent intercourse hurled my master over the unbridled threshold of erotic propensity. Sprays of molten deposits bathed my stealthy passage, paving my inevitable release. Visions of his heaving lustiness spurred me over my precipice. Spurs of aqueous honey coated our torsos with loving contentment as we stayed locked in blissful amorosity, he unwilling to relinquish his palpitating thickness within my warmth, and I reluctant to waiver the jouissance that had claimed both my body and spirit. We laid entwined until passion postulated our yearning ecstasy. Tantalizing our blissful return to carnal immortality.

That night I stayed with His Highness, heedful to his every need. We talked, we laughed, and most significantly, I counseled inconspicuously on integral matters I believe to have affected the ascendancy of his royal lineage.

The Afterglow

I lay against the doctor’s hairy chest when he finally spoke. “You are wise beyond your years, and Allah has blessed you with loving guardians.” He paused before adding, “I wish my wives were more like you.”

“Your wives are blessed to have a kind husband,” I replied.

He let out a vexed sigh. “They do appreciate me… but they want more than that,” he confided.

He lit a cigarette and took a puff. “They and my parents are plaguing me to produce heirs.”

“I’m sure that shouldn’t be a problem,” I responded chirpily and reached to pet his growing stiffness.

“It’s not a problem when I’m with you, P, or other comely men,” he answered buoyantly. “The problem arises when I’m with females.”

I twittered, “Why marry?”

“My parents arranged it. When I didn’t produce an heir with Shahria after our marriage, they found Roya, in hope that a more attractive girl would alter the course of my infertility.”

“In the early days when we met, you had mentioned this to me. I provided a solution and you chuckled at my remark. You found my suggestion amusing. Do you remember?” I expressed cheerily.

The Arab burst out in glee. “I remember you suggesting a stand-in to impregnate my wives.”

“I think it’s a feasible idea. Don’t you,” I tittered. “If the man is similar in height, build and features to your Excellency, your wives wouldn’t know he isn’t you, since the lights will be out during intercourse.”

“Who do you recommend?” he questioned comically.

“Your private secretary,” I opined excitedly. “He’s the perfect person for the job.”

Fahrib chortled in between puffs of his cigarette. This time round, he accorded my deliverance with a hint of consideration.

He declared, before nibbling at my protruding nipples, “For now, we have more serious matters to attend to.”

Chapter Forty-Four

“Norway Of Arabia”

“Sex is emotion in motion.”

Mae West

The Week before the New Year of 2013

Andy’s email

Young, you like to keep me in suspense with your OBSS experiences… but I’m patient and don’t mind waiting to read the rest of your story. After all, I’ve waited all these years to reconnect – a few days’ interlude wouldn’t imperil our relationship. LOL!

The New Year is once again upon us. What are you up to this holiday season? In a couple of days I’ll be off to Tasmania with my rowing buddies. We are competing with the Lindisfarne Rowing Club at their annual event. It’ll be an enjoyable excursion.

Well boy, continue writing your memoirs. I love reading your blogs. They have been bringing back memories I had long forgotten. ☺

My dear chap, stay healthy, be happy and keep your correspondence coming.

Love, hugs and kisses,

Andy

XOXOXO

1968

To The Marina

Señor Triqueros requested that I stay behind while Narnia, Albert and the two Arab princes filed out of the room. The four gave me unseemly glances, as if to imply, ‘Here goes the teacher’s pet.’ I ignored them. Victor closed the door and asked, “How did your evening go with the sheik?”

“Fine,” I replied casually.

He gave me a Cheshire grin.

“You must have done something right. The sheik wants you on board his boat this afternoon.” He paused. “Andy and I will accompany you. Since your chaperone is a rowing enthusiast and I’m versed in the art of sailing, we’ll be handy as a part of Fahrib’s crew.

“Jabril will be joining us too.”

I chirped at his pronouncement. “I know nothing about sailing. Why does the sheik require my presence?”

“I have no idea. You’ll find out when you get there. My job is to deliver you at the appointed hour.

“I don’t think he’ll feed you to the sharks,” my teacher commented jovially. “The helicopter will be here to collect us in an hour. Andy will be ready.”

“Norway of Arabia”

Our helicopter flew towards the picturesque Musandam Dibba Al Hisn, a hidden pene exclave that belonged to Sharjah but was located within the Sultanate of Oman (and which the Omanis referred to as the ‘Norway of Arabia’). I was awed by the imposing mountains and the rugged coastline that surrounded the fertile Gulf of Oman, where colorful marine life swam placidly within this aquamarine sanctuary.

It was of little wonder that Fahrib chose this haven to dock his competitive vessel in readiness for his upcoming Acapulco race. His luxury sailboat was primed and ready for us when we arrived at the marina.

In normal circumstances, Fahrib’s crew would be at the ready to set sail as soon as their commander-in-chief gave them a thumb up. In this instance, the crew members consisted of Jabril, Victor, Andy, me, and a handsome Arabian compadre of the sheik whom I had not met before. When our host introduced him as Tad, he said, “My sailing buddy here is a ‘gift from Allah.’”

The man riposted jestingly. “Are you referring to yourself, Fahrib?” before he gave our captain a fraternal hug. The Arabs laughed at their insider’s joke while we looked on with befuddlement, though I would soon discover that this man was indeed a gift to any who had the opportunity to experience his sexual prowess.

As I stood watching our attractive crew get the boat in motion, a sense of freedom overcame me. Suddenly, it dawned on me why my Master kept coming to the “Norway of Arabia” – not only to get away from his nagging wives, but most importantly, to disappear from the madding crowd and from his public identity.

This narrow entryway that protrudes into the Strait of Hormuz and into the Persian Gulf from the Arabian Peninsula had given rise to a hidden paradise, a place for the unsolicitous to rediscover equilibrium within their harrowed souls. It was a safe haven for the next in line to the throne to set aside what was expected of him and to simply be a man whose carnal desire happens to be for his own sex. In us he’d found valiant camaraderie, a roborant masculinity as old as ancient Hellenism and as new as contemporary bromance.

We’re Sailing

As soon as we were out of sight of dry land, Tad advocated we strip bare to enhance our seafaring experience. Jabril seconded his motion, followed by our commander-in-chief. We E.R.O.S. recruits had no qualms being naked, and neither did Victor, who was an ex Enlightened Royal Oracle Society member.

As each of us revealed our nakedness, Sharjah’s cover-ups and pretexts seemed to tumble away. I felt liberated from society’s constraints as my last item of clothing was discarded.

The sheik’s playful bon mot with his pal certainly proved true when he revealed all of himself. Tad’s and Fahrib’s imposing looks, combined with their formidable endowments, were impressive to behold. I couldn’t help but steal secret glances at their ‘Allah’s gifts to mankind.’ They were not just majestic in girth but resplendent in length, even when flaccid. Any hot-blooded male or female to witness such plumpness would undoubtedly deem my perception accurate. It was of little wonder our captain’s wives craved their husband’s attention.

Comfortable in our skins, we cruised along the majestic mountains, the sweltering sun beating upon the fjords of Oman. The steamy crew had fuelled my heightened libido as my erection bobbed to the rhythmic motion of the rocking boat. We made no effort to hide our arousal as we worked tirelessly at our assigned chores.

Captain Fahrib had assigned me as an assistant steerage to Tad, the red-hot Arabian helmsman. My job was to help him keep the boat’s wheel in check so wind wouldn’t steer the vessel off course. He said jokingly while studying a map, “Ready about… hard-a-lee?”

I stared at him, befuddled. He laughed at my nautical ignorance.

“What? What did you say?” I queried in all seriousness.

He smiled wryly at my erection before answering, “Don’t be embarrassed by your excitement. We sailors are in tune with nature’s wonders.” He made no effort not to look at my length. He resumed, “Even though we take japes at nautical idioms when sailing in the buff.” He gave me a cursory look.

Up until this juncture, I’d had no idea that the helmsman was an accomplished member of the sheik’s sailing team, bound for the 1968 Summer Olympics, not to mention being a champion polo player and a titlist camel racer.

I gave the man a comely smile before inquiring, “What’s hard-a-lee?”

Instead of responding, he tapped my erection, which bounced uncontrollably. His hardness had grown during our flirtatious intercourse, its bulbaceous size stirring my concupiscence to flutter as his sturdy hand stroked me into a dizzying spell. He pulled me to him, French kissing me passionately. Spellbound by his erotic expertise, I lost all sense of propriety. The feel of his bearded chin and hairy chest spawned my stiffness to drum incessantly against his furry torso.

I had desired this sinewy helmsman from the moment we met. When he gave me the traditional nose-to-nose greeting, he’d stared at me unflinchingly. He had claimed my person with his assertive eyes then; now, thrills of chilling excitement coursed through my body as he cupped and squeezed my buttocks, teasing my tenderness with his manly hands. He inserted his fingers into my opening, claiming my cloven his.

As we continued our alluring foreplay, the boat had drifted into an aquiline cove. It was then that I noticed my beloved Andy observing us by the doorway. My Valet gave me his approval to continue appeasing the beguiling athlete as he stared, mesmerized, at our erotic performance. He, like me, was entranced by Tad’s virility. He was witnessing a reflective manifestation of our intimate moments together in which I had surrendered myself fully to his maleness, as I did now to the helmsman.

My chaperone needed no invitation. He knelt to suckle our thumping palpitations simultaneously as we jabbed into his craving throat. This hallowed ecstasy intensified my hunger for both men. Just then, I felt a pair of hairy arms pinching my bristled nipples from behind. The sheik’s sultry lips caressed my tender neck, seducing me into his web of libidinous captivity. While his jouncing member knocked at my doorway to paradise, I couldn’t help but succumb to this jubilant exultation, when another stimulation seized my searing soul, propelling me into an inferno of pleasurable jouissance.

Jabril’s epicurean tongue rimmed at my anal receptacle before jabbing into my tunnel of love with abandon. His commanding lividity drove my tilting pelvis to receive slivers of his dripping saliva. He was preparing me for the feast of the gods. And I was delighted to suffice.

Much like my Valet relishing the helmsman’s mightiness, Victor devoured the captain’s prowess with avid ferocity. Spittle of beaming wetness coated their organs.

Tad led me above deck while the men followed suit. Pulling me atop a comfortable mattress, I straddled the athlete with aplomb, kissing his succulent mouth with wanton fervency. Quivers of euphoric rhapsody surged through my body when his tumid avidity eased into my passageway of forbidden love. His bouncing gyrations commingled with my lustful kisses brought our hankering spirits into a unified entity. Just as this newfound vivacity took hold, I felt another force in my core. This elevated double entry catapulted me into an uncharted and blissful realm.

The captain and the champion tantalized my tightness with symmetrical cadences as we tangoed to the rhythm of the lapping waves. Tad’s provocative expertise, coalescing with Fahrib’s rousing mastery, hurled my frenzied soul to an intensified crescendo of erotic gratification.

Rainbows of aesthetic enthusiasm flashed before me as Andy and Victor mirrored one another as the Levantine logerez himself onto their throbbing hardness simultaneously. He was at once in agony and ecstasy before his misshapen expression transformed into gleeful entrancement. Heaving sighs of euphoric relief, he accommodated both obelisks with pride.

It was within this circle of debauchery, we effectuated our erotic dance, answering only to the call of the wild. When our prurient desires took hold, we exchanged partners until we had our fill of proliferated succor.

As I rode their ferocities with tumultuous savagery, fanatical flashes of electrifying potencies crashed within me, launching my deliverance over and above my partner’s head. The smashing waves of their burgeoning cogency coated my inner walls, stuffing my core to overflowing capacity.

Before I could attain equilibrium, their un-relinquishing appetites had triggered another round of firing deposits - Tad’s unrelenting kisses brought on my second cumming while their stiffness continued to rock me into oblivion. Squirts of their molten love burst into the hub of my fervent mortality as I surrendered to this heavenly joyance with blissful contentment.

While the helmsman and the captain took turns lapping up the brimming remnants they had lodged within my willing burrow, I swathed their leaking appendages with ardent gusto before sharing our fill in a three-way kiss.

When I finally looked over at our adjoining trio, they too were apportioning their feed, as we had a moment ago.

At last, we plunged into the cooling aqua, cleansing all traces of our man-to-man love before heading back whence we came.

Chapter Forty-Five

We Are Here To Serve, Not to Fall In Love

“Falling in love

Is the best way to kill your heart

Because it’s not yours anymore.

It’s laid in a coffin,

Waiting for cremation.”

Ville Valo

New Year’s Eve 2012

Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 4)

Wishing you a Happy New Year, lover-boy. You are still your flirtatious, charismatic self, you charmer. I may just fall back in love with you after all these years. LOL!

Upon your return from your rowing competition, you’ll get to read the rest of my OBSS experiences. Anyone but you, a seasoned man in such racy matters, would be scandalized. ☺

At OBSS

I didn’t have long to wait before “twinky” Kim confided his secrets to me. Out of earshot from the group, during lunch, he announced excitedly, “We did it!”

“We did what?” I asked.

He glanced towards Jules, who was chatting animatedly with a couple of the other instructors. “You know. Me and him. We did it.”

I smiled but said nothing. Kim had a gleeful grin as he uttered, “Last night in the woods.”

“What exactly did you do?”

He cast his eyes down shyly. “We made out.”

“And?”

“It was great!” he exclaimed.

“Tell all, you naughty devil,” I remarked.

Like most first-timers, he was eager to relate his sexual encounter to a pair of sympathetic ears.

“After the biking accident, after you guys rode on for help, he made the move.”

“Well? What happened” I queried.

“When he was blotting the blood from my knee, he placed his hand on my thigh. I did not move away. I dared not look him in the eye, but I enjoyed the smouldering sensation of his hand, which slowly eased into my underwear.” He paused for effect. “I was afraid, so I kept my eyes shut. I had Goosebumps all over when he held my… You know…” The boy couldn’t bring himself to say the word penis.

“No, I don’t know,” I teased. “What?”

“Down there…” he looked at his groin, which had grown while reliving the circumstance.

I reached under the table to taunt his hardness. He squealed, causing a few team members at the next table to glance in our direction. Kim’s face went red. He quickly stared at his plate as if nothing unusual had happened.

I seized the opportunity to stroke his covered erection again. This prompted his lower body to squirm uncontrollably while he shrieked for me to stop. I continued joshing the boy (I found his mortification amusing). His silly screeching and fidgeting created such a ruckus that all eyes were on us now. Jules was standing in front of us, and before Kim could find composure, he said, “Stop behaving like silly children. Grow up or I’ll send the two of you to detention.”

But amid his stern reprehension, I detected a smirk. He was obviously enjoying his role as a reprimanding doyen.

As soon as Jules walked away, I taunted my buddy again, stirring another rumpus from squealing Kim. This time our instructor barked, “Both of you, come see me after dinner! We need to talk!” We immediately quieted down.

As soon as his back was turned, Kim muttered, “We are in deep shit.”

“Really?” I said, smiling to myself.

“You’re truly inscrutable, you moron! He cried.

“He’s sending us to clean the toilets.”

I sniggered at his assessment but did not respond.

When the hoopla finally subsided, I said to my tent-mate, “You didn’t finish telling me what transpired between the two of you.”

Not wanting to have anything to do with me, the boy walked away.

1968

Panic

We returned to Assalamu Alaikum to find our two chaperones Coraline and Zac, distressed over the disappearance of Narnia and Albert. The two E.R.O.S. recruits had vanished without a trace. When the sheik was informed, he sent word to the entire household.

The chauffeur confided that they had ridden off with Azil and Haalib. The princes had pestered their beloved father to buy them each Honda CB450 Black Bombers, and although Sheik Khalid, the boys’ father did not take kindly to the idea of giving his sons such precarious playthings, he had given in to their inveigle nagging. He had made them promise not to do anything that would imperil their lives.

The moment their new toys arrived, off they zoomed with Narnia and Albert in tow (in fact, Narnia had taken the wheel with the inexperienced Haalib behind her) without informing any of the household members. In response, the pragmatic Fahrib gathered Victor, Zac, Andy, Coraline and me to discuss how best to handle the situation. He knew upon their return they would be reproached for their actions by both sheiks.

The four did not reappear until the wee hours of the morning, intoxicated from excessive liquor and drug use. They were in no shape or form for a firm castigation from either the Emir or his Excellency. The princes were dispatched home immediately, while Albert and Narnia spent the remainder of the night puking up a storm. By the time they emerged that late afternoon, they’d had earfuls from their respective guardians as well as the formidable Fahrib, who in normal circumstances was a man of few words.

The abominable four had missed their morning tutorials, leaving me alone in class with the Señor. This gave Triqueros the opportunity to make small talk.

“How are you today, young man?”

“I’m fine, sir,” I answered restively.

“Tell me what’s bothering you. Can I help?” my teacher questioned. A pause followed before he resumed, “Pray, tell me that you are not harbouring emotional attachments to any of the men we had fun with yesterday.”

I kept silent. I dared not divulge my infatuation with my kind-hearted master and the athletic machismo Tad. I wanted to savour this sentiment for myself, yet my teacher seemed to have read my thoughts. He changed the subject.

“Today’s lesson is about Homoeroticism in classical Arabian literature.”

I nodded. I did my best to concentrate on what he had to say. “In the early days of the Ottoman empire, a variety of poetic anthologies, biographical dictionaries and belletristic works were written about same-sex love between adults and teenage boys. These types of pederastic relationships of prominent poets, religious scholars and political notables are widely accepted.

“Love between a teenage youth and an older man was not objectionable, and certainly not punishable, even though homosexuality was a felony.”

“Why, then, is it forbidden in contemporary Sharjah?” I asked.

Victor tittered before replying, “You must understand, Young, sexuality in the Arab world, be it heterosexuality or homosexuality, is not a relationship between two equals as we were taught at the Bahriji. It is a relationship of power between the dominant and the dominated. The distinction between the active/dominant/top and the passive/subordinate/bottom – the male being the penetrator and the female the penetrated – carries much shame for the receiving partner, though the evaluation of the ‘giving’ partner is ambiguous.

“Within the masculine ideal, the ‘giver’ emerges from the sexual encounter with his honour enhanced. But, from the perspective of conformity with society’s religious and moral norms, the penetrated is dishonoured.”

I couldn’t help but think of the Prince and the Sheik, whose sexual roles were ambivalent.

I questioned, “What happens when both partners interchange in their sexual roles?”

Victor paused before he expressed, “Your question ignites me to explain ‘the will not to know’ in the Arabic culture. Even though homoeroticism is prevalent in classical literature, same-sex relations between men could never be made public. The concept of silencing sexuality and keeping it in a private domain can be explained by what one may term as ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy.

“The apparent tolerance of homosexual practices in Islamic societies depends on an enduring and widespread pattern of collective denial. Whether the homosexual activity is based on age difference or gender definition, it should never be acknowledged publicly.

“Furthermore, if the man is an ‘object of sexual relations,’ he will lose face and honour in society. It boils down to the fact that a man should never allow another man to bugger him. Otherwise, he loses his standing in society if others find out. The decisive line is not between the act kept secret and the act made known public, but the talking behind one’s back, between rumours and public knowledge.”

My tutor’s explanation had made me realize the dilemma behind my master’s despondencies – he could never live openly as a gay man. He would always have to live within a web of lies, veiled by the security of traditional marriage.

I was in contemplation when Triqueros tapped my shoulder. “Are you with me, Young?” he questioned with concern.

I nodded, indicating for him to continue.

“In ancient Arabia, homosexuality was age-structured, involving bearded, mature men in love with beardless teenagers like you and Albert. The beard is a sign of manhood and masculinity.

“Many Arabian poets described the object of their love as an adolescent boy, going to great lengths to describe “desirable” physical features.

●    This ideal young man is always brown and slender.

●    His waist is supple and thin like a willow branch or like a lance.

●    His hair, black as scorpions.

●    The hair that falls on his forehead curls like the Arabic alphabets.

●    His eyes are arcs with hurl arrows.

●    His cheeks are roses.

●    His saliva has the sweetness of honey.

●    Last but not least, his buttocks resemble a dune of moving sand. When he walks, you could call him a young faun. When he is motionless, he eclipses the brightness of the moon.”

At this juncture, my professor gave me a beguiling smile, before adding, “You, Young are a perfect specimen of this ideal.”

My eyes widened and my face turned red as embarrassment gushed through my person. I had never thought of myself in such a manner. But now I knew the reasons I was sought after by dominant, bearded Arab men. I understood why I had the power to make men feeble in the knees and languid at my commands. Victor’s words that morning certainly took on a new meaning in my adolescent life.

Before I could continue to bask in this glorious revelation, my teacher suggested, “Use your temporal assets wisely, or you may end up like many before you, in self destructive jeopardy.”

I stared at him, speechless. “Pay attention, young man…” he proceeded slowly. “There are four basic homoerotic notions in Arab societies:

* First, the acknowledgment of male beauty, even in other males’ eyes, and its capability of inducing ‘fitna’ (disorder).

* Second, the recognition of the natural vulnerability of a grown man to be charmed by a handsome adolescent, to the point that mainstream scholars and theologians urged readers to resist the related temptation that follows this natural appreciation.

* Third, the affirmation that love and passion exist hand in hand with related dangers - and not just sexual desires - that might be the driving force in a man-to-man attraction.

* Fourth, and certainly not the least, the focus in classical literature and poetry on man-boy love, whereas grown male attraction is marginalized and regarded as mujun (ribaldry) or sukhf (obscenity).”

Señor Victor Angel Triqueros added, “No social definition of homosexuality existed in the Arab world during the reign of the Ottoman Empire. There was no native concept applicable to all and only those men who were sexually attracted to members of their own sex rather than to women. Therefore, no single word exists in Arabic to describe men engaging in same-sex relationships. But there is a categorization of sexual acts: language that uses such specific terms as liwat (anal sex), luti (active sodomite who prefers boys over women, ma’bun (passive sodomite), mukhannath (effeminate passive sodomite), mu’ajir (passive male prostitute), dabb (active sodomite who likes raping his victims in their sleep regardless of their age), musahiqa (lesbian), along with a string of others.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Andy had arrived to collect me. We were scheduled for a luncheon appointment with the infamous champion polo player, titlist camel racer and nautical enthusiast, the hot-blooded Tad.

Before Señor Triqueros finalized the last segment of our morning session, he advised, “Your Valet and I trust your good judgement. Remember, we are here to serve, not to fall in love.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Infectious Infatuation

“Charismatic charmers often leave a string of broken hearts trailing behind them.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

First Week of January 2013

Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 5)

Hi Andy,

Are you back from your Tasmanian rowing expedition? Did your team win? I hope so. If I remember correctly, you were always an excellent rower and your teammates at Daltonbury Hall venerated your feathering mastery. I’d love to hear your adventures. ☺

Back To My OBSS Escapades

As we headed to Jules’ makeshift office (a classroom temporarily converted), Kim was overtly skittish. He had surmised we would be consigned to cleaning the OBSS lavatories as punishment for our playful misdemeanour. I assured the teenager that that wouldn’t be the case; a more propitious outcome would be in order. Yet, he continued to brood, blaming me for my impertinence. Instead of arguing with him, I kept silent.

I couldn’t help but notice a sardonic smug on Jules’ handsome face when we entered.

“Young, will you keep watch outside while I have a word with this young man?” he instructed.

I sat on a nearby bench, waiting my turn. Minutes passed, and I needed to use the restroom. I wasn’t sure if I should leave, in the event I would be called upon, but I decided to go. Just as I was finishing my business, I heard a commotion outside.

In states of disarray, my leader and tent-mate were being escorted out of the office by a couple of burly guards from the senior officer’s HQ. I was shocked to witness such an unanticipated occurrence. For a brief moment, Kim looked my direction before they marched into the darkness. The unforgettable terror on his face was of a man about to be hanged.

It didn’t take long for rumours to circulate around camp that the two were caught red-handed doing unspeakable things to one another. Yet, none of the gossipmongers could provide a definitive account.

The next day, Jules and Kim were gone. They had both been hastily expelled without having a chance to say goodbye. My three remaining days at OBSS, I was flummoxed.

It was my final evening in Singapore when the truth came to light. My ex-OBSS leader was coming out of a bar in Bugis Street when I stumbled upon him. It was then that I heard the entire narrative from the horse’s mouth.

1968

Reprehension

That evening after my luncheon engagement with Tad, Señor Triqueros assembled the E.R.O.S. recruits to meet with the doctor in his study. Narnia and Albert were not in the best of form when they arrived with their respective chaperones; they knew they would be facing serious admonishments from the sheik. They did not look buoyant while we waited for our host to appear.

When the doctor finally emerged, he was not a happy camper.

“Disappearing without notice! What were the both of you thinking?” he demanded. “On top of that, you absconded with my nephews, causing anguish to your guardians and the entire household.” He paused to give Narnia and Albert a chance to explain themselves. Instead, they lowered their heads in embarrassment and said nothing.

“I’m not surprised if my nephews coerced you to misbehave, but you should know better than to adhere to their suasion,” our host expressed sternly.

Triqueros gave tongue to soften the reprehension. “Your Excellency, they are young and eager to please the princes. I’ll make sure their chaperones accompany them wherever they go in the future and this will not happen again.” He looked to Coraline, Zac and Andy for assurance. They nodded in agreement.

“This time, I’ll forgive the two of them. If this happens again, I’ll send them back to the Bahriji,” the doctor pronounced unapologetically.

Our teacher ensured, “I’ll make certain it will not, sir.”

The sheik announced, “I’ll take your word as collateral for their misdemeanour.”

On this final note, he released Narnia, Albert and their chaperones.

Our host bid Andy and me to remain.

“I like to have a word with the two of you,” he expressed.

I looked at my professor, wondering if he had any idea why we were asked to stay. Instead, he gave me a sly grin and said nothing.

Fahrib’s Behest

Fahrib enquired as soon as the door closed behind us. “How was your meeting with Tad?”

Andy replied on my behalf, “It went well, sir. He wanted Young and me to visit his home…”

Before my Valet could continue, the sheik remarked, “Did he now?”

Andy added, “I told him I had to obtain your permission before we agreed to his request.”

“That’s very respectful of you, Andy. It’s good you came to me for permission, as I’m responsible for my guests, and it is not safe outside the walls of my estate. There are opposing factions that will not hesitate to harm my family and guests,” counselled the sheik.

“But I’ve something to ask of Young.” He turned in my direction. “Shahria and Roya asked if they could meet with you. They would like your input on some fashion related issues – something I know nothing about.” He smiled. “I told them you had dressed the Kosk and the Sekham women. They are intrigued by your fashion sense, and they have been pestering me to talk to you. Will you see them at the female quarters tomorrow after your tutorials? Jabril will accompany you as your translator and go-between.”

I twittered excitedly, “Of course, sir. I’m honoured to be of assistance to your beloved wives.”

“My wives are not the only women who want to meet you. Their cousins and relatives will also be joining them. You’ll have a handful to deal with,” he declared humorously.

“Jabril will collect you and Andy after class and accompany you to the women’s salon.”

On that note, he departed to pay a visit to his nephews and their father.

What Transpired?

Victor had remained quiet throughout the sheik’s directive. He couldn’t wait to ask about my meeting with Tad.

He questioned, “What did Tad want from you?”

While I was taken aback by my teacher’s candour, Andy stepped in. “As I mentioned to the sheik, he wants us to pay a visit to his home.”

“Is he smitten by Young?” my teacher blurted.

He opined without giving us a chance to reply, “I knew it! No hot-blooded Arab male can resist this perfect specimen.”

As much as I was flattered by my professor’s remark, I was also flustered by his pronouncement. I had never thought of myself as a personification of an Arab man’s ideal, and never had I consciously considered my physical attributes an object of desire. Although I accepted my amorosity and carnality as parts of my genetic heritage, Victor’s newly bestowed laurel had instilled a sense of pride within my person.

I couldn’t bask in this reverie for long before Andy returned me to reality. “Don’t inculcate this boy with such aptitude. He is already full of himself. Otherwise, his prudency will get the better of him,” my chaperone cautioned.

Señor Triqueros quipped wickedly, “So, the champion wants more from your charge. You should auction him off to the highest bidder.”

Andy bantered, “Trust me – he’s been there. He was a ‘batcha’ at the Sekham. That’s how we met Prince P.”

“I see! Now, he is soon to be another man’s favourite. This boy certainly uses his bag of tricks,” my teacher joshed.

Both mentors laughed at their idiosyncrasy, while I was not amused.

Lunch with Tad

Despite Andy’s and my teacher’s flippancies, my lunch with Tad had been quite serious. The Arab was the epitome of a well-to-do gentleman. His courtly manner did not suit the fervent lover I had met; this titleholder’s public persona was that of a well-respected pillar of Arabian society. He was his countrymen’s hero, even though in private, he was a quintessential naughty boy.

He was well known for courting a bevy of beauty queens and resplendent actresses, while his concealed passion was for teenage boys.

Señor Triqueros and my Valet had forewarned me to tread with caution, for I wasn’t fully aware of the man’s libertinism. Time and again, my mentors had counselled me not to fall in love, but to play the field.

After several intensive experiences from my previous households, I thought I had learned that lesson. Yet, this was easier said than done when the object of my affection was a sophisticated and charismatic man of the world. Little did I know I would need my beloved Andy and my judicious professor to guide me away from this ardent minefield I was about to step onto.

“Nice of you and Andy to accept my invitation.” Tad stepped forward to give me and my Valet the traditional nose-to-nose greeting.

He had sent his vintage 1938 Mercedes Benz to collect my chaperone and me and transport us to an elegant Moroccan restaurant some distance from the city.

This stylish eatery, decorated in resplendent monochromatic tones of silver and white, served crème de la crème Marrakesh cuisine while sea blue napkins reflected the shimmering view of the ocean below. I was charmed by the playboy’s handsome savoir-faire before the delicious cuisine even appeared on our table.

“Will you accompany me to Marrakesh after the Olympic race?” Tad asked in a sultry voice I found irresistible.

“I… err… have to ask the sheik’s permission,” I stammered.

Andy declared, “Young is correct. We have to procure His Excellency’s blessing before giving you a definitive answer. We are under the auspices of our host.”

“Of course. It’ll be an excellent getaway after our competition. We’ll sail up the scenic Ourika River – the view of the Atlas Mountains is a sight to behold,” the athlete fortified before adding, “I hope Fahrib and P will join us.”

“We can visit Driss in Marrakesh,” I chirped excitedly. I looked at my chaperone with avidity.

Andy added instantaneously before the Arab could question, “Driss is a model friend of ours. We met in Paris at the Grande Mosquée de Paris with Prince P.”

“It is excellent to know someone who is familiar with the area. He may be able to show us the place,” the athlete expressed. “I’ll have a chat with Fahrib. I hope he and P can come along. It’ll be fun.”

I was already in love with the suave and sassy Arab by the time we were chauffeured back to Assalamu Alaikum – and even though I dared not mention my surreptitious feelings to my beloved Valet, I had a presage I would be in for a heartbreak.

Chapter Forty-Seven

To Wear Or Not To Wear

“I was always intrigued by the idea of bringing things together that are considered taboo or risqué and merging them with something of high elegance and sophistication.“

Dita Von Teese

1968

Al’ahya’ Almar’a (Women’s Quarters)

الأحياء المرأة

Jabril was already waiting for me and Andy outside Señor Triqueros’ study after my morning tutorials.

“Are you ready to meet the women?” the Levantine asked.

“What’s there to be ready for? I’ve met harem women before, and I get on well with them,” I replied unthinkingly.

He smiled and led us towards the adjoining building to the women’s quarters.

Ladies of many ages had assembled, waiting our arrival. The younger women, such as Shahria and Roya, wore an assortment of hijabs, while the mature ladies donned a mélange of head and face coverings. Unbeknownst to me, I was the one that would be educated in the multiple forms of Islamic female concealments.

Since I did not speak a word of Arabic, I didn’t know that Fahrib’s private secretary had introduced me as a fashion maestro; all I noticed was a sea of nodding heads.

Just as I had with the Kosk and Sekham women, I confabulated with this group of harem ladies. Yet, these females appeared amused by Jabril’s translations whenever I spoke.

I was also acutely aware that two of the ladies, Kifah and her cousin Iba, were eyeing the Levantine with fascination. Although these two women wore Niqābs (a face-covering that covered both mouth and nose, leaving the eyes clear), their eye bandying led me to suspect that they were better acquainted with the art historian than met the eye.

After my fashion delivery, the mature Ain questioned, “Do western women wear head coverings as a respect to God?”

I was caught off guard by her question. My mind whirled for an appropriate response. “Out of respect to God, western women do wear hats or headscarves when they enter a place of worship, such as a church or a synagogue,” I answered. “Catholic nuns cover their hair in a white coif or cornette. This headpiece also includes a white cotton cap, secured by a bandeau, and a white ’wimple‘ or ‘guimpe‘ of starched linen to cover the cheeks and neck.”

Jabril questioned divertingly, “How do you know what catholic nuns wear?”

I answered seriously. “From The Flying Nun.”

The Levantine chortled. “You get your fashion knowledge from a TV show?”

I countered, unamused, “Well, not always, but it’s true! Women of other faiths do wear head coverings in respect toward God.”

“Although hats or scarves are not worn twenty-four seven and are considered fashion accessories to match a woman’s outfit, the headwear is similar to the hijabs and khimars (a long, cape-like scarf that wraps around the head, covering the neck and shoulders but leaving the face clear) that co-ordinate with the women’s abayas.”

Ain expressed, “I wear hijabs because of God’s modesty commandment.”

“The hijab is a visible expression of our Muslim identity and a witness to our faith,” Shahria declared.

Before long, every woman gave her respective reasons for donning the various forms of Islamic headgear.

I was particularly intrigued by Fajr’s comment: “By wearing the hijab, I hope to communicate my country’s political and social alliance and to challenge the prejudice of the Western discourses towards our Arabic-speaking world.”

“Why do you think that?” the Levantine questioned.

“Because Western feminists have this perception that hijab-wearing women are oppressed or silenced by their society and culture. The hijab is an expression of my cultural identity,” the female opined.

Andy spoke for the first time. “Does the Quran mention that Muslim women have to wear hijabs?”

Ain quoted the Quran (24:30-31) assuredly, “The believing men are enjoined to lower their gaze and conceal their genitals, draw their headdress to cover their cleavage, and not to display their beauty. Except that which has to be revealed to their husbands, their fathers, their husbands’ fathers, their sons, their husbands’ sons, their brothers or their brothers’ sons, or their sisters’ sons, or their women, or their slaves, or eunuchs or children under age; and they should not strike their feet to draw attention to their hidden beauty. O believers, turn to God, that you may know bliss.”

Shahria seconded. “And 33:58–59: ‘Those who harass believing men and believing women undeservedly, bear on themselves a calumny and a grievous sin. O Prophet! Enjoin your wives, your daughters, and the wives of true believers that they should cast their outer garments over their persons that they may be distinguished and not be harassed.”

I was surprised when the gnostic Jabril contradicted, “But the suwar, the hadiths and the Quran were written by men. Of course they want their womenfolk to obey and submit to their manmade rules.”

My Valet chimed, “Does this also apply to the Torah and the Holy Bible?”

“Yes it does,” attested the art historian.

The women were in disagreement with the Gnostic’s pronouncement, except for Kifah and Iba, who had not uttered a word since our discussion began.

Andy gave me an eye signal to step in to cool the wrangle with the topic I knew best – Fashion, for what had begun as social discourse was rapidly transforming into a political and religious parley.

Seeing my indisposition, Andy spoke authoritatively on my behalf, “Young has something to say about the hijab being a fashion statement.”

The group hushed to listen.

“I had mentioned during my presentation that designers around the world are adapting Middle Eastern clothing into their fashion repertoires.

“Nowadays, variations of the abaya, kaftan, and dishdasha are not only worn by Middle Eastern women, but by non-Arab Muslims in western societies. Likewise, the salwaar kamiz, a traditional South Asian garment, is now worn by Muslims in a diversity of styles.

“Although the traditional objective of the Islamic hijab is to create an attitude of modesty and to distract attention from the wearer, this item has also morphed into a form of self-expression.

“Despite the contradictions regarding the spirit of the hijab, the individualistic trend of ‘looks’ and attracting attention to personal style is rapidly transforming the hijab into a fashion statement instead of an artifact of modesty blasé.”

I looked around the room before continuing, “A growing number of Muslim women are blending these two elements, gathering inspiration from high fashion magazines before adapting their ‘looks’ to abide by Islamic rulings.”

A few agreeable nods came from a couple of women, especially Kifah and Iba. I discerned that these two women were more progressive and willing to embrace western ideologies than their Arabian sisters, even if they wore Niqābs.

I was surprised when Kifah expressed vehemently, “The word hijab literally means “curtain”. To my understanding, the term hijab was not used as a reference to women’s clothing, but rather the screen behind which Muslims were told to address the Prophet’s wives.”

Detecting an ally in Kifah, the Levantine vociferated, “This term is also used to describe the ‘screen’ separating God from Moses, when he received divine revelation.”

She resumed, “During the Prophet’s era, Muslim women did not cover their faces. It was only when the Prophet’s wives went out in public that the ‘screen’ was substituted as a veil over their faces. It was a special injunction for the Prophet’s wives.”

Iba championed her cousin’s comments by reciting several verses.

“And (as for the Prophet’s wives) when you ask for anything you want (or need), ask them from behind a hijab (screen); that makes for greater purity of your hearts. (33:53)

“O wives of the Prophet! You are not like any of the (other) women: If you do fear (God), be not too complaisant of speech, lest one in whose heart is a disease should be moved with desire: but speak with a speech (that is) just.” (33:32)

Kifah endorsed her cousin’s declarations by adding, “The Quran also talks about our clothing as cover for our nakedness that also serves as an adornment, reflecting the beauty of God’s creation. What is important is a woman’s comportment and attitude, regardless of the way she dresses. We must have faith and taqwa (God-consciousness or righteousness) as stated in (7:26):

“O, you Children of Adam! We have bestowed libasan (clothing or raiment) on you to cover your nakedness and as a thing of beauty. But the raiment of righteousness (taqwa) is the best. Such are the signs of God, that they may receive admonition. O Children of Adam! Wear your beautiful apparel (zeenah) at every time and place of prayer: eat and drink: but waste not by excess, for God loves not the wasters.” (7:31)

This debate made several women in the group more curious about the religious habits of other faiths. So, I was provided the opportunity to assemble another fashion discussion a few days later.

First Week of January 2013

Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 6)

Jules, accompanied by an androgynous boy with effeminate mannerisms, seemed embarrassed to see me. He entreated the boy to leave us alone, at least for a while, so we could speak in private. He began as soon as the boy’s back was turned, “I’m departing to Lisbon in a few days.”

“I thought you had planned to be in Singapore for a while. Why are you leaving so soon?” I queried.

The ex-OBSS instructor sighed. “I’m departing not by choice; the Singapore government gave me a week to leave after my OBSS dismissal.”

“You’re being deported?” I exclaimed.

He shushed me. “Yes, you can say that.”

He glanced around to make sure no one was listening to our conversation before shaking his head. “This place is so backward and repressed.”

I asked, “Why didn’t you leave immediately?”

“They have to prepare my deportation paperwork before I’m allowed to leave. They are such assholes!” he lashed out in anger. “I’m not allowed to return… unless there is a change in government policy.”

“Why bother returning when they don’t welcome people like us here?” I retorted.

“Because…” he was reluctant to divulge what was on his mind.

I pressed, “Because?”

He leaned over and whispered, “Because, Lee, my boyfriend, is a Singaporean. He can’t come with me when I go.”

Not giving any thought to travel restrictions for a Singaporean, especially one who was eligible for ‘National Service’ (NS), I blurted nonchalantly, “Why can’t he leave with you?”

Jules iterated sadly, “We were hoping to enter the SAF (Singapore Armed Forces) together. Now, our dreams are shattered. I won’t be able to see him again.”

My heart reached out to the dispirited man. I queried, “Why aren’t you spending these last few days with Lee, instead of roaming Bugis Street?”

Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “As if I’ve been infected with a contagious disease, his parents forbid us to meet!” he cried.

My heart reached out to him. I consoled, “Things will work out. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Give yourself time.”

I added, after a moment’s silence, “There are new adventures and experiences to be had. You never know what life has in store until you release your anxieties and allow the universe to care for you, rather than blaming yourself for what happened at camp.”

He grinned facetiously before responding. “Easier said than done. Check back in a few months and see how I do?”

“At least I made you smile,” I quipped. “What happened to Kim? Is he also being deported?”

Jules sallied, “He was given stern admonishments to change his ‘deviant’ ways. He is Singaporean, and they need him in NS. No doubt he’ll be allotted to menial clerical duties, which will suit him fine. He is not one for belligerent combat.”

“Are his parents okay with him being gay, now that OBSS has made known to them that their son is a homosexual?” I questioned.

“They are despondent that he has been kicked out from OBSS. But there is nothing they can do. They’ll either have to accept him for what he is or disown him.              I met his parents when he joined the camp, and they seem to be a reasonable pair.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “It’s good to know he hasn’t turned into a guttersnipe.”

Our conversation turned to small talk when the androgynous boy returned. I was ready to depart to Kuala Lumpur before hopping onto my flight bound for London town.

That, my dear Andy, was the last time I saw Jules and is the conclusion to my Singapore OBSS experience.

Now, I’m ready for your tales of glory and infamy. LOL!

Love,

Young

XOXOXO

Chapter Forty-Eight

Command Performances

“An ounce of performance can determine the outcome of a royal ascendance.”

Tad Abdul Hafiz

January 2013

Andy’s Message

Hi Young,

I’m home after two weeks in Tasmania. My rowing team was the runner-up at the Lindisfarne annual rowing competition.

Since you were so forthright with your OBSS experiences, I’ll reciprocate with a tale of my own from the Philippines. ☺

The Canadian GLBT rowing club had organised a fun excursion to Palawan Island back in 1977. This remote island was filled with an abundance of wildlife, forested mountains and beautiful pristine beaches.

It is rated by the National Geographic Traveller magazine as the best island destination in East and South-East Asia and ranked the thirteenth-best island in the world. In those days, this locale was vastly uninhabited, except by a handful of residents who were fishermen or local business owners.

We stayed in a series of huts, built above the ocean on stilts. These did not have shower or toilet facilities; lodgers had to wade through knee-deep waters or swim to shore to do their business. This place was a marvellous retreat for self-discovery and rejuvenation. I was glad I didn’t have to room with my travelling buddies and had a hut to myself.

I had a great time frolicking on the clear aquiline waters where virgin corals and unperturbed sea-life thrived without tourist intrusions.

When we travelled into Lungsodng Puerto Princesa (City of Puerto Princesa) for food and a shower, the locals gawked at us - six Caucasian men and two women - as if we had descended from another planet. For a few pesos, a family-run eatery agreed to let us use their outdoor shower facility.

A waist-high wooden wall, loosely constructed, separated the bather from a forest at the rear of the house. In the midst of my shower, I noticed a local adolescent peeping from behind a tree in the woods. I pretended not to notice as he watched me lathe and played with himself. I was turned on by this lascivious display of sexual gratification. The further I soaped, the more aroused I became. Through the gaps of the wooden planks, the boy caught glimpses of my erection – like a peep show in a sex shop, I titillated the teenager. His eyes were glued to my every move, so much so that he wasn’t aware that his friend had creeped up from behind.

When he felt an extra hand on his throbbing hardness, he let out a yelp of astonishment. Before long, the boys were masturbating each other. They stroked one another without mortification, as if they had done this before, while watching my exhibitionistic performance carefully.

This concupiscent carnality excited me tremendously. Unfortunately, my imminent release was punctured by a fellow member hollering for me to vacate the space for his turn, since I’d been showering for quite a while. I finished my performance with an anticlimactic final, leaving the boys to their own devices.

But this was not the end of our chance encounter. There is more to ‘cum’ in my next correspondence!

Much love and kisses,

Andy

1968

Tokens of Affection

Tad had been sending me tokens of affection since our unbridled liaison at “Norway of Arabia.” Most of the mementos were encrusted precious stones, inlaid into emblems of gold or silver. One costly insignia was a golden engorged penis with a tiny diamond droplet embedded on the top of the slit. This item could either be worn on a chain as a neck ornament or as a nipple or ear ring. The note that came with it read:

“Until we meet again, pin this to your ...☺“

T

I was bewitched and amused by such a unique present. I showed it to my Valet for his counsel.

“What should I do?” I asked.

Andy thought my question comical. “Send Tad a Thank You message and tell him you are grateful for the gifts he has given you. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out,” he said.

“I know that! I want to know if I should wear it,” I remarked.

As soon as I had said it, I knew I shouldn’t have. For a split second a hint of resentment washed over my lover’s otherwise blithe demeanour. Being an honourable gentleman, he opined, “My dear fella, follow your heart. Do what you believe is best and never regret your decision.

“This is a decision you’ll have to make for yourself. I’m not in a position to counsel you without seeming prejudicial.”

His declaration brought me to cognizance. I knew there and then what I had to do, although I did not confide to my beloved what was on my mind until we met with Tad privately not long after our discourse.

An Obstinate Invitation

When Coraline announced to our group that the two young princes had requested Narnia’s and Albert’s presences at one of their chum’s birthday celebrations, the three chaperones were at odds. A meeting was called to discuss how best to handle the invitation without re-experiencing the anguish that had happened to their charges or exasperating the libertine royals.

After an extensive discussion between Señor Triqueros, Zac, Andy, and big-sister Coraline, the decision to escort both invitees to the function was finalized, even though Narnia and Albert both opposed the idea. They had little choice but to agree, since their respective chaperones mandated that they either decline the invitation or be escorted to the party. Since both E.R.O.S. recruits were having a ball with the princes, they opted for the latter. They reasoned they could still enjoy the shindig and not upset the royals by declining the invite.

I was glad to be left with some quality time with my Valet – or so I thought.

Unexpected Summons

Just as I was enjoying Andy’s company, there was a knock on the door. An Abd requested my immediate presence at Dr Fahrib’s study. Andy chaperoned me to my summoner’s chamber.

When we entered, the sheik was standing behind his desk with his back to us, staring out at his expansive estate. Seated comfortably on the sofa was his pal, the athletic Tad. I was taken aback.

Fahrib promulgated, “Andy, stay. You don’t have to leave.” My Valet nodded.

Wondering why I was being summoned, my heart pounded wildly.

Tad signalled for me to sit next to him. As much as I tried to remain unperturbed, I was flustered, conjuring all kinds of unwarranted scenarios I might have wrongfully committed. Yet I couldn’t think of any.

The Arab put his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t look so perturbed, young man. We’re not here to devour you.”

“Though I would like to,” he mused.

The doctor asserted, “Young, remember what you suggested to me in my chamber when we were alone?”

Caught off guard by his comment, I tried desperately to remember what I had said but couldn’t recall what I had espoused. I remained silent. His Excellency resumed, “You proposed I locate a substitute to…” he trailed off, as if embarrassed to continue.

His friend resumed, “To impregnate my friend’s wives.”

My face turned red. I had not envisioned my master actualizing my ingenuous proposition, let alone calling a discussion about it. I gaped, wondering if I might be imagining things. But everything before me seemed real, and I remained quiet.

Tad recommenced, “In order to make this happen, we’ll need you and your Valet.”

“Me? What would you want us to do?” I muttered disconcertedly.

“I want the both of you to perform for me,” the champion replied.

Andy and I were thoroughly confused. We stared at the men, speechless. The room fell silent before the athlete expressed, “I would like the two of you to make love for me – the kind of intimacy you performed for Prince P the first time you met His Highness.”

“But…” I muttered.

The Arab found my obfuscation irresistible. He said amusingly, “But what?”

He proceeded to ruffle my hair and pinch my cheeks. “Boy oh boy, you are so adorable when you are flummoxed. This is what I’d like you to do.”

He began to lay out a mendacious cat and mouse game. By the time he finished his elucidation, I was already delineating my performance within my pretty little head.

Although we did not give the men a definitive answer, my psyche was already operating at optimum vivacity at the thought of this exhibitionistic opportunity.

“Give us a day to think about it,” Andy declared coolly.

But my mind was already charting erotic moves in eagerness for this upcoming assignment.

As soon as we closed our bedroom door, Andy pulled me to him and kissed me passionately, as if it was our very first. When he finally released his grip, he proclaimed, “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine!” He threw me onto the bed and ripped away my thobe.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The Lovers, The Stalker, & The Voyeur

“My voyeur stops paying attention to me

The moment I stop having sex,

But my stalker is more dependable.

He’s more interested in my life as a whole,

Even though I turned down his espousal.

As for my lover,

He was the most loyal –

That was, until we went our separate ways.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

1968

One Night at Assalamu Alaikum

Workmen were busy doing renovations to Sheik Fahrib’s bedchamber. A beautifully crafted teak door took its place where an open archway once separated the lounge from the boudoir. The wall next to this ornate entrance had been refurbished by a gargantuan aquarium. Soft glowing lights, together with a top-of-the-line audio system, were cleverly installed in and out of the tank. Within this ersatz aquamarine haven, large mirrors reflected the marine life that wandered aimlessly within its confines. To the unsuspecting admirer this was a decorative marvel, but for those in the know, this structure housed a two-way mirror. When the glowing lights were lit, the person in the boudoir could observe what was going on in the lounge.

The head of the King rested against this pelagic vivarium, providing the rester with repose, much like a foetus being cradled in its mother’s womb.

The shimmering marine creatures that dwelled within suspected nothing, and neither did the women who would soon be wooed in this love chamber. As for those in the know – we kept vigilant, in the event that an intelligencer might be lurking in our midst to jeopardize our clandestine mission.

At the Appointed Hour

Andy and I crept in to Fahrib’s chambers through a secret passageway made known to us by the sheik himself. Our only illumination consisted of the dim lights that lined this narrow passageway.

The overhead spotlights that were strategically installed in the lounge came on simultaneously when the sound system and the aquarium lights were activated from within the bedchamber. The romantic melodies and illuminances were our cue to take centre stage.

To the unsuspecting onlooker, these spots serve to enhance the colourful aquatic life. But for me and my lover, these were reflectors for the boudoir’s voyeur to espy our erotic performance. If the Almighty would allow us humans to effectuate our stratagem, this would be a win-win situation.

For now, Fahrib the voyeur, Tad the stalker, and –we the lovers were invigorated to initiate this treacherous game of suspenseful duplicity.

Showtime

Andy’s testosteronic aroma never failed to excite me, let alone his god-like essence and strapping physique. He was the epitome of every fantasy. I was the lucky one that had captured his heart and soul. Like actors in a Shakespearean play, we stood in the stillness of this chamber, waiting to be signalled to action.

Suddenly, a rush of anxiety filled my being. I stood frigid, wondering if I could go through with this erotic exercise that once had been so effortless. Now, my heart was thumping with trepidation. “What’s wrong with you? What’s the panic? You’ve put on a show before, and you’ve made love with your Valet gazillion times,” my mind questioned. Yet no rationale came to me. I was feeling my knees go weak, about to buckle, when Andy’s soothing voice whispered, “Are you alright?” He wrapped his muscular arms around my limping physique. Just then, the overhead spots came on and his emphatic assertion drew me back to the present. “There is nothing to fear, except fear itself. Come here. Let me cherish you.” He gave a beguiling grin before planting a lingering kiss on my lips.

Andy was correct. My stage fright vanished with every amorous touch he laid upon me with his gentle fingers. I was held captive within the cocoon of his embrace. I came alive as his tender lips explored my slender physique. Aflame by his masculinity, I surrendered to his teasing nibbles. His swirling tongue glided effortlessly down my boyishness, stirring every fibre of my being to quivering response.

My lover’s alluring propensities took on a vivacity I had difficulty conceding. His passion magnified a thousand-fold within my consciousness as I closed my eyes to this wanton dexterity. I desired him, and he wanted me. Under this euphoric ecstasy, I relinquished my person to his coveted demands.

My Apollo, my Phoebus, who never failed to brighten my person and radiate my soul, had coiled me into his solicitous web of ardent devotion. My coverings fell away with every inhalation of his loving elixir. My lover had exposed my nakedness to the gazing eyes of the unseen voyeur and stalker. They alone were granted dispensation to witness the audacity between my lover and me.

Our fiery gazes never left or strayed from each other. Bewitched by his blueish-green eyes, my soul was bare to him. His oral stimulation had fostered me to arch my back in a balletic pose as his hands supported the small of my back. Watched through the submerged glass, we felt like Poseidon’s pleasure slaves, performing solely for his gratification. I was awed by our agility and reminded of a supple aquatic dance performance I had witnessed during my extensive travels. My former ballet training surged through me as I saw myself swirling and pirouetting across the room, and Andy’s thickness gyrated within the core of my being. The ecstasy and the agony of my dance pedagogy had transformed into the art of intercourse. The grace of movement and the beauty of love had merged into a seraphic epiphany – a unity of the Godhead within and without.

At the precise moment of our orgasmic exultations, I finally grasped my chaperone’s universal knowledge: that the divine and I are but one and the same. It was then I comprehended my guardian’s god-like comportment. Andy knew his birth-right, and he wore his divinity with pride and honour. All of that I saw in him as it came gushing to the forefront. He was indeed a Phoebus Apollo, a sun god beheld in a darkened chamber. There and then, I made a secret covenant to myself, like an apostle to the Son of God - I would follow in his footsteps.

My Valet’s sanctity swirled within me, flooding my kernel with beatific sows of celestial grace. Overjoyed by his tokens of affection, I too released my passion into his garnering gulf. Streams of my succulent splendour oozed from his enticing lips. It was only when we shared the final droplets of my luscious deposits that he liberated his engorgement from my sopping honeycomb. I supped at his dripping remains before sharing my fill with him, so we could both partake in this sexual liturgy of heavenly Eucharist.

We did not relinquish our performance after the lights and music had disappeared, but remained entwined in darkness, savouring the inseparable devotion that had once been the domain of Apollo and his beloved Hyacinth.

The Stalker’s Confession

“A woman’s needs are manifold,” Tad mentioned during Andy’s and my visit to his mansion, a few days after our boudoir exploit.

He related his evening’s adventure to us as we sat under a huge cabana by the swimming pool. He exclaimed mischievously, “I’m impressed! You boys put on a great show the other night.”

We lowered our gaze.

“Your balletic showmanship were tantalizing and arousing. You erotic thespians!” he jested sardonically. “I’ll have to take lessons from you.” He chuckled at his remark. “Seriously, did your school teach you to perform like that?”

Andy chirped coolly before I could comment. He was chary that I might reveal too much of our clandestine education to someone who may or may not be aware of E.R.O.S.

“Love-making comes naturally to us.”

“I wish that were the case with me. It took me years and numerous liaisons before I mastered my savoir vivre,” the Arab expressed vehemently. “As far as I’m concerned, this is an applied art – an intensive dance movement that require hours of execution.” He stared at me as if I were a consummate dancer.

He sighed, “Shahria should take lessons from you.”

Not knowing how to respond, my chaperone and I exchanged impish glances. “Did everything go accordingly?” Andy queried.

“Sort of…”

The athlete halted, thinking of the correct emphasis to continue his statement. “I’ll tell you the truth, since I know you can keep secrets.”

We waited for him to continue.

“Shahria is an attractive woman…” he trailed off. “When it comes to passion, she lies there like a log.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like beautiful women as much as I like good-looking men. But this woman has a lot to learn when it comes to the art of satisfying a man.

“If I hadn’t observed your performance through the looking glass, my erection would have faded before it began. Thanks to you, I was able to imbue her even-though she was fully clothed.” He was amused by his monotonous confession.

“There is so much to be said about our religious indoctrination on our womenfolk. It has obliterated the natural intimacy between a male and a female - in the name of modesty, as taught by our beloved Prophet.

“It is of little wonder our menfolk turn to adolescent boys, courtesans and mistresses for pleasure, leaving the wives solely for procreation,” my stalker vented as he shook his head in befuddlement.

My curiosity had gotten the better of me. I asked, “Was the sheik present when you were f…” I stopped abruptly when Andy gave me a forbidding look.

Tad burst out in laughter. “Of course he was. He watched everything from the peepholes - through the eyes of a forged masterpiece.”

“Which painting?!” I blurted.

“You are one inquisitive little bugger!” the Arab exclaimed gleefully. “The Warhol of Marys that faced the King.”

“Your ‘Master’, the patriarch, had the best view on the entire premise.”

He paused before giving us a devious grin. “He scrutinized our performances and was IMPRESSED.” My stalker broke out in exuberant laughter before he pronounced, “I’m ‘hot and bothered’ by this ‘heated’ chitter-chatter.”

He plunged into the cooling aqua, soaking my lover and me with a ‘Bigger Splash’ like that of Hockney’s painting.

Chapter Fifty

The Misfits

“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.“

Mark Twain

January 2013

Continuation of Andy’s Message (part one)

Young,

You must be eager to find out what transpired after my exhibitionistic shower episode at that homey eatery. ☺

As our group browsed one of Princesa City’s outdoor markets, I was stalked by the two forest boys. They trailed us at a distance, only making appearances when they thought I wasn’t looking. LOL!

Before long, those two had edged up next to me as I was looking at souvenirs for friends. Since I towered over them in height and build, they gawked at me as if at an alien. Their petite stature measured to my waist when they stood next to me.

As it was customary for street vendors to haggle over prices with their clients, I asked the boys if they would bargain on my behalf. They agreed. Although Taer, the older of the two, had a knack for bargaining, his chum Anak was a master of haggling. The both of them would drag me away from the stall in question, if the vendor did not agree to their offer. By harrying away, the stall keeper would often beckon our return, thus sealing the deal we offered.

Even though the duo could only communicate in broken English, it did not deter my rowing pals from soliciting their bargaining services.

We treated the boys to a scrumptious dinner at an outdoor eatery they recommended towards the end of our shopping spree. Throughout our excursion, they seized every opportunity to brush against me – a trait I found adorable. ☺

I invited them for a nightcap at my lodging after a jovial dinner. Quick to jump at that suggestion, they headed back to my hut with me. Before I knew it, we were frolicking naked in the ocean below my chamber. You guessed it, one thing led to another…

To be continued. LOL!

1968

The Hustle

The evening of the princes’ friend’s birthday bash, Coraline came to Andy in a huff.

“Narnia and Albert are getting out of control! They insist on going to the shindig without Zac and me,” the big sister exclaimed.

“Calm down, gal. Tell me what happened?” my guardian soothed.              “Well!” She paused to catch her breath. “Narnia exhorted that she’s old enough to look after herself and my presence is not required,” she sulked. “I explained that it is in her best interest that I escort her to this capricious function, as the princes and their friends are not the most level-headed aristocrats I know.”

“And?” my Valet encouraged.

“And… she threw a fit, calling me obscene names I can’t mention in our present company,” she expressed solicitously, glancing at me.

“That girl locked herself in the room and refused to let me in. I’m terrified she may climb out the window and disappear to the function unannounced, like Cinderella running off to the ball,” she exerted.

“Is Albert acting up, too?” my guardian asked.

Coraline resumed, “As far as I’m aware, Zac is doing his best to talk some sense into Albert as well. He is also demanding to be allowed to go on his own. These two scalawags must be under the influence of the princes… They’re civil otherwise.

“Andy, you must come with us to the party. You’re the one who can coax them to come around.”

Andy chirped, “I’ll go and have a talk with those two. We’ll accompany them if required.” My Valet gave me an impassive expression before he added, “Including Young.”

I shrugged my shoulders to indicate “Whatever.”

Before long, we were dressed and ready to accompany the E.R.O.S. recruits to Vadim’s birthday celebration.

As we walked to our waiting limo, my chaperone apologized to me.

“Sorry Young, to drag you into this. I think it’s best for all of us to escort Narnia and Albert. At the very least, under our watchful eyes, we can be certain those two wouldn’t get up to any mischief.”

He gave me a peck on the cheeks and a flirtatious wink.

“You are a good boy. That’s why I love you very much,” he remarked lasciviously.

At the Bash

Leading up the driveway to the birthday boy’s home were rows of fancy cars and motorbikes, parked serendipitously by the valets hired specially for this plush event. This palatial mansion belonged to Vadim’s father, a close friend and an inner circle confidant of the Al Qaawasim royal household.

Like many of his peers, the birthday boy was a descendant of a wealthy Sharjah family. Vadim’s father had gone overseas on a business trip, leaving his son to his own devices.

As this was the twenty-one-year-old’s official ‘coming-of-age’ soiree, he had solicited the help of a notable London party planner. Much like the ‘The Club’ I had visited with Ubaid, this party was as swinging as any London private functions of that era.

Alcohol flowed freely, and so did the improprieties of the guests. Many were smooching and necking along the numerous corridors and by the state-of-the-art swimming pool.

The majority of the females were of Caucasian descent, with a few Asians and Europeans thrown in, whereas the male invitees were mainly Middle Easterners, except for a handful of Eurasians (children of interracial marriages between Arab males and Caucasian women). The few white men present were Andy, Zac, Señor Triqueros, a Frenchman by the name of Andrei from French Polynesia, and Ludvig from Stockholm, Sweden. Both men had been invited to the party by their Arabian college mate, currently studying in Paris and back in Sharjah on vacation. Apart from me, the few Asian males were Filipinos and Thais. I discovered later that they and the majority of Caucasian girls had been recruited by a London escort agency as ‘playmates’ for the guests.

Dance of the Seven Veils

Once the party got into full swing, a humongous birthday cake was wheeled out by a couple of manservants. The DJ started spinning an Arabian rendition of the birthday song. Suddenly, a brawny Nubian dancer in full belly dancing regalia burst out from the top of the cake. The female impostor gyrated her way out onto the dance floor amidst a sea of rambunctious cat-calls and wolf-whistles from her venerated admirers.

She twirled and whirled, tantalizing her rousing spectators like the whore of Babylon. As if performing Salome’s dance of the seven veils, she fluttered her purdahs off her sensually masculine body, while oscillating her hips toward those who had the audacity to cross her path. Her exotic performance drew the intoxicated into her web of erotic delights. The fervid longing on her heavily made-up face bewitched the rumbustious audience into heighten screams of salacious ecstasies.

Just as the last of the gossamer veils floated off her well-formed nudity, the roaring sounds of a speeding bike came crashing through the entrance of the opulent ballroom.

A young, muscly male, wearing only a skimpy speedo and motorcycle helmet, zoomed in on the latest Egli-Vincent - the then-top-of-the-line British-made motorcycle. The bike skittered to a stop in front of the Nubian. She jumped onto the driver’s seat and the duo blasted off to the extensive swimming pool, circling the edge twice before the naked youth discarded his helmet, revealing his true identity. It was none other than the impudent birthday boy.

As the haring bike rounded the pool’s corner, Vadim dove into the pool, splashing torrents of water over the cheering spectators, drenching them to the bone.

Out of the blue, a pair of soggy speedos came flying through the air. The birthday boy had flung them out to the audience after removing the trucks underwater. He dared his well-wishers to jump in after him, naked.

Shedding their fineries, Vadim’s compeers followed suit. Before long, the pool was filled with naked frolickers enjoying a debaucherous fix with the birthday boy in his birthday suit. Enraptured by such ostentatious theatrics, my jaw dropped in bewilderment, when Coraline and Zac dashed towards me.

“Have you seen Narnia or Albert?” they beseeched breathlessly.

I shook my head.

“Where’s Andy and Victor?” they questioned simultaneously.

Again, I shook my head. That was when I spotted my Valet and the Señor across the pool. I pointed at them. They rushed over when they saw our agitated faces.

A couple minutes later, our search party was looking everywhere for the missing E.R.O.S. recruits. Out of nowhere, a thought flashed through my mind.

“Vadim will know where they are,” I blurted to my guardian.

Extracting information from an inebriated Vadim while he was in the middle of a pool fest was next to impossible.

“اخبرنا الى اين! (Tell us where to look!),” My teacher finally spoke in Arabic.

Overtly aroused by the underwater blowjobs he was receiving, the birthday youth muttered, “جرب مطعم جازيبو (Try the gazebo).”

Not knowing where the gazebo was located, we rushed out to the massive gardens, hoping some servant or guard would direct us to the place.

Sure enough, we encountered the weed-smoking female imposter, who was on her way to the gazebo. She was obviously looking for other areas in which to partake in more fun and games. She pointed to the direction of the pavilion, situated some distance away.

She muttered,“كمان (I’ll take you).”

At the Pavilion

As we drew near the dimly lit summerhouse, whiffs of a mixture of turpentine, gasoline and an odd odour of old ladies’ perfume rushed up my nostrils. Although I felt nauseated, I managed to maintain my equilibrium.

Andy and Zac bid me stay a short distance away while they entered. Instead, I snuck up to the window to peek in. What I saw were naked and semi naked bodies in various stages of copulation. Unlike a regular orgy where the participants were lucid, these entrants smoked or snorted a white powdery snuff, unknown to me at the time, as cocaine. Some were injecting themselves with lime acid (LSD). I was dumbfounded.

Lying in the midst of a sea of writhing bodies was Narnia, naked as a jaybird. She was atop Haalib. The bad boy had injected himself with a dose of lemonade – (liquid Heroin). The powdery substance covered the girl’s breasts as she and her swain shared the ingestibles with passionate oral amorosity.

They were stoned, and so was Albert, who was in the throes of a cataleptic passion with a group of hangers-on of prince Azil. They took turns raping the boy’s receptacles. He was in a torpor when Andy dragged him away from his assailants, carrying him out of the pavilion on his broad shoulders.

When Coraline and Zac got to Narnia and disentangled her from the stuporous Haalib, she kicked up a storm. Having no intention of leaving this drug-infused bacchanalian revelry, the screaming girl had to be hauled out of this sinful pavilion of carnal pleasures and back to Peace Be Upon You - Assalamu Alaikum.

Chapter Fifty-One

Say a Little Prayer

“Never forget the three powerful resources

That are always available to you:

Love,

Prayer,

And

Forgiveness.”

H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

1968

Resolutions

Narnia and Albert were immediately dispatched to their respective boarding schools after that tempestuous party. Their respective chaperones and our teacher decided it was in their best interest to return the misfits to E.R.O.S. for rehabilitation. Without having to consult my Valet, I had a premonition that this would be the end of my peers’ harem involvement.

When the sheik got wind of the escapade, he stormed over to his brother’s mansion, demanding that his nephews be expedited to a private drug rehabilitation clinic in Germany, ASAP, before the snooping paparazzi got wind of this exploit. At the very least, the family would have an alibi for the young princes (that they were in a foreign land when this disreputable incident happened).

For keeping their mouths shut, the household staff were nicely rewarded. So were my chaperone and I, with a week’s all-expenses-paid vacation to anywhere we wanted via the sheik’s private jet. Although my beloved Andy declined the offer, insisting that it was our ethical duty as E.R.O.S. members to keep this incident secret, His Excellency would not take no for an answer.

When it came time for us to leave Fahrib’s service, the benevolent doctor rewarded us handsomely. Our honorable fortitude had so inspired the sheik that he requested a second term of our service. Little were we aware that my stalker was ahead of the game; unbeknownst to my Valet and me, Tad had already been a long-standing member of the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society.

At Tutorial

The only student left standing, or, rather, attending class, was moi. Somehow I had survived Vadim’s birthday bash unscathed, thanks to my drugs and alcohol allergies. I was deemed ‘the goody two-shoes’ by Narnia, Albert and the princes before we went our separate ways.

Señor Triqueros counselled that mournful morning at tutorial, “We must send prayers to our fellow students that they’ll convalesce rapidly from their egregious addiction.”

When it came my turn to say a prayer, I had difficulty finding anything positive to say about my peers, who hadn’t been civil to me since my arrival at Assalamu Alaikum.

I remained mum before Victor remarked, “Young, sometimes people say hurtful things when they are not in their right mind. Holding a grudge against them is harmful to your wellbeing, and also to your health.”

“How so?” I blurted. “They were nasty to me.”

“Now, boy, you must learn to forgive. When your forgiveness is genuine, you’ll find that a burden is lifted off your shoulders. You’re no longer bound to them by chains of invisible torment. Exoneration will unblock your path to happiness.

“The more animosity you hold, the further you’ll slip. It may reach a point where acrimony turns to revenge. This could easily turn your ethicality to wickedness.” He paused for my reaction.

I nodded.

“We don’t want that to happen, do we?” he said in all seriousness.

Say a Little Prayer

I questioned, “What should I say in my prayer?”

My teacher advised, “Gratitude is a good start. You see, Young, many people ask the wrong things when they pray. It is fallacious to ask ‘God’ to give me this or that, or to provide me with this or that.

“In truth, prayers are affirmations to bring about change for the good of society and mankind. Prayers are energy fields; the more you pray or affirm, the further the vibrancy of your energy will expand.”

I uttered, “I was taught by my mother that prayers are telepathic messages we send to god for things we want to manifest in our lives.”

My teacher smiled at my assertion. “Most people pray to god for help when they are in distress, and it does provide an opportunity for god to comfort the devotee.

“Very often, humans pray through despair, and prayers lighten the heaviness of the heart when we open up to god. To put it mildly, prayer is relinquishing one’s control and allowing god to decide what the best solution to the dilemma is.”

He paused before resuming, “You see, Young, prayers are not requests, but communions with god through single-minded devotion. Prayer is tuning the mind with god. It is fixing the focus on ‘God’ and meditating on ‘Him.’

“This leads me to the subject of ‘God’. All human beings are gods because we are made in the same image as ‘The Creator.’ It is of little wonder most people worship a god from without rather than within, as many religions consider ‘God’ as a separate entity from the self.

“When you acknowledge and accept that you are ‘God,’ the exercise of praying transforms to that of surrendering yourself to your soul or spirit, thus melting the mind and ego in silence – In God. Prayer then becomes a mystic state when the individual consciousness is absorbed within the self with the cosmic energy (God-energy).

“Cosmic energy possesses the power to heal and rejuvenate an individual and/or the universe. This is at times known as ‘Spiritual Healing’.”

“Wow, I didn’t know prayer was so powerful. Tell me more,” I vociferated enthusiastically.

“Don’t underestimate the power of prayer. It is an uplifting of the soul to god (cosmos), an act and adoration of the supreme self. It is the worship and glorification of the God-self, an acknowledgement that the answers you are seeking can be found within you. All you need to do is tap into the source through prayer and/or meditation,” my professor advocated.

Cosmic Energy Healing

“What is Cosmic Energy, and how can I receive its power?” I questioned.

“Cosmic energy is also referred to as the life force and the energy that maintains the balance of the entire cosmos.

“This divine energy is also known as the energy of supreme consciousness and intelligence, and we are surrounded by it all the time. It is everywhere.

“The Earth Energy is part of it and is often recognized as Mother Earth or Gaia,” Victor explained.

“Therefore prayer is an invocation, a calling forth of spiritual forces that are flowing through the human body, heart, mind and soul. Although this divine impetus is invisible to the naked eye, it is as real as gravity or attraction. It is the soul and essence of religion, the core of every man’s life.”

I raised my hand.

“Sir, you haven’t as yet told me how I can receive this supreme energy?”

He chuckled at my impatience. “As I mentioned earlier, Cosmic Energy is abundant in the cosmos. To gather this energy, you can either use chakra breathing exercises or learn Energy Healing,” he explicated before adding, “In my opinion, the simplest and best path to receive this positive energy is through meditation.

“You see, Young, Cosmic Energy enters through the mind, and meditation helps the mind focus on receiving it. When this power enters our individual mind-body system through the chakras it supports the human energy field. Most of the time, human chakras are partially close because of the distractions (anxiety, fear, worry, stress and varied negative emotions) within the mind.

“The mind and body merges into one during meditation. This helps the physical and spiritual self to receive the power that activates the Cosmic Energy Healing.

“One can also channel Cosmic Energy through ‘Breathing Meditation.’ This form of meditation generates calmness within the mind and aids the development of inner peace. I recommend you practice it daily. Once your mind is calm, you are susceptible to receiving Cosmic Energy.”

I injected, “Monsieur Dubois taught me how to meditate.”

“But do you practice it daily?” the Señor asked.

I shook my head.

The Señor declared, “To increase rapid energy flow within the body, you can also focus on your breathing through your root chakra. This will absorb the earth’s healing and grounding energy, which helps support your body avatar.”

I Am that I Am

A question flashed through my mind. “Is that why Muslims pray five times a day?” I questioned.

“You tell me. Why do Muslims pray five times a day?” my teacher pronounced amusingly.

“Because…” Not knowing the answer to my question, I trailed off.

My professor asserted wittily, “Have you forgotten what I said earlier?”

He waited for my reply. None came.

“We can use prayer as a way of…” he prompted.

“Opening our hearts to ‘God’: not a being living in an extra-dimensional heaven, but the wellspring of creative energy within us and the universe.”

“Clever boy! And by quieting our minds, we can open ourselves to experience…” he waited.

“The Divine,” I twittered. “This experience will lead the devotee to renewed conceptions of our place within the universe. Thereby rendering a way of transcending our own suffering.

“We can find comfort in prayer that ‘God’ is with us and in us always when distressing things happen to us or our loved ones.”

“And who is this ‘God’?” Victor questioned.

“‘He’ is not a bearded old man sitting in judgement of his minions in the sky, nor are we pawns in a cosmic chess game made to suffer according to ‘His’ divine plan. Therefore, the divine Godhead is the I Am that I Am.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed my professor.

“We can also use prayer as a way of expressing gratefulness. Once we realize we are not independent, but dependent creatures, we can be thankful for the blessings showered upon us.

“Societal pressure is constantly upon us to want more of this or that – money, power, sex, material items – the list goes on. These are things that do not bring true happiness. It is through gratitude that we accept we are well provided for. We can also use prayer as a method of forgiveness for wrongful things we have said or done in our lives and for transgressions we feel have been committed against us.” He gave me a sly glance.

“Many psychologists counsel that healing cannot happen without forgiveness,” he stated, circling back to his original point.

Embarrassed, I avoided his stare.

He continued to explain, “Prayer can also be an implement to connect with others. We pray for someone in trouble to wish them well - without the expectation that a supernatural intervention will make this so. Instead, the prayer for others is about connecting with what that person is going through. By expressing compassion, we empathize with their experiences. As soon as we realize that ‘God’ - the spark of our being, is also the spark of theirs; this connection with others is strengthened.

“Young, the best testimony to our discussion is to experience the prayer and its spiritual joys. Then you’ll know what it really means.” He was quiet.

With his palms to mine, we closed our eyes and prayed for our friends’ wellbeing and speedy recovery.

PART FIVE

United Kingdom – London

Philippines – Palawan Island

Thailand – Bangkok

India – Madras (Chennai)

Chapter Fifty-Two

Serendipitous Miscalculations

“What people call serendipity sometimes is just having your eyes open.”

Jose Manuel Barroso

January 2013

Continuation of Andy’s Message (part two)

…It was great to skinny dip in such a beautiful environment. It was difficult not to fall prey to these two attractive, brown-skinned boys with their enticing brown eyes, exotic smiles and seductive charms. In turn, they found my masculinity irresistible. That evening we frolicked under the silvery moon.

Amidst the gentle rolling waves, we lay on the shoreline. I was in heaven when they enveloped me in a dizzying spell of unbridled resignation. Both of them took turns lapping at the fiber of my existence, teasing and caressing my engorgement with agile dexterity. I could no longer hold off my essence and sprayed on their faces. We shared my dripping rivulets in a passionate three-way kiss.

When they continued suckling my penis, I was steered back to life. I had to possess their tenderness. I took turns pleasuring their puckering fissures as they begged for my stiffness with irrepressible gusto.

Boy, did they love my proclivity! The louder their groans, the harder I pounded. When I withdrew from one, the other was poised for insertion. They couldn’t get enough of my onslaught. I was in ecstasy as I whisked back and forth between these two insatiable accomplices.

The more acute my plundering, the more uncontrollable their hardness throbbed. Anak, no longer able to withhold his enthusiasm, spewed into Taer’s throat while I plucked away at his friend’s rucking furrow. Taer’s twitching tightness had me deposit my fill into his receiving orifice.

Anak wasted no time in devouring the oozing drippage around my pulsating phallus, still enshrouded within his buddy’s tunnel.

To pleasure himself, the unquenchable Taer wanted my bobbing organ down his throat. I obliged. In a trancelike delirium, the Filipino released jets of potent effusions onto his slender abdomen. Our tongues swirled in erotic kisses as we shared our libations in frantic elation.

Unwilling to relinquish this enchanted evening, we dove into the shimmering ocean, only to emerge rejuvenated, ready to resume the sequel of our sexcapade.

1968

The Sheik’s Summon

Fahrib gave a sigh of relief when we met in the library. He had requested my presence after a hectic work day. My Master was exhausted, yet a sense of serendipitous satisfaction filled the chamber with Papageno’s Aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute.

Like an oversized leprechaun, the doctor was prancing cheerily around the room on his fiddle. I had seldom seen this solemn patriarch behave in such a jovial manner. I stood entranced, befuddled by such ebullience. He motioned for me to sit.

I waited for the final melody to subside before His Excellency spoke. “I can’t keep my happiness to myself. I have to let it out. You’re the only person who will understand my frivolity.”

I nodded and said nothing.

Out of breath, he added, “There are many things to celebrate.”

“What’s the joyous occasion?” I asked.

My Master exclaimed as he plonked himself next to me, “Many folds, my boy, many folds!

“For a start, my wife is with child. That is cause for celebration.”

I cried joyously, “Congratulations, Your Excellency. I’m delighted for you and Shahria.”

He stopped me before I could continue. “It’s Roya that is with child, not Shahria.”

Surprised, I blurted without thinking: “Roya? But…”

“Yes, my beloved Roya. Now I have an heir,” he announced. He added cheekily, “But what, Young?”

“I… thought it was Shahria in the chamber…” I trailed off, wondering how to proceed.

The sheik interjected smirkingly, “There is more than what meets the eye.”

Not to be impertinent, I kept quiet. The sheik glanced at me. “I’ll give you a clue, if you are wondering who…”

I nodded furiously.

“He’s an avid art savant.”

All I could conjure was, “Oh!”

Jabril, the art historian, came to mind, but the doctor changed the subject before I had time to hypothesize further.

“A load has been lifted off my shoulders since Haalib and his brother went to rehab.

“Instead of dealing with their peccadillos, I can concentrate on my investments and the affairs of the state.”

He let out a sigh.

“And last but not least, P is visiting tomorrow,” the Arab delivered with relish. “He’s coming to discuss our projects and investments.”

“It’ll be nice to see Prince P again,” I said delightfully.

“Ahh, that’s why I called for you,” the sheik continued. “We’ll be discussing business strategies during his visit to Sharjah. I would like you, Andy, Jabril and Tad to accompany the womenfolk to London.”

“To London?” I quipped.

“Tad has a residence in London. Victor, Jabril, Andy, the women, and you will be staying at the Dorchester,” my Master announced.

Surprised by his declaration, I queried, “The London Dorchester? Are we going on a shopping spree with the household females?”

The sheik found my proclamation comical. He iterated, “Yes, Young, you’ll be staying at the London Dorchester and going on a shopping spree. I would like the five of you to chaperone my wives and the womenfolk for a holiday in London.

“I need uninterrupted time with P to discuss our business accruements.”

I nodded, acknowledging the ‘real’ reason the patriarch wanted us out of the way during his lover’s visit to Sharjah.

The News

Andy was already waiting for me outside the library. I couldn’t wait to tell him what had transpired within.

“We’re leaving for London with the Assalamu Alaikum ladies,” I announced.

“I know,” came my Valet’s answer.

“Who told you?” I stared at my Valet in disbelief.

“I know everything, including the addition to the Royal Household.

“Jabril and I spoke when you were with the sheik. An upcoming celebration is in the works.”

“That’s wonderful! Then I don’t have to repeat what was said in the library,” I twittered.

He nodded before we proceeded to our chamber to pack for our upcoming sojourn.

Aboard the ‘Ship’

All our bags were packed and ready to go. Instead of flying BOAC first class with my mummy dearest, I was on board the ‘Ship’ with my lover, teacher, stalker, an art historian and a gaggle of harem women chitter-chattering in a foreign language at the aft.

As I sat at the nose, contemplating my life’s recent events, Tad crept up to join me.

He began chirpily, “I’m happy for Fahrib and his parents. A child is on the way.”

“I’m delighted with the news too,” I seconded. “At least his parents won’t be nagging him to produce another heir anytime soon, now that Roya is with child.”

He gave me a devious smile but said nothing.

I decided to be bold.

“I’m surprised the child isn’t yours but Jabril’s.”

Tad looked at me artfully before bursting out in laughter. “Jabril’s!”

I stared at him. His laughter attracted my Valet, who came to join us.

“What is so hilarious?” he insisted.

The athlete looked at me and questioned, “Who told you the child is Jabril’s?”

“The sheik said he’s an avid art savant…” I chirped.

The Arab burst forth in merriment again before I could continue. Andy and I exchanged bewildering glances.

My chaperone questioned, “Whose child is Jabril’s? I didn’t know he has a child?

“He’s preparing his engagement to Kifah. Is Kifah pregnant?”

“Jabril is marrying Kifah?!” I exclaimed in befuddlement.

“Fahrib told you, didn’t he?” my Valet declared.

“No he didn’t. He told me his wife is pregnant,” I expressed.

“Pregnant!” My guardian vociferated.

“Shush, lower your voices,” hushed my stalker, who was in a teeter.

He beckoned us closer. “Roya is carrying Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani’s child.”

“What?” My guardian promulgated. “Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, the sheik’s cousin from Qatar?”

“Who?” I cried.

Andy shushed me. He leaned over and whispered, “We met him at the Sotheby’s art auction. Remember?”

“Him! I thought he was Fahrib’s rival?” I chirped.

“Only when it comes to purchasing art and luxury items. Our kind like to compete in owning the crème de la crème - keeping up with the Joneses, so to speak. Otherwise, we are pals,” Tad exponentiated. “Young, this is the way our culture operates.”

Suddenly, a lightbulb illuminated my thoughts. I voiced, “Is that the reason Sheik Fahrib forged the Warhol ‘Marys’ and had their eyes cut out as peepholes? To deride Mansoor Jassim bin Abdul Al Thani for outbidding His Excellency on the ‘Marys’?”

The champion nodded with a sardonic smile. “My golly, you got it!” he muttered, imitating Professor Henry Higgins.

“How… how did Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani and Roya…” I trailed off when Andy’s look reminded me that I shouldn’t precipitate further on this hypersensitive topic.

Just then, Jabril and my teacher joined us.

I evinced courteously, “Andy just informed me of your upcoming engagement. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, boy. This is not the last of me,” he responded with a roguish smile and a mischievous wink before the men moved on to other topics of discussion.

I gazed out the window, speculating about the relationship between Roya and Munsor Fayaad, when a hand touched my shoulder. It belonged to none other than my stalker, Tad.

“Have dinner with me alone this evening. I’ll satisfy your curiosity,” he whispered wickedly.

“What about Andy?” I muttered.

He gave me a barely perceptible wink.

Chapter Fifty-Three

A Hymn To Him

“Why can’t women be more like men?”

Professor Henry Higgins

(Pygmalion)

January 2013

My Response to Andy’s Message

Andy,

I find your erotic essay charming and amusing. Are you trying to write in the style of Young? LOL!

I’ve never known you to be flagrantly descriptive in any subject matter, let alone erotica. My, oh my! You have certainly come a long way from the Andy I knew. ☺

Jesting aside, you already have me hooked on your Palawan Island escapade. Please do not construe my remark as rude. Your erotic descriptions are genuinely endearing.

Love,

Young.

1968

The Harem Women

Although I had consulted with the Assalamu Alaikum women during our fashion discussions, unlike the Kosk Household, where they were genial with one another, this assemblage was filled with sparring and indignation. On the surface, they appeared congenial, but when backs were turned, backstabbing became de rigueur.

The women’s body language often divulged more than their spoken words did, even though my Arabic fluency was paltry at best.

In London, my propinquity with the ladies made it difficult for me to communicate safely with the opposing factions within this splintered household. The women – Shahria, Roya, Kifah, Iba, Ain, Ayisha, Fatima, Lina and Safiya - had divided themselves into three conflicting camps.

The conservationist champions of the Islamic fundamentalist doctrines were Shahria and Ain. Expelling religious quotes from their sacred book, the Koran was their escutcheon of righteousness. In any circumstance that did not conform to their religious principles, these two would be the first to dissuade the others from pursuing whatever alluring attractions were at hand, even if their counterparts disregarded their orthodox stance.

I was sure a beastly eruption would ensue if these two “Sisters of Perpetual Abstinence” were to meet their antithetical analogue, the “Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.”

Roya, Kifah, Iba and Lina were the counterbalance. Although their traditional garb concealed their unorthodoxy, these four women were the least reticent within the entourage. An onlooker would never suspect mavericks lurking behind the gossamer veils. Much like Nasreen and Shiya from the Kosk Household, these four females were audacious forerunners to contemporary Arabian womenfolk.

The moderates were Ayisha, Fatima and Safiya. They would sway between camps as suited their interests.

For now, Roya, the carrier of the royal heir, was the envy of them all and the one that held the highest approbation, even though her proponents were clueless about the real identity of the royal foetus.

In keeping with the tradition of most affluent soon-to-be brides throughout history, Kifah’s trousseau would be the most exquisite money could buy. Although her family was not as well-heeled as either Shahria’s or Roya’s, she was a lady in waiting to the Sheikhas and a cousin to the royal household. That in and of itself demanded a resplendent wardrobe beyond her parents’ means. After all, her Big Day would be attended by an aristocratic patronage, and her family did not want to lose face to their more plutocratic peers. They had little choice but to cough up a presentable dowry for their soon-to-be son-in-law, the bisexual art historian, Meneer Jabril Zev Saliba.

The Dorchester

My Anglophilia for all things British never waned during my years of harem services. On the contrary, the longer I was away from England, the more I yearned for its civilizing timelessness. An invisible force tugged at my bosom from the city I would eventually call home.

The quality time spent with my surrogate dad and guardian, Mr. James R. Pinkerton, had become entrenched in my psyche, and London, rather than Kuala Lumpur, the place of my delivery, was now my hearth.

Like the Ritz, the Dorchester, situated on Park Lane and Deanery Street to the east of Hyde Park, is one of the world’s most prestigious and expensive hotels. This Grande Dame opened its doors on the 18th of April 1931. She retained her 1930s furnishings and ambiance, despite her 1950s modernization by theatrical designer Oliver Messel. Besides incorporating aspects of his flamboyant design to the hotel interior, the lavish apartments on the 7th and 8th floors, especially the Oliver Messel Suite, aptly named after the decorator and designed in the Georgian country house style, were wildly sought after by royalties, literary luminaries, A-list actors, models and rock stars. Celebrities such as the late Ms. Elizabeth Taylor and her then-husband Richard Burton frequented the hotel throughout the 1960s and 70s.

As was the norm, the Sharjah/London cultural attaché made all the necessary arrangements to ensure our comfortable stay in the city. As much as the sheik would have liked to ensconce his pregnant wife, Roya, at the Oliver Messel Suite, it was already occupied by Said bin Taimur, the ruling Sultan of Oman at the time.

We were relegated to the other suites within the seventh floor, which were just as luxurious as ‘The’ Oliver Messel Suite. Much to our Arab males’ chagrin, however, Roya and her ladies-in-waiting did not share the men’s sentiments. Carrying a royal heir merited royal treatment, reasoned Roya, Lina and Safiya, who kicked up a storm of furore with both cultural attachés. Tad and Jabril had to step in to make peace. Roya finally accepted an appeasement after a long-distance conversation with her husband (as restitution for this abhorrent atrocity, the sheik agreed to buy her, her desired jewellery from the infamous Asprey). Only then did she and her attendants calm down before retiring to their respective suites with aplomb, with the knowledge that the royal bearer could now manipulate her latent homosexual husband with the child in her womb.

At the Promenade

Besides Tad, Jabril, Sahim, the cultural attaché, and Hussain (his assistant, breathing sighs of relief), we men proceed into the Promenade for a swig of traditional English afternoon tea while the women took rest within their appropriated chambers.

As soon as we’d ordered our beverages, the athletic Tad vociferated, “Women, women, women! What could’ve possessed them? I cannot understand those wretches at all. Women are irrational; that’s all there is to that!”

He continued vexedly, “Their heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags! They’re nothing but exasperating, irritating, vacillating, calculating, agitating, maddening and infuriating hags.”

Señor Triqueros countered jestingly, “Ah, perhaps it is because men are so honest and thoroughly square?”

“Exactly. So eternally noble and historically fair. Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat. Why can’t women be like that?” my stalker added. His annoyance, however, was dissipating at my teacher’s lighthearted rendition.

Jabril couldn’t resist adjoining. “Why does every one do what the others do? Can’t a woman learn to use her head? Why do they do everything their mothers do? Why don’t they grow up, well, like their fathers instead?”

We burst into laughter, including the two officials, who had taken the recent mishap with gravity.

The athlete resumed, “Why can’t a woman take after a man? Men are so pleasant, so easy to please. Whenever you’re with them, you’re always at ease.”

The art historian negated with glee, “Would you be slighted if I didn’t speak for hours?”

“Of course not,” my Valet chimed.

I was taken aback by his candor, let alone his participation in such witless irony.

The Levantine twittered capriciously, “Would you be livid if I had a drink or two?”

Andy declared, “Nonsense.”

He turned to me and asked, “Would you be wounded if I never sent you flowers?”

I answered pensively, “Yes, I would!”

“Well, a woman is just like you!” my lover teased. The men burst into hilarity.

Tad resumed, “One man in a million may shout a bit. Now and then, there’s one with slight defects. One perhaps whose truthfulness you doubt a bit, but by and large, we are a marvelous sex! Why can’t a woman take after a man?”

Victor seconded, “Because men are so friendly, good-natured and kind. A better companion you never will find.”

My chaperone said cheekily, “If I were hours late for dinner, would you bellow? If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss? Would you complain if I took out another fellow?”

“Oh yes, I would!” I replied testily.

My stalker pronounced, “Men are so decent, such regular chaps, ready to help you through any mishaps, ready to buck you up whenever you’re glum.

“Why can’t a woman be a chum?”

Jabril expressed before anyone could reply, “Why is thinking something women never do? And why is logic never even tried? Straightening up their hair is all they ever do. Why don’t they straighten up the mess that’s inside?”

This last statement seemed to strike a chord with Hussain. We had no knowledge that he was having problems with his Irish girlfriend.

Tad declared animatedly, “If I were a woman who’d been hailed as ‘Madonna’ by one and by all, would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing, or carry on as if my home were in a tree? Would I storm off in a peeve?

“Why can’t a woman be like me?”

As our party continued with our moronic tittle-tattle, the solemn patrons glanced in our direction with distaste. I was absolutely positive that our atrocious behavior that afternoon was beyond vulgar in the eyes of the prim and proper in this Promenade of graceful tea toddlers. After all, this was England, a nation known to keep a stiff upper lip.

The Sultan of Oman

Our imprudent mimicry ceased as soon as Tad and our Arab officials caught sight of a regal gentleman entering the tea room. Accompanied by a profusion of cohorts and a couple of British diplomats, this middle-aged Arab occupied a cordoned-off section of the dining hall.

My stalker, the art historian and the two attachés excused themselves to pay homage to the man in question, leaving my Valet and me to cogitate.

“He must be the Sultan,” my chaperone surmised.

“Which Sultan?” I questioned.

“The sultan that had the Assalamu Alaikum ladies in a flutter,” Andy declared.

“The Sultan of Muscat and Oman?” I chirped.

My lover nodded. “Right on, boy. The Said bin Taimur.”

“What is he doing in London?” I asked.

“He must be here to consolidate power with the Brits. After all, he gained sovereignty over Muscat and Oman with the help of the British SAS,” my guardian speculated.

“What is SAS?” I queried.

“The SAS is the ‘Special Air Service,’ a notable forces unit of the British Army.”

I questioned curiously, “Why does he require help from Britain, now that he is the supreme ruler?”

“Young, politics is a dirty game. When one achieves dominance, he is afraid of losing it and will make concessions to remain in power,” my guardian explained. “Rumour has it, he did little to improve the lives of his people. Many believe his conservative policies are the reasons Oman has an infant mortality rate of seventy-five percent, and trachoma, venereal disease and malnutrition are widespread.

“Reportedly, there are only 3 schools, with a five percent literacy rate. There are only a few paved roads in the country.

“While his country’s denizens suffer, he lives in the lap of luxury.”

Andy paused before adding, “I’m not surprised if he is negotiating protection deals with the British authorities. If I were him, I would fear a coup.”

Our Arabian contingent returned to our midst just as a scrumptious selection of finger sandwiches, scones and pastries arrived at our table, together with pots of brewing Darjeeling, the Champagne of teas.

Chapter Fifty-Four

London’s Gentlemen’s Clubs

“Courtesy is as much a mark of a gentleman as courage.”

Theodore Roosevelt

February 2013

Continuation of Andy’s Message (part three)

Thank you, Young, for your evaluation of my beginner’s attempt at erotic writing. It is no easy task following in the footsteps of an erotic auto-biographer.

You are indeed correct to note my lack of descriptive commentary when we were an “item.” I’ve come a long way. Age, maturity and experiences have much to do with my transformation. I’m more frank than you give me credit for these days. ☺

When we do meet, you’ll have a vastly different perspective of the man you once knew. For now, will you allow me to resume my tale?

1977

Palawan Island, Philippines

Taer and Anak became our tour guides, accompanying us wherever we went. Although we did not pay for their services, we treated them to meals and paid their entrance fees to places of interest. Whenever I asked about their home and schooling schedules, they provided anomalous excuses.

The first few nights, they stayed at my hut. Since we had nothing in common besides unbridled sex, I soon grew weary of their presence. Moreover, I needed time alone, but they couldn’t bear the thought of leaving. They clung onto me as if I were their saviour.

I had no choice but to bid them to return home – and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. They confided in me that they had run away from their dysfunctional families and were homeless before we met. They had been relying on me to provide for them. I now had a problem I hadn’t envisioned.

So, I consulted with my rowing buddies. These were their suggestions:

●    Without telling the boys, move to another part of the city.

●    Call it quits and compensate the boys with some financial aid.

●    Break off all ties with them.

I ended up doing all three, but that was not the end of Taer and Anak. My saving grace was that I had not told the boys my return date to Canada.

The rest of my Palawan Island vacation was spent avoiding the Filipino teenagers.

More to the point, this was what transpired after my ‘Dear John’ conversation with them.

‘Dear John’ Monologue

On the day I terminated our relationship, Anak and Taer were their usual spirited selves, doing their best to tempt me into a three-way liaison.

They thought I was playing a dominance-and-submission game until I put a stop to their seduction with an authoritative stance. At that point, they turned sheepish, and I made them hear me out.

It was difficult delivering my ‘Dear John’ spiel, but I knew I had to do it. It was for the greater good after all. It was gruelling not to feel guilty when they looked so mousey and lost.

I said, “The two of you are sweet and accommodating, but you must realize our liaison must come to an end. I’ll be returning to Quebec, and you guys will have to make a life for yourselves here.”

“We go you to Quebec for you,” Taer replied in broken English.

“Yes, we go you Quebec,” Anak professed.

“I’m afraid that is not possible. I can’t look after you,” I expressed.

“Why no? We help in house,” chirped the older boy.

“Yes, we help in house,” seconded the younger one.

Those two made every conceivable excuse to hang onto me, envisioning me as their ticket out of the Philippines. I did everything in my power to end the affair sensibly, but my reasoning seemed to fly over their heads. I was left with no choice but to toss them out of my lodging. It was not a pretty sight when we finally parted ways. Before they left, they swore revenge and that I would not see the end of them.

The situation turned ugly.

1968

Gentlemen’s Clubs

Prior to our Arab contingent’s return from paying homage to the Sultan of Muscat and Oman, I took the opportunity to come clean to Andy. I confided to my Valet about my dinner invitation from Tad.

My chaperone’s comment surprised me. “I had been waiting for you to tell me about your dinner invitation with Tad,” he remarked.

I stared at him in amazement. “How did you know he invited me to dinner?”

“Ahh! I know more than you think I do,” was his reply.

“In that case, I don’t need to tell you anymore,” I answered pensively.

Andy laughed before adding, “Tad asked me if I could loan you for an evening.”

“Loan! I’m not an article that can be traded back and forth,” I exclaimed. “I’m a living, breathing…”

Andy chimed before I could finish. “A living, breathing, purring pussycat?” he teased.

I gave him a playful slap for his insolence. Instead of retaliation, he kissed me in full view of the diners and Señor Triqueros.

I muttered in confusion by this unexpected display of affection, “Why did you do that?”

He gazed at me adoringly. “Because I love you, and I’m allowing you to meet Tad-dy boy alone.”

“What? Why?” I blurted.

“Because your stalker had the audacity to request my permission to take you to dinner.”

He paused before resuming, “I respect a man of integrity, and he is such a person.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll abuse me, like Miyaz in Monte Carlo?” I declared.

He laughed. “You are such a silly goose. He’s taking you to a gentlemen’s club for dinner. He has no intention of harming you,” he affirmed.

Puzzled by my Valet’s line of reasoning, I questioned, “What’s a gentlemen’s club?”

“Boy oh boy! I shouldn’t have to explain that,” my chaperone chirped. I remained silent.

“Young, a gentlemen’s club, or a traditional gentlemen’s club, is a members-only private club. These 18th-century establishments were originally set up by, and for, British upper-class men as social places for their like-minded compatriots.

My teacher injected, “In the late 19th and early 20th century, these institutions were popularised by wealthy and sophisticated English male travellers associated with the British Empire, particularly India, the Middle East and Asia.”

I asked puzzlingly, “But Tad is not English.”

“That’s true. But, he is well connected with the affluent and influential British society. He is also an athlete of fame both in his country of birth and his adopted England,” my Valet counselled.

“How many gentlemen’s clubs is he a member of?” I queried.

“You will have to ask him that question,” came my guardian’s reply.

“Traditionally, most gentlemen had only one club, which closely corresponded with the trade, social or political identity that mostly defined him, but a few belonged to several. Members of the aristocracy and politicians are more likely to be members of several clubs,” my teacher commended.

I resumed questioning. “What do members do in these clubs?”

“Don’t worry, you wouldn’t be asked to perform Bacha Bazi,” Andy bantered jestingly. (That was Persian for ‘boy-play’ or ‘playing-with-boys’).

Victor added, “In fact, public entertainments, such as musical performances and the like, are not a feature of these clubs. These establishments are in effect a kind of ‘second home’ where men can relax, socialize, play parlour games and have a meal with their male friends or companions. Although some clubs do offer overnight stay for members.

“Expatriates can use their clubs as a base when staying in England – think of the East India Club or the Oriental Club. These establishments also allow upper-middle-class men with modest incomes to spend time in grand surroundings.

“The wealthier clubs were often built to resemble the finest country houses of the time. Furnished with stately interiors, these retreats were for men who wished to get away from their female relations and spend time with like-minded company.”

Andy expressed, “Many men spent much of their lives in their club. It is common for young graduates who moved to London for the first time to live at their club for a few years before they could afford to rent a house or flat.

“I may do that when I leave Daltonbury Hall.”

I queried, “Tad is already an affluent gentleman who owns a London residence. He doesn’t need to stay in a club.”

The Señor stated, “He doesn’t. These clubs are private places to relax and create friendships with other men and are regarded as a central part of an elite man’s life. They provide everything a regular home has. Clubs are places to relieve stress and worries. They provide emotional and practical needs.

“It’s also a scene of gossip, for communication and sharing of information with one another. Bonds are created through information sharing to confirm social and gender boundaries.”

My Valet endorsed, “The art of small talk, or gossiping, helps confirm a man’s identity within his community and society at large. Clubs are often used as a tool to further a gentleman’s social and political career. It reveals that he has certain information others do not possess. These private establishments are also used as a show of masculinity. Men joke, tell stories and share information freely, showing both awareness of behaviour and discretion. Oftentimes, gossiping is also a tool that yields practical results in the outside world.”

My lover leaned close and muttered, “A word of caution, Young: there are rules of privacy and secrecy that govern gossiping. This kind of communication is club-regulated, so it is done in a civilized and admissible manner.”

“Can anyone with money become a member?” I questioned.

My professor looked at me with amusement. “Are you planning to join?” he teased. “Young man, many clubs have a lengthy waiting lists. Some as long as sixteen to twenty years. These memberships are symbols of power and wealth, truly reserved for the elite.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Club Nobbing

“Creativity is eccentric, and fashion is creative eccentricity.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

1968

The Oriental Club

This was one such occasion when I felt liberated. With no chaperone or guardian in tow, a sense of autonomy washed over me as I dressed to meet my stalker.

Tad was spiffed and ready for an entrancing evening when we met at the hotel lobby. He looked handsome in formal wear, and I was his date, the envy of many.

The hotel’s Rolls wound through Oxford Street, through Bond Street before turning into Stratford Place. It came to a halt in front of Stratford House, home to the Oriental Club.

We were greeted by a steward who led us into the club’s inner sanctum, through an enclosed ante-chamber that led into an open courtyard, used as a cocktail lounge during the summer.

As soon as we had seated ourselves comfortably, a footman arrived to take our beverage order. My host turned to the steward and said, “Harrold, will you be so kind as to give my guest a guided tour of the Club?”

“Of course, I would be delighted to give the young Master a tour of the establishment,” Harrold answered.

“That will be splendid. I’m sure Young will be pleased,” Tad promulgated.

The steward nodded. “Would you like to come this way, Master Young?”

Amused by his formality, I let out an inaudible giggle. My date gave me a wicked smile and winked.

History Lesson

Mr. Ernest Harrold wasted no time in explaining, “Since the inception of this club a hundred and fifty years ago, it has been the focal point for members returning from India and the East.

“The Duke of Wellington was the club’s first and only president. He and a group of British officers were the original founding fathers. Noblemen and gentlemen associated with our Eastern Empire are distinguished members.” He delivered his explanation with an entertaining air of snobbishness.

It was 1968, and ‘Rule Britannia’ had dissipated with the roaring waves, yet Mr. Harrold continued his monologue as if England still ruled the Seven Seas.

I kept my thoughts to myself as we proceeded into the elegant library.

“Our library houses the best collection of books on and about the Orient. It also houses one of the finest British and Oriental art collections,” Ernest proclaimed.

Spaced proportionately between the polished oak shelves were volumes of leather-bound books and masterpieces by famed artists of the day. I felt as if I had entered the private study of a wealthy English gentleman. I gasped at such a prolific display of priceless antiquities.

When Harrold noticed my obfuscation, his pride swelled before he pronounced majestically, “Young master, the contents in this library are only a fraction of the club’s history.

“There are more in the drawing and smoking rooms.”

We entered a well-proportioned Drawing Room. An exquisite chinoiserie carpet covered the entire floor. The high ceilings flaunted murals by grand masters. I was awed by such sophistication. Mr. Harrold gave a cough to bring me back to reality.

“Our club has welcomed some intriguing travellers. Col. David Dyce Sombre was one such member. He was born in Salzburg with the name Walter Reinhard, but on account of his general disposition within the French army, he soon acquired the moniker ‘Sombre’.

“He deserted the French and signed up with the armed forces of the Honourable East India Company that ran the British possessions in the subcontinent.

“Before long, the colonel deserted the Company and joined the Nawab Kasim Ali Khan, who was at war with Britain.”

He paused to catch his breath. “Along the way, he married a Muslim woman and fathered a child by the name of Aloysius, whom the Mughal Emperor bestowed the title of Zuffer Yab Khan. This marriage did not prevent him from a further marriage - to an eccentric and mysterious dame of the Orient, the Begum Saroo.”

I chimed as my curiosity got the better of me, “Did he convert to Islam and marry four wives?”

Although Ernest found my supposition beguiling, he remain solemn.

He continued, “Being one of the wealthiest women of Asia, The Begum Saroo was baptised a Roman Catholic. She assumed the name of Joanna Nobilis. But a desirable convert she did not make: she had two of her female slaves flogged before throwing them into a dung pit in front of her tent. She had the intention of burning them alive.”

“Were they burned alive?” I questioned inquisitively.

Harrold did not answer but went on to explain, “On the other hand, the Begum was exceedingly generous. She funded the building of churches in India, as well as financially supporting the Holy See – who vested her designated heir, Dyce Sombre, with the Order of Christ.

“This, young Master, is just one outré character in our club’s early history.”

Before we had a chance to view the Smoking Room, a footman arrived and asked me to join my host at the table.

A Feast

Pastoral music greeted me in the ante-chamber. Atop an elegantly polished table lay the finest linens and glassware, placed with calculated precision beside sparkling silverware.

Amidst sprays of blossoming sweet peas were froths of lily of the Valley, tastefully arranged within a porcelain vase of oversized peonies. Charmed by such romantic touches, gratitude filled me.

My host insisted I share a glass of champagne, even though I didn’t drink. After some gentle persuasion, I obliged.

Our conversation soon drifted to the Assalamu Alaikum household.

“Are you enjoying Fahrib’s household?” Tad enquired.

I gave the Arab a polite reply. “I’m gaining a lot of valuable experience at Assalamu Alaikum. There is always something new…”

“You were astounded when I mentioned Roya was carrying Fayaad’s child,” Tad interrupted.

I kept silent, wondering if it was appropriate to press for details.

The athlete reached across to hold my hand. “Young, you must think my race does strange things.”

I shook my head. Yet, I yearned to know.

He began, “I am a Muslim, not by choice, but by birth, and so are the majority of my friends and compatriots. Islam is an antithetical religion. Even though Muslims fall under the umbrella of Islam, every individual’s belief system is different.”

He paused. “Since Islamic school, Fahrib and I have been close friends. We agree on most issues, but on some, we differ vastly. He’s a conservative, while I’m a liberal. The doctor prefers to socialize with people of his class, while I enjoy the company of nonconformist individuals.”

I blurted, “You’re a libertine.”

He burst out in laughter. “I suppose you can call me that. In reality, I’m more conservative than your ‘Master.’”

“How so?”

“I believe in old-fashioned romance, rather than a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am liaison,” my host confessed.

“Yet you wasted no time when we were on the boat at Musandam Dibba Al Hisn,” I gushed.

He laughed aloud. “Boy, you sure know how to tease an old guy like me.”

“Is not what I said true?” I razzed.

“I couldn’t resist a sassy cutie like you,” he countered. But then, he turned serious.

“I’ve something I want to ask you.”

“What is it?”

Just as suddenly, he resumed his playful demeanour.

I was puzzled so I pressed, “What is it you want to ask me?”

He waved his hand nonchalantly. “Oh… It’s about Roya and Fayaad.”

He gathered his thoughts before resuming, “I was informed by reliable sources that Fayaad and Roya were secret lovers. I hinted about it to Fah (his nick-name for Sheik Fahrib), but he brushed off my notion as malicious gossip.

“Since I had no desire to interfere in such matters of the heart, I kept to myself until Fah approached me as a stand-in for him and Shahria.”

I posed inquisitively, “Do you think he knows about the affaire but had no desire to stir up crud?

“Even though he’s in-love with P, he can’t bring himself to confront his own feelings.”

Tad remarked, “I wondered this myself.

“You know, Young, we cannot be openly gay in our culture. Most of the time, we have to live conspiratorial lives and mask our true feelings.”

I ribbed, “Is that why you date sexy beauty queens and beautiful models? As a cover-up for enjoying handsome boys?”

He turned solemn.

I felt skittish, as if I’d touched a nerve, so I kept silent. But instead of changing the subject, Tad planted a passionate kiss on my lips in front of the attending footman, who turned away as if he wasn’t aware of what just transpired.

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment to do this,” my host revealed. “You and me, alone.”

My heart pounded incessantly from his defiant act. I thought hard for an appropriate response. None came.

In walked Mr. Harrold. “Sir, are you ready for your digestif in the smoking room?”

I was glad to be saved by the steward as we followed Ernest into an adjoining chamber. No words were exchanged as we sat by the crackling fire, until the footman arrived with our digestive and a choice of fine cigars for Tad’s selection.

He commenced when he took a puff. “Young, tell me about you?”

In truth, E.R.O.S. recruits were taught to be listeners rather than speakers of their lives. We were there to serve rather than be listened to. Atop that, no patriarchs, or even compatriots of patriarchs, had asked me that question until now.

“There is nothing to tell. I’m learning a great deal in my student exchange program,” I stammered.

Tad chuckled at my hesitance. “You look so cute when you’re bashful.”

I gave a nervous smile.

Suddenly, he knelt and held my hands, before extracting a tiny box out of his suit pocket. He handed me the package.

“Will you live with me?” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” I half-shrieked.

“I mean just that. Will you live with me?” he pleaded.

“You mean… be your kept boy?” I mumbled.

“I’ll set you up in a comfortable London flat. You can travel with me when the occasion arises. And you are free to do whatever you like in London when I’m not in the city.”

“I have to go to school,” I protested. “I’ve obligations to fulfil and promises to keep. I can’t run off and be a kept boy! Besides, I don’t know you that well…” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

He laughed at my disquietude. “Please give my proposal some thought. You don’t have to give me an answer this minute. I can wait. I’m a patient man.”

As hard as I tried to keep my cool, I was flustered by this turn of events. I had not expected a proposal from anyone, let alone this good-looking man-about-town who was every female’s prince charming.

I was again saved by a knock at the Smoking Room door.

“Sir, there are a couple of visitors to see you,” announced the steward. “Shall I show them in?”

“Of course,” came the reply.

My jaw dropped when Jabril and my Valet entered.

“Come in. We’re just finishing up. Would you like a drink before we proceed to St James’s?”

They shook their heads.

“Very well, then, let’s proceed to Dieudonné’s Hotel,” our host vociferated.

“What’s at Dieudonné’s Hotel?” I chirped in puzzlement.

“You’ll find out soon enough. It’s Friday the 13th!” our host proclaimed.

Andy and Jabril patted my back and grinned mischievously.

The Eccentric Club

We arrived at No. 9–11 Ryder Street, home to the Eccentric Club.

“For more than a century and half, this establishment has been an important British institution,” Jabril explained, as usual, as we proceeded toward the entrance. “Its members are amongst those who helped shape British culture into what it is today. Its history is inseparable from that of Great Britain itself.”

“This club was founded a number of times by unrelated and socially different groups of people. For centuries, it served as a meeting place for many great and original minds, pioneers of thought in artistic, literary, theatrical, scientific, legal and political circles. This venue provides an amicable environment for their recreational and creative pastime, as well as a testing ground for novel and controversial theories and approaches to issues important to British society and mankind,” my Valet championed.

“What has Friday the 13th got to do with being eccentric?” I asked curiously.

Before any of my companions could answer, Tad motioned for us to walk under a ladder that had been placed at the doorway.

We did as was told.

Once inside, we came upon a full-length broken mirror leaning against the side of the cloakroom.

Our host vociferated over the noisy space. “Make sure you look at yourself in the cracked mirror before we find a table!”

Members in quirky outfits with aberrant looks were chatting animatedly with one another. The place resembled a flock of exotic cackling birds mixed with an assortment of dishevelled carpetbaggers. I had never seen such an assemblage of eccentrics before. I went to town gawking at every individual in this packed chamber. Within the sea of outlandish characters, the four of us were the most conventional.

When our beverages were brought to our table, a series of unconventional phenomena happened. Out of the blue, our waiter popped open a black umbrella and held it over our heads while handing us our drinks. Suddenly, a black cat jumped onto the table and knocked over the coverless container, spilling a handful of salt onto the table.

Instead of being irritated, Tad, Jabril and Andy took it with a grain of salt, bursting out in laughter. I stared in bewilderment before my chaperone opined, “Young, you should see the look on your face, it’s hilarious.” He laughed insanely.

Equally in mirth, Tad explained, “Young, the Eccentric Society took an interest in challenging long-held superstitions and celebrated Friday the 13th as part of the club’s many rituals. That’s why we are here tonight – to celebrate Friday the 13th.”

He added, “Free-thinking members dined under ladders, held umbrellas indoors, and made themselves lightning rods to bring bad luck. The rituals we just performed are also for laughing in the face of Lady Luck. It’s a sort of demonstration that collective positive thinking can give rise to good fortune any day of the week or month. Superstitions that have been handed down throughout the ages are simply superstitions ingrained in our minds by our ancestors. There is no scientific truth to them.”

“London loves nothing more than an eccentric, and eccentrics love no city more than London,” Andy concluded before we proceeded to paint the tavern red that joyous evening in London town.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Shop Till You Drop

“The quickest way to know a person is to go shopping with them.”

Marcelene Cox

February 2013

Continuation of Andy’s Message (part four)

The priest from Taer and Anak’s parish was as corrupt as they came. The day after I broke ties with the boys, they came to my lodging with their priest demanding monetary compensation for my intimate liaisons with them. I had no idea the Father ran a homeless shelter for runaway kids. This padre was a pimp: he dished out these runaways in return for food and protection.

That day, he labelled me a sinner and pelted me with fire and brimstone, accusing me of corrupting his innocent dependants. Then he proceeded to hound me to repent from my nefarious ways.

According to this man of God, ‘the one and only way’ to cleanse my moral impurities was to confess and donate to his parish. He gave me an ultimatum to appear at his office at the soonest and told me he would not hesitate to contact the police if I transgressed.

But as soon as they were out of sight, my buddies and I vanished to another island without trace. From there, we departed for Canada, knowing the threat had been nothing but fraudulent extortion. (Besides, I knew if I had gone in for confession, he would have tape-recorded my penance to blackmail me).

My intuition had served me well: a year later, I came upon a TV documentary exposing the Marcos’ state and church corruption in the Philippines. One of the indicted priests was none other than the man who had accosted me the year before.

Young, you probably are aware that corruption runs rampant in Third-World countries. This tale of mine is just one cautionary example of many. This disreputable experience had left its loathsome mark – one I had difficulty quelling, even though I wanted to see more of this awe-inspiring country.

Maybe my apprehension will dissipate if I visit that part of the world with you, cherished memories in hand. You’re one fine specimen from that region. ☺

Your loving ex,

Andy

XOXOXO

1968

The Green Men

The moment our Rolls pulled up to the Basil Street entrance of one of London’s infamous department stores, the “Carriage Attendants” dressed in spiffy green uniforms stepped forward to assist our entourage. These ever-present “Green Men,” were customer service ambassadors. Their job was to open doors, greet VIPs, and assist hard-core shoppers with their packages. We had arrived at Harrods, Knightsbridge.

Our efficient cultural attachés had made prior arrangements with the Harrods’ management, so the moment we entered, we were greeted by shopping consultants Mary, Margaret and Elsie. These three women went out of their way to be cordial (they had obviously been briefed by Sahim and Hussain and knew our entourage were not the easiest to please). What they didn’t expect was pickiness in the form of Shahria, Ain, and a couple of the conservative women.

On the contrary, the pregnant Roya and her ladies-in-waiting turned out to require less effort than their burka-wearing sisters.

Margaret escorted the men to the wine, spirits, cigars, sporting goods and menswear departments, leaving both attachés, Victor, Andy and me to accompany the women to the haute couture salon.

As much as my Valet and teacher desired to go with Tad and Jabril to the masculine divisions, they were obliged to accompany me.

Heedful of the needs of their big-spender clients, the shopping consultants had organized a private fashion parade for the Assalamu Alaikum ladies.

The designer-clad models filed in, one by one in fully covered ensembles showing neither an inch of skin nor the beauty of the female form.

I was taken aback when the outré conventional Shahria and Ain murmured in Arabic to the attachés, “Can we see something more modern?” Andy and I snickered when my teacher translated ‘modern’ to us as ‘enticing.’

The harem women wandered around the salon in separate packs while the consultants hurriedly resolved this unforeseen circumstance by gathering a more ‘enticing’ collection for view.

Not having any patience to wait, Margaret chaperoned Roya, Kifah, the bride-to-be, and her bridesmaids, Iba, Lina, Safiya and their accompanying attaché to the Fine Jewellery Room to shop for sparkles.

Elsie, Hussain, Victor, Andy and I were left to help the remainder of the women view the reappraised fashion collection.

I was amazed when Shahria tried on a shapely Balenciaga cocktail dress overlaid with delicate lace décolletage. When she emerged from the dressing room, she looked amazing. Even a couple of her traditionalist peers complimented her elegance. Though not all the oohs were of the appreciative sort. Ain, her bosom “Sister of Perpetual Abstinence” shook her head in disapproval.

“It’s too revealing. The neckline is too low,” Ain vociferated.

“She looks beautiful,” Ayisha opined excitedly.

“She looks like one of Allah’s angels,” championed Fatima.

The sales attendants, Hussain, Victor, Andy and I looked on in obfuscation as the ladies continued their banter in Arabic. The two men in our group who understood their facetiousness were the attaché and my professor, but because they were males, and not in the Assalamu Alaikum inner circle, they kept their mouths shut. That was until the tongue-in-cheek sarcasms turned malicious. Only then did Hussain give the final word to put a halt to their trivial bickering.

Shahria had not uttered a word throughout the squabble until Hussain inquired of her, “Do you like this dress?”

Instead of making her own decision, she turned to me for counsel. All eyes turned to me for validation.

I remained silent. Instead, I lifted my index finger and made a twirling motion for Shahria to rotate and sashay towards me. She did as told.

I watched her movement as if I were an accomplished fashion maestro. She looked like a princess. I held my thumb up. This was one of the only times I saw Fahrib’s principal wife smile. She gave her approval for the purchase.

I rested my case. Not only had my gesture made allies of Shahria, Ayisha and Fatima, I had also made an adversary of Ain – even if I wasn’t aware at the time.

The conservative sat sulking behind her burka while her jovial compatriots tried on dress after dress. By the time we left the salon, two “Green Men” were trailing behind with the ladies’ purchases.

Way In Boutique

Roya, Kifah, Iba, Lina, Safiya, the attaché and the shopping consultant were nowhere to be found within the Gem Room. They had gone to Way In Boutique, Harrods latest addition, as proclaimed by one of the sales assistants.

Elsie escorted us to one of the hippest shops in Swinging London, the Way In Boutique, launched nine months prior to our arrival.

In contrast to the dignified haute couture salon, sixties pop music filled this shopping floor. Groups of artfully arranged mannequins stood in exaggerated poses atop display platforms, as if they were posing for the latest editions of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar.

I was in seventh heaven. Young, hip and pumped full of vitality, this was my scene. Unable to help myself, I pranced and swayed round racks of stylish ‘throw-away’ fashions.

We found the other half of the Assalamu Alaikum women crowding around one of these contemporary carousels. Like adolescent girls, they behaved as if they had discovered the joys of being Disneyesque princesses for the first time. These women played dress-up, emerging from their respective dressing rooms in arrays of maxis, midis and minis with interchangeable tops and blouses. I had never witnessed such frivolity among these women in Sharjah – but swinging London had shattered their reservations the way Cinderella was transformed by her fairy godmother.

Even the pregnant diva went to town, trying on pretty empire-line dresses and flowing chiffon ensembles that were the epitome of 1968 Spring/Summer fashion.

Ain, the one true conservative, did not care for such frippery, even though her sisters in crime encouraged her to don an ensemble or two. Her staunch refusal only served to augment the other ladies’ frivolity.

This traditionalist commented with cynicism and mockery on every stylish outfit that emerged from the dressing rooms. In her good books, these fun-loving ladies had become worthless infidels and would suffer Allah’s wrath if they wore the outfits in public.

Amid her disapproving sarcasm, I had a hunch that she, too, would like to be adventurous. Like the beauty she covered with her burka, she believed that modesty had to be contained and not flaunted. So deeply ingrained were her religious and cultural prejudices that all hell would break loose if her Pandora’s Box were allowed to open.

The Pet Shop

While the women were rollicking at the Beauty Department, Triqueros, Andy, and I found our way to the clamorous Pet Shop, where Margaret, Tad and Jabril were ogling at Precious, an adorable baby leopard.

“Animals have a long association with our store,” Margaret expounded. “One Christmas, Noel Coward bought a pet alligator as a gift for himself.” She paused before resuming, “Two years ago, a baby elephant was bought and presented to the governor of California, Mr. Ronald Reagan.

“Once, a cobra was used to guard a pair of diamonds and sapphires studded sandals worth £62,000,” she added to her sales pitch.

Andy enquired, “What happens to these exotic animals when they grow up?”

“They are released back into the wilderness,” came her reply.

“How do they fend for themselves when they have been raised in captivity?” my Valet continued to question.

Before Mary could respond, the sales assistant had brought Precious out from his cage for our inspection. As I cooed, oohed and ahhed at his beauty, Mary added cheerfully, “Our store’s motto is ‘Omnia Omnibus Ubique’ (Latin meaning – ‘All things for all people, everywhere’). Our goal is to provide everything our customers desire.”

Tad suddenly made a temerarious request: “I’m buying Precious.”

We stared.

“What are you going to do with him?” I blurted in astonishment.

He gave a Cheshire-cat grin before he answered, “It’s a gift to a beautiful boy named Young.”

I was stupefied. “I can’t accept such a precious gift. I’ve nowhere to accommodate Precious,” I chirped.

The athlete whispered in my ear, “You will if you accept my proposal.”

Although I was still toying with the idea and had not confided his proposition to Andy, I knew if I became a kept boy, I would become a caged nightingale. I would be like Precious, a plaything to be fussed over and pampered before being released into the wild to fend for himself. Even if the idea of being kept was romantic and luxurious, it wasn’t the life I wanted.

My cognizant Valet shook me back to reality when he expressed, “Young is right. He can’t accommodate a big cat. He wouldn’t know how to look after Precious. This baby needs a good home.”

I had to agree with my chaperone, even if I desired such a priceless gift.

My feline Persian, Husni, had been a gift from the Hadrah, and I hardly saw the cat after leaving him to the care of the Sekham household. Having another pet would be too problematic.

For once, I acted sensibly. I declined Tad’s present. But the philanderer did not give up easily.

While my chaperone, Tad and I bantered back and forth, Jabril and Victor browsed the other animals.

My guardian pulled me aside. “Young, since you are so in love with Precious, you can keep him for now and later present him to Jabril and Kifah as your wedding gift,” he advised.

“That’s an excellent idea!” I agreed.

It was finalized: my precious cargo would be delivered by Harrods to the Ship on our departure day from London to Sharjah.

Little did I realize that Sharjah would not be my destination; it would be Madras, the capital city of the Indian state of Tamil Nadu, India.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Windows To Secret Realms

“And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.”

Frances Hodgson Burnett

(The Secret Garden)

1968

Window Dressing

Thanks to the English-American novelist and playwright, Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett - best known for her three children’s novels Little Lord Fauntleroy, A Little Princess, and The Secret Garden, I stood captivated by the window display at Selfridges, a famed London department store, second only to Harrods, with 540,000 square feet of retail space. I had read all three of Burnett’s books on the good ship Victoria, when I was vacationing in Hong Kong with my family.

That merry month of May, this magnificent store had taken Ms. Burnett’s imaginative children’s stories and transformed its entire array of Oxford Street windows into a series of Edwardian English country fantasies!

As I marvelled at the window displays, I was transported to the magical realms so cleverly constructed by the window dressers. I fantasized about what life would be like in Edwardian England. But was quickly teased back to the present by my Valet and teacher.

“Young, have you gone to la-la land again?” Victor razzed.

“These window displays are mesmerizing. I wish I could go back in time and experience life in Victorian and Edwardian England,” I replied dreamily.

“Don’t let these depictions fool you, kid. If you want to know the ‘real’ England, come into the store, and I’ll tell you,” Señor Triqueros remarked.

Miss Selfridge

Victor, Andy, and I sat waiting at the café within Miss Selfridge (the young fashion section of the department store) for our entourage to finish shopping. I took this opportunity to seek their advice.

“Tad proposed to me at the Oriental Club,” I declared nonchalantly.

“I know,” came Andy’s reply.

Boggled by his response, I questioned, “Why didn’t you ask me about it?”

“I was waiting for you to tell me,” he answered. “He also gave you a key to his town house.”

Shocked by his knowingness, I exclaimed, “How did you know?”

“I know more about you than you,” he teased. Both men laughed at me.

I looked at my teacher, confused. “You knew, too?”

“Of course I did. I was present when Tad sought your Valet’s permission.”

“Why did Tad come to you for permission?” I questioned.

Victor promulgated, “Because he’s an honourable gentleman and a true romantic.” Andy nodded in agreement.

My chaperone vociferated, “I’m your guardian, so he came to me to ask for your hand.”

“Ask for my hand!” I exclaimed. “I’m not planning to marry him…” Before I could continue, my Valet pronounced, “Then it’s settled. You don’t want to be his property.”

“I’m nobody’s property but my own!” I cried.

The men burst into mirth.

“I’m glad you are being sensible. In the Arab culture, being a kept boy is similar to being in a heterosexual marriage. The dominant partner has total control of his ‘wife boy,’” Triqueros commented.

“I’m nobody’s ‘wife boy’!” I burst out. “And definitely not Tad’s.”

“Very well then. It’s settled that you are not taking up his offer. I’ll convey your sentiments,” Andy finalized. Case closed.

“I can tell him myself. I don’t need you to do it for me,” I voiced.

Victor cited, “Since you are Andy’s charge, it is appropriate for him to act on your behalf to inform the intended of your decision. It’s customary protocol, as a man asks the father for his daughter’s hand.”

I argued, “But I’m not a girl. I’m a boy who can make his own decisions. I am responsible for me!”

Both mentors laughed again.

“Are you sure about that?” my lover ruffled my hair and sniggered. “You could have fooled me.”

My chaperone and I started a playful tug-of-war until my judicious professor put a stop to our silliness.

“Young, stop this absurdity,” Triqueros commanded. “As I’d promised, I’m giving you a short lesson about the ‘real’ England. The existing British monarchy.”

His words perked my attention.

A Tale of Britannia

“In 1941, an American named Henry ‘Chips’ Channon made an astonishing prediction. He wrote in his diary, ‘the handsome Philip of Greece is to be England’s Prince Consort, that’s the reason he is serving in the British Navy.’

“This turned out to be an accurate prophecy because Prince Philip didn’t propose to Princess Elizabeth until 1947. The news took the world by surprise,” Señor Triqueros stated.

Andy chirped, “How did Henry Channon have privy to such information?”

“Andy, the answer is that he received this scoop from none other than Princess Nicholas of Greece, who told him in 1941 that a marriage was ‘being arranged’ between Philip and Elizabeth.”

My chaperone added, “This is contradictory to the barrage of fairy-tale love-at-first-sight stories released by Buckingham Palace. Perhaps this is the reason why Sir Henry ‘Chips’ Channon is denigrated by many historians as an ‘unreliable diarist’ and ‘an American snob who is obsessed with titles and money.’”

Victor resumed, “Overseas newspapers and magazines claimed that the Queen’s marriage to Prince Philip was ‘on the rocks.’ They also asserted he had a long-standing relationship with a female friend who had an interest in a top-society nightspot; allegedly, there was a gigantic cover-up about his involvement in the infamous Profumo ‘sex and secrets’ scandal.”

“This titbit I’ve not heard before,” Andy commented.

I kept silent, since I had no idea what the Profumo ‘sex and secrets’ scandal was.

“A certain Stephen Ward, born in 1912 to a vicar, traveled to America when he was twenty years old. After studying at the College of Osteopathy in Missouri, he returned to London as a doctor. Much of his success came from providing relief to his top-drawer clientele - the likes of Winston Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi, Paul Getty, Nancy Astor, and Ava Gardner.

“Being a sophisticated and elegant man, Ward also sketched portraits of famous personalities, such as Princess Margaret, the Duke of Kent, the Duchess of Gloucester, and Prince Philip. This doctor was not the tradesman’s entrance type of artist who was summoned to the palace to do his sketches. He became friends with Prince Philip, and they were often spotted having lunches in central London. Philip also visited Ward’s home on several occasion.”

My teacher paused for a sip of tea before resuming, “In the early sixties, Ward turned from giving the nobility back pain relief to other parts of their anatomy. He introduced them to young and pretty lasses who called themselves ‘models.’ These women, especially Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies, were delighted to oblige the nobles by having intimate liaisons with them. They even dressed up as ‘nanny’ dominatrices to spank their naughty butts!

“Then, in 1961, a British Intelligence officer named Keith Wagstaffe recruited Stephen Ward as an undercover agent for MI5’s Counter Intelligence Section. Ward’s assignment was to persuade a London-based Russian naval attaché, Captain Eugene Ivanov, to defect. Ivanov turned out to be Alexander Gorkin’s (the chairman of the Soviet Supreme Court) son-in-law and an undercover agent for the Russian Military Intelligence (GRU).”

“Oh my! This is getting more intriguing by the minute. Carry on,” Andy evinced excitedly.

“The plot went terribly wrong when Ward introduced Christine Keeler to Ivanov. The artist/doctor had also introduced Christine to John Profumo, who was then Her Majesty’s war minister.

“Profumo had several sexual encounters with Christine, and the most famous happened on the bed of Profumo’s wife, the actress Valerie Hobson. When Fleet Street got wind of this adulterous relationship, Profumo tried to silence them by lying to Parliament. He professed he had never had sex with Miss Keeler and would sue the pants off anyone who challenged him,” Victor aired.

“What was the verdict? Was he found guilty?” Andy fired in rapid succession.

Victor, proud to divulge this British tabloid titbit, added, “Of course, he was proven to be a liar. Profumo was forced to resign in disgrace. This news made international headlines and brought horrendous embarrassment to the Tory government. The British Establishment had to find a scapegoat to deflect this massive media heat, and the chosen man was none other than Stephen Ward. He was framed on charges of living off Christine Keeler’s and Mandy Rice-Davies’ immoral earnings, although both women eventually admitted they lied against Ward after being subjected to police pressure.

“Stephen Ward denied all the charges. He said he was introduced to Captain Ivanov by Sir Colin Coote, then the managing editor of the British newspaper the Daily Telegraph. Ward claimed he was later recruited by British Intelligence to persuade Captain Ivanov to defect, but that the intelligence boys had disowned him in order to avoid becoming embroiled in the Profumo scandal.”

“Did the court believe Ward’s testimony?” my guardian queried.

Señor Triqueros pressed on, “He was not believed at the time, but some years later, several MI5 officers revealed to a couple of journalists that Ward had told the truth and that he was indeed a British secret agent.

“Unfortunate for Ward, he committed suicide before his name was cleared.”

Victor frowned in puzzlement. “An odd thing happened when a Bloomsbury art gallery exhibited Ward’s sketches. A tall, elegant, and well-spoken gentleman came to the gallery and bought all drawings of the royal family, including those of Prince Philip, for £5,000. Then, the man vanished into thin air and was never identified. Some reporters speculated that this mystery man was Sir Anthony Blunt - a British Intelligence agent who worked at Buckingham Palace as the Keeper of the Queen’s Pictures. In later years, Blunt was exposed as a double agent for the KGB.”

Rejuvenations

Victor noticed my silence and commented, “When I saw you gazing at the romanticized window dressing of the Secret Garden, thoughts of fractional turpitude flashed through my mind, and I considered the many secrets that always lie behind locked doors.

“My advice to you boy - be suspicious of what lies behind an artfully decorated exterior. As novelist Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett commented so eloquently in an interview, ‘Mary Lennox “comes alive” as her garden. The same goes for Colin and Mr. Craven. As they tend to something outside their own sorrow, they find joy and new life. There are several direct parallels that can be drawn for the theme of rejuvenation.’”

I asked, “Is that the reason Selfridges did the Secret Garden display in spring? A signal of new life and new beginnings?”

“Right on, lad,” he teased. “You must understand, Young, both Mary and Colin underwent a great deal of trauma in their childhood. Unlike most children’s books the effects of such trauma are not glossed over by the author.

“Colin admitted to screaming himself into hysterics at the dark thoughts in his head, even though he felt worried about what his adult caregivers would think of him. He never revealed his thoughts to anyone but Mary.

“He understood that she, also a child, would not laugh at him. His worst fear was to be laughed at. He was so positive he was an object of ridicule and was convinced of his imminent death. Yet, he knew his phantom pains and illnesses were of his own paranoia.”

For reasons unknown to me, I expressed out of the blue, “Like Fahrib confiding his inner turmoil to me because I understand his emotional unease?”

Both mentors took a moment, seeming astounded.

Finally Andy vociferated, “In the Secret Garden, the household staff fed Colin’s anxiety and disquietude by letting him have his way. This only served to reinforce his childhood fears; rather than teaching him constructive ways to deal with his deep-seated depression and panic attacks.”

My professor induced, “Young, your love for Andy has shed light upon your Master. Let’s hope your love will help the sheik overcome his embedded trauma and open himself up like the flowering blossoms within his barren winter garden.”

He added, “The British titbit I just disclosed – let it be an exemplary admonition that copious conspiracies happen across cultures, including within the households we serve.”

Just as Señor Triqueros uttered his final sentence, the two cultural attachés arrived to summon us to join our entourage on the way to the next destination.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

By Appointment to Her Majesty The Queen

“‘Bunny’ is a character. He has an air of authority and reflectiveness astonishing in an infant.”

Tad Abdul Hafiz

1968

At Fortnum & Mason

Tad had set up an appointment for us to meet the Fortnum and Mason fashion impresario, courtier and socialite. He was also a stakeholder in the House of Hardy Armies, Queen Elizabeth’s official dressmaker.

I shall never forget that day in the merry month of May 1968, when I walked into his haute couture salon at Queen Elizabeth II’s favourite store, Fortnum & Mason. This store was bestowed a Royal Warrant of Appointment, a mark of recognition for vendors that supply goods or services to the royal households of Her Majesty the Queen.

The moment we entered, our entourage was confronted by a lean but broad-shouldered middle-aged male with a face that had obviously been enhanced by both surgery and cosmetics. It was a warm morning, and this extraordinary specimen was without compare. He was dressed for the weather in white slacks with shallow cross pockets and impossibly tapered legs. A mauve-coloured chiffon shirt was complemented by a flowing silk scarf and a Panama hat worn at a calculated angle to offset his ensemble.

He clasped each of the men’s hands tightly when we were introduced. When it came to the Assalamu Alaikum ladies’, he held their hands to his lips and sealed them with a kiss before clasping his hand to his heart. I couldn’t help smiling to myself at this deliberate gesture. My Valet and teacher gave me sly glances to behave decorously.

Little did I realize then that I was face to face with one of the greatest British dandies of the 20th century: a man famed for his outrageous style, his love of entertaining, his endless generosity and his playful sense of humour. He was none other than the Mr. Neil Munro Roger, more commonly known as “Bunny,” a nickname given to him by his childhood nanny.

Bunny

Mr. Neil Munro Roger, the second of Sir Alexander Roger and Lady Helen Stuart Clark Roger’s three sons, was born in 1911. The Scottish Sir Alexander was a self-made man: he began his career as an accountant with Fleming’s bank before ingratiating himself with three sisters whose family owned a telephone business. This move saw him rise through the ranks to chairman of the Telephone and General Trust Limited, a position that brought him a vast fortune and set his children up for life.

Bunny’s family lived in luxury at Ewhurst Park in the English county of Hampshire with 14 servants. Although Sir Alexander had wanted his sons to undergo a gritty Scottish upbringing similar to his own, he dispatched Bunny to the famously dour Loretto boarding school. The initial sign that his middle boy was not going to turn into a red-blooded man arrived when Sir Alexander offered Bunny a reward for making it onto the Loretto Nippers football team: As his prize, Bunny chose a dollhouse.

For a year, Bunny read History at Balliol College, Oxford before he went on to study drawing at The Ruskin, from which he was expelled for his homosexual activities.

In 1937, Bunny established his dressmakers, Neil Roger, in Great Newport Street, London. The actress Vivien Leigh and Princess Marina were among his famed clients in the early years of his fashion career. In 1949, he was credited for inventing the Capri pant while vacationing at Capri, Italy.

Invitations

Tad had met Bunny at one of his numerous outlandish parties at his London home. Within his inner circle, this neo-Edwardian dandy was known to dress in women’s garb and pursue good-looking, domineering men, the likes of my stalker, Tad. The day we met, he was besotted by the males in our entourage, except for the two heterosexual and plain looking attachés. Moi, he saw as a competitor.

Though he was civil throughout the meeting, his roving eyes would stray from my Valet to my teacher to the art historian and back to the athlete, as if they were competitive sports to be trounced.

By the end of our session, he had arranged for the ladies to meet the Queen’s dressmaker, Mr. Hardy Amies. In private, he dished out secret invitations to the men to his upcoming ‘Fetish’ soiree, where bondage and chains would abound. Although these lavish gatherings were kept confidential, word got out some years later, and a British tabloid published a photo of semi-naked ‘Miss’ Bunny, the slave, tethered in a diamond studded dog-collar and wearing nothing more than a black lace lingerie. He was outraged and sued the newspaper for breach of privacy. The brouhaha subsided when a settlement was reached out of court.

That day at Fortnum & Mason, Tad achieved what he’d set out to accomplish:

●    On the exterior, to secure an appointment for Kifah and her bridesmaids to consult with Hardy Amis regarding her bridal trousseau.

●    In private, to substantiate that he had the capability to get us (the men) invited to one of Bunny’s idiosyncratic parties.

After all, he had talked Bunny’s soirees up to us in private as one of the city’s quirkiest aristocratic conclaves, a playground for the city’s wealthy closeted homosexuals, bisexuals and transvestites. That day he was proud of his mastery.

To celebrate his proficiency, our host and his male companions proceeded down to the Food Hall, where Fortnum and Mason’s famous hampers were sold, while the women and their accompanying attachés continued shopping in the Home and Gifts departments.

Hampers

This store has a notable history dating back to the 18th century, when it supplied coach-faring customers with delicatessen items packed in traveller’s baskets – game pies, cooked fowls, fresh breads, West Country butter, scotch eggs, cheeses, hot house fruits, and rich fruit cakes to satiate hungry travellers on lengthy journeys.

Towards the end of the 18th century, during the height of the Romantic Movement, the upper social echelon dined outdoors while enjoying the English countryside. By the 19th century, Fortnum & Mason was the chief supplier of picnic hampers for the majority of London’s vibrant outdoor social events.

In 1968, the company, already established with its upscale Picnic and Christmas hampers, boasted a list of famous clients that included Oscar Wilde, Elizabeth Taylor, Frank Sinatra, Charles Dickens and even the Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie, whose hamper was adorned with the colours of his country’s flag.

Tad wasted no time in purchasing several picnic hampers. These F&M logoed wicker baskets were carried by several Fortnum’s liveried footmen to the nearby Green Park - a short distance from the store’s location for us to enjoy the pleasant outdoors while waiting for the women to finish their shopping.

When our host found the perfect spot to rest, the footmen laid out blankets and picnic accoutrements within these baskets. There were matching cream-coloured cutleries, cups, saucers, and sandwich boxes, along with a wine bottle opener and, to complete our celebration, a bottle of champagne with an accompanying little umbrella to shade it from the sun.

I felt as if I had stepped back in time to the pocket of the 1920s so eloquently described in Evelyn Waugh’s book - Brideshead Revisited, The Sacred & Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder. I had no explanation for why this reverie washed over me, but I felt as if I was the teddy bear carrying embodiment of Lord Sebastian Flyte, the troubled younger son of the aristocratic Lord Marchmain. In the novel, Sebastian had taken his friend, Charles Ryder, to his family’s country mansion, Brideshead Castle in Wiltshire, where they spent the lazy hazy halcyon summer in a clandestine intimate relationship. One memorable scene was that of Charles and Sebastian having a picnic on the tranquil grounds of Brideshead Castle. Their fondness for one another was a love that ended in acrimony.

Then, the soothsayers’ predictions of Andy’s and my imminent separation came gushing to the forefront. Melancholy engulfed my person, sending shivers and goosebumps down my spine. I needed to get away from this idyllic setting that would dissipate any moment from an impending storm.

Andy saw my discomfiture. “Young, are you alright?”

I shook my head. “I need to use the men’s room,” I lied.

“I’ll take you back to the store,” my Valet offered.

As rapidly as we had arrived, we bid the men a temporary farewell and arranged to meet them at Fortnum in an hour.

The moment the men were out of sight, I broke into tears. My chaperone wrapped me in his arms. “What’s wrong, silly boy?” he whispered.

“I want my teddy bear,” I blurted stupidly.

“What teddy bear? I’m your teddy bear,” he answered amusingly.

But that was all it took. Like a gust of wind, his loving comment had chased my blues away as rapidly as they had manifested. Instantly, I found my cheerful self again.

By the time we reached the entrance of Fortnum & Mason, airs played on bells sounded high above. Looking skywards, I saw two handsomely crafted mechanical dolls in the likeness of Messrs. Fortnum and Mason. They had magically appeared on either side of the store’s iconic clock, on the hour, to make sure that their emporium’s standards were kept faultless.

I stared at my handsome ‘teddy bear’ and uttered, “Do not leave me. I’d be devastated if you did.”

My Valet pinched my cheek and assured, “You silly boy, I’ll never leave you. I’m always with you.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Designing Men

“A man should look as if he’s bought his clothes with intelligence, put them on with care and then forgotten all about them.”

Sir Hardy Amies

February 2013

My Email to Andy

Hi Andy,

I empathize with your Philippine experience. As with many third-world countries, corruption runs rampant. While the rich get richer, the destitute find ways and means to survive, even if it’s through illegal channels. Law enforcers turn a blind eye in order to extort hefty amounts from these unlawful operators.

I, too, have a tale to relate.

1974

Bangkok

On my way from London to Kuala Lumpur that summer, I stopped in Bangkok for a few days, since I had never been to Krung Thep Maha Nakhon (Bangkok in Thai). I thought it an excellent idea to visit this vibrant city, known to some as the ‘Sin City of the East’ due to its liberal stance in sexual issues.

As soon as I’d stepped out of the airport to flag a taxi to the legendary Oriental Bangkok Hotel, I was confronted by hordes of haggling Thai men jostling for my business, bargaining with me in broken English to deliver me to my luxury lodging for the best price. But just then, a suave-looking foreigner in his thirties stepped in to dissipate their heated transactions. He wasted no time to disperse all the drivers except one.

The gentleman had bargained in Thai for the best price on my behalf. He spoke in German-accented English, “I’m Max. The cab driver will take us to our hotel?”

“Oh, you are also staying at the Oriental?” I chirped.

“Hop into the cab so we can get out of this madding crowd,” he expressed vehemently, opening the car door to let me in.

As soon as we were comfortably situated at the back seat, he asked, “What brings you to Thonburi, Mr.…?” He trailed off.

“I’m Young. Thank you for your assistance! It’s my first time to Bangkok. I wasn’t expecting such a rowdy welcome. If it weren’t for you, I may have landed in a Thai hospital,” I joked. “Where’s Thonburi?”

He sniggered mischievously. “Thonburi, the city of treasures gracing the ocean, is Bangkok’s official name, although some refer to it more appropriately as Meụ̄xng k̄hxng khwām s̄uk̄h kām, the city of erotic pleasures,” he quipped.

Overhearing the words Meụ̄xng k̄hxng khwām s̄uk̄h kām, the cab driver commented, “You want boy, girl or boy-girl or girl-boy? I take you to happy place!”

Max burst out in laughter. He proceeded to have a conversation in Thai with the driver. I sat, silent, since I had no idea what was being said, until my acquaintance asked, “What brings you to Bangkok?”

“I’m on vacation. What brings you to Thonburi?” I queried.

“I’m here on business, and usually stay a while for leisure,” was his response. “Since we are staying in the same hotel, we’ll see more of each other. I’m happy to show you the city,” he added.

“That’ll be wonderful. I’ll take up your offer,” I said appreciatively, glad I’d met someone to show me around.

By the time our cab pulled up at the Oriental’s entrance, we had agreed to meet for dinner the following evening.

1968

The Queen’s Dressmaker

The principal reason for Kifah’s choice to have her going-away outfit made by the notable Hardy Amies was none other than pretentious snobbery. She boasted to her peers and acquaintances that the Queen of England’s dressmaker had designed her ensemble.

As much as I respected Mr. Amies’ fashion achievements, I wasn’t a fan of his orthodox designs, even though his fashion philosophies worked wondrously for the royal set, conferring their public personas with regal respectability. For this, he was bestowed a Royal Warrant as Queen Elizabeth II’s official dressmaker. Years later, he was knighted by the same woman he dressed and whom the world had come to distinguish as Her Majesty the Queen.

In the spring of 1968, our entourage met this gentleman designer at his establishment - Hardy Amies Ltd: No. 14 Savile Row.

He was seated stoically behind his desk when we met. His design studio resembled an attorney’s office rather than a creative workspace.

This renowned couturier had just completed his costume commission for director Stanley Kubrick. It was 1968, just before the release of the now-classic movie that was nominated for four Academy Awards and received one for visual effects - 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Formal introductions were made by the Fortnum & Mason fashion maestro and Amies’ friend, Mr. Neil Munroe ‘Bunny’ Roger. At our meeting, he took on a role as the designer’s ambassador.

“Our beloved queen is a royal and loyal patron of Mr. Amies,” Bunny announced proudly, “but Hardy’s design capabilities extend beyond women’s haute couture to men’s fashion.”

He patted his friend’s back. “Seven years ago, he made fashion history by staging the first contemporary men’s ready-to-wear catwalk show at the Savoy Hotel, where he joined his models on the stage.” He gave the designer an artful wink while the couturier remained impassive to Bunny’s peremptory hint at his homosexual inclination.

“Amies also designed the active sports apparel for England’s 1966 World Cup team,” Roger offered.

“Besides his numerous fashion accomplishments, this talented man also contributes regularly to Esquire magazine and has recently published Amies’ strict male dress code – ABC of Men’s Fashion!”

“A book every gentleman should adhere to,” Bunny honed.

Jabril asked wittily, “Do you abide by Mr. Amies’ fashion commandments?”

We beamed at the art historian.

All eyes were on Bunny, who was not dressed conventionally. He wore a razor-sharp Savile Row suit with the skinniest drainpipe trousers. To complete his dandy ensemble, he had donned a bowler hat and carried a black English umbrella - his à la carte fashion statement for that day.

At first glance, the fashion impresario resembled John Steed, the dapper secret agent in the then-popular British television series The Avengers, starring Patrick Macnee and his unflappable sidekick Diana Rigg, who went on to become the 1969 Bond girl in the movie On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

Before Bunny could respond, Mr. Amies instructed his design director and life partner, Mr. Ken Fleetwood, to escort the Assalamu Alaikum ladies and their accompanying cultural attachés to the adjoining salon to discuss their women’s wear requirements. This diplomatic maneuver was Amies’ strategy to get the females out of the way in the event that Bunny’s vivaciousness might deter the ladies from ordering from The House of Amies.

At the same time, he used this opportunity to advocate his men’s line to the males who remained in the room.

No sooner had Mr. Fleetwood closed the door than the queen’s dressmaker began decisively, “My book, ABC of Men’s Fashion, is not a biblical ‘ten commandments of men’s fashion,’ but a guide to a gentleman’s wardrobe.”

Bunny declared, “Amies knows the summery of his manual better than I.”

L’art d’hommes’s s’habiller

(The Art of Men’s Dressing)

The designer wasted no time in explaining. “First and foremost, the art of dressing is to achieve ‘A Nonchalance,’ an absolute necessity for any gentleman.

“At least one article in his ensemble must not match.” He paused before resuming, “For example, if a man wears a dark blue suit and tie with a pale blue shirt and navy blue socks, then a patterned silk handkerchief in a different colour or print will offset his outfit with insouciance.

“If he prefers to stick to blue, then he might don a pair of dark red socks as his sui generis.”

He opined further, “A correctly cut cap in a checked cloth of a clear pattern can often provide an element of dash to an otherwise somber country outfit.”

Tad asked, “Does the cap have to be worn at a calculated angle?”

My Valet and teacher sniggered at Tad’s question while the Arabs and I listened attentively.

“Of course not,” Mr. Amies answered chivalrously. “Remember the nonchalance dictum?”

“An important aspect is to the care of clothing. Allow time for clothes to rest and revive.

“Do not wear a suit or shoes for two days running. Both cloth and leather require time to breathe.

“Whenever a man sits, he is ironing a suit in the wrong places,” he smirked.

Jabril twitted, “I can’t sit when wearing a suit?”

We laughed at his comment, except for Mr. Amies, who replied earnestly, “I’m recommending that you permit time for your clothes and footwear to breathe. I’m not saying not to sit.”

He frisked forward before anyone could post another question.

“When it comes to grooming, I don’t believe there exists a woman who does not like a man to smell ‘nice’. But ‘nice’ is a smell that is as far removed from the kind of scent she wears herself. I’m referring to a scent that is clean and herbaceous.”

Señor Triqueros chirped, “No gentlemen will dispute that.”

My teacher’s sentiment gave the couturier fortification to forge further ahead. “There is much to be commended in Italian Style. Italian men possess a masculine superiority softened only with an air of feminine grace. This has proven successful in the game of sexual attraction,” Hardy proclaimed.

“When it comes to the colour purple, I see no use for this superfluous hue - except for ties, socks and handkerchiefs.”

As soon as he uttered those words, he realized he had opinionated too expeditiously as his compatriot gave him a malicious look. After all, the infamous Mr. Roger was the champion of the colour purple.

The queen’s dressmaker fired rapidly before the Fortnum & Mason fashion director could contradict him.

“If you know how to wear this shade, you do not need my help, but if you don’t, I counsel you not to sport it.”

Since my teacher, Valet and I had witnessed ‘Bunny’s’ mauve attire the first time we were introduced, we exchanged covert grins.

Hardy expressed, “In regards to attaining style in dress, one must look untroubled and relaxed in one’s attire. Clothing must appear to be a part of the wearer instead of being his wardrobe.” He checked our reactions before making an abutting bon mot.

“As for undergarments, these should be brief as wit and clean as fun.”

We chuckled at the dressmaker’s comment.

Mr. Amies concluded his spiel by finalizing, “A man must look put together, yet relaxed. His clothes must appear to be a part of him and not a wardrobe he has calculatingly selected.”

I plucked up the courage to ask, “Mr. Amies, can you give me some pointers for designing menswear?”

The dressmaker gave me a congenial smile and replied, “Another time, boy. Another time.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Mr. Fleetwood had returned to summon the couturier to attend to the ladies.

In response to me, Bunny counseled, “To design a man’s wardrobe is to discuss a man’s life. The kind of clothes he possesses will reveal the way he lives. Their condition and degree of fashionableness disclose his character.

“It is a good exercise to occasionally consider one’s wardrobe as a complete unit. And a gentleman should plan to have an efficient one at that.

“Much like a tool kit, his clothing is to get him through any situation or emergency. That said, a gentleman should build a wardrobe that helps him be efficient in his profession and also enjoy his recreational activities.”

The fashion maestro scrutinized me studiously. He declared, “Nowadays, a boy comes of age as a man at fourteen and remains one at forty. He is therefore a very important customer, especially when he has the authority to spend a substantial amount on clothes. Dressing for the part is the easiest way for a man to express himself.

“It is more than an act of vanity; it is a revolution against habituated traditions passed down by previous generations. It’s a kind of concession that he has not made the world as happy a place as he reckons it should be.”

He pondered for a moment, as if his monologue were directed at himself.

“In the nineteenth century, young men copied the clothing styles of their elders. In his twenties, that young man grew a mustache to look mature. But today, he wants to look youthful by embracing the latest fashion styles and trends. At twenty-five he feels the first pangs of middle-age depression. It’s under these circumstance that young men rule the men’s fashion realm. A new look cannot succeed unless men aspire to it. Their inner desires dominate all trends.

“Therefore, a mature man will reject styles that do not make him feel young. In today’s fashion, there are no old men: only the young or the dead.”

A sense of melancholia washed over the maestro when he vociferated his last sentiment. He leaned against the mantelpiece as if about to collapse. This unexpected crisis lasted a split second before he muttered buoyantly, “Let us proceed to the salon to join the ladies.”

Chapter Sixty

An ‘Unexpected Pearl’

“To be beautiful is to be you.

You don’t need to be accepted by others.

You only need to accept you.”

Sir Norman Hartnell

February 2013

My Email to Andy (Part One)

My chance encounter with Max was both a blessing and an affliction. After I’d checked into the majestic lady, The Oriental, hunger hit my rumbling stomach. I needed to savour some authentic Thai food. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped out of the hotel’s door, I was confronted by the harsh reality of Bangkok’s civic life.

As at Don Mueang International Airport, rows of local taxi drivers lined the hotel’s periphery, ready to debauch the first customer that ventured out without soliciting The Oriental’s private limo service.

Again, I found myself surrounded by a barrage of locals offering me the best bargain on transportation to my destination. Who should come to my rescue but the same driver that had deposited Max and me? In the foulest Thai vernacular he could master, he repulsed those who challenged him. The vultures scattered, allowing me to embark in his not-so-new sedan.

”Where you want go sir?” he asked.

”Take me to an excellent place for local food,” I replied.

”I take you to good place, sir,” he responded and sped off into the dark.

The question of whether I wanted a sexy girl to accompany me during my Bangkok stay arose again. I refused his offer with politeness.

The man rephrased his query: “You want boy? I take you to good boy-bar.”

I shook my head, yet he continued to pester me for an answer.

We bantered back and forth, I, not revealing my sexual preference while he used every contrivance to solicit an answer.

Instead of delivering me to the city’s hub, he headed in the opposite direction towards a suburb that had almost no street lights. Worrisome thoughts of robbery and murder had begun to plague me when the vehicle finally came to a halt at a two-storied house in the middle of nowhere.

A bald man with bad everything came out to greet us. There and then, I knew I had been delivered to a brothel rather than a restaurant. Much like the Mecca whorehouse, which Aziz had chaperoned us to some years ago, both pimp and driver escorted me into the seedy establishment.

I insisted on leaving but the driver would not budge until I had selected my pick of the day. Under such adverse circumstance I had little choice but to select a boy who looked half-way decent. He accompanied me to a shabby upstairs chamber.

As soon as he’d shut the door, I uttered, “Don’t take your clothes off. I’m not having sex with you. Tell me how much I owe and we’ll call it quits.”

The lad had no idea what I said. He began to disrobe when I stopped him. He looked at me strangely before calling the proprietor for assistance.

After much hassle and jostling, we reached a settlement. Since I’d offered to pay for the boy’s service and had not utilized his aid, Mr. Pimp, in jovial Thai modus operandi, agreed that the boy would be my tour guide for a day.

By the time the cab returned me to the hotel, I was starved for anything but sex. While Pimp and Taxi were sharing their illicit earnings, I was devouring everything that was brought before me by room service.

Not only was my first exploration a disaster, but I had also witnessed pervasive sleaze within this illustrious kingdom of Siam, more commonly known nowadays as “The Land of Smiles.”

1968

Hartnell’s Accomplishments

Our three-day London shopping spree extended to a weeklong stay. Sheik Fahrib sent word that he had unfinished business with Prince P and wouldn’t be joining us until a week later. The women welcomed the idea of more time for shopping.

Tad, like Count Mario Conti, knew everyone who was anyone, especially those within the British aristocratic circles and those who supplied services to the British Royal Households. This man-about-town had wrangled a meeting for the Assalamu Alaikum ladies with Queen Elizabeth II’s other dressmaker, the infamous Mr. Norman Hartnell.

Hartnell’s history of dressing British aristocrats dates back to 1923, when he acquired a clientele of debutantes and their mothers during his early years at the University of Cambridge. From then on, he was the darling of both the titled crowd and a string of silver-screen leading ladies, the likes of Vivien Leigh, Gertrude Lawrence, Merle Oberon, Ann Todd, Evelyn Laye, Anna Neagle, and also trans-Atlantic stars such as Marlene Dietrich, Elizabeth Taylor and Linda Christian to name a few.

When we met in 1968, this talented designer had some serious accolades under his belt. Besides designing Princess Elizabeth’s dress for her wedding to Prince Philip of Greece in 1947, he was also commissioned by the newly crowned queen to design her Coronation Dress in 1953.

In addition, Hartnell designed dresses for the Queen’s Maids of Honour as well as the Royal ladies in attendance, creating the necessary Westminster Abbey theatrical tableaux that showcased his design mastery to the world.

This was not the height of his ability. This man undertook an increasingly large number of commissions for The Queen’s State Visits and Royal Tours abroad, as well as an abundance of events at home, all necessitating a volume of clothing too large for just one House.

HRH Princess Margaret‘s 1960 wedding dress to Antony Charles Robert Armstrong-Jones, who became the first Earl of Snowdon, marked the last full-State occasion for which Mr. Hartnell designed an impressive vignette of courtly dresses that marked the swan-song of lavish British haute couture.

After the designer’s death in 1979, The House of Norman Hartnell remained busy with numerous court commissions until it finally closed its doors in 1992.

No. 26 Bruton Street, Mayfair

I remembered that day we met Mr. Hartnell at his then state-of-the-art Art Deco premise. His assistant ushered us into a sophisticated and cosmopolitan interior designed by Gerald Lacoste, a famed architect of his day.

It was like entering La Maison Chanel in Paris. A grand staircase lined with wall-to-ceiling mirrors greeted our entourage. Touches of regal 18th-century architectural designs combined with glassed Art Deco modernity were the consummate reflection of the designer’s style. It was of little wonder that The Queen of England and the beloved Queen Mother, together with an entourage of the royal set, favoured Hartnell’s singular beaded and embroidered dresses.

The Assalamu Alaikum ladies were no exception to the rule. Roya and Kifah, ‘queens’ of sparkles in their own right, were already enamoured of Lacoste’s liberal use of faceted glass within the premise, not to mention the glittering antique chandeliers and magnificent chimneypiece that housed a state-of-the-art electric fire. The Assalamu Alaikum women were already awed before they had met the designer or viewed his latest haute collection.

The ‘Other’ Queen’s Dressmaker

The House of Norman Hartnell was a far cry from that of Hardy Amies. While the latter was stoic and philosophical, his maison was intricately plush and copiously luxuriant. It wasn’t just the harem women who felt like princesses in this salon; I had similar sentiments. Though I did not express myself in giggly chitter-chatter like the females, inwardly, I was wonderstruck by such elegance.

When Mr. Hartnell finally made his appearance, I was honoured to be in the presence of this fashion high priest. He possessed a certain refinement that had me poised in respectful reverence. I wanted to impersonate this designer’s style, taste and refinement. He was a quintessential specimen of how I envisioned a haute couture designer to be, and that was before he presented his collection in a mini-parade organized specially for our entourage.

I was not at all surprised that Kifah and her bridesmaids had her wedding and bridesmaids’ dresses made by this maison. So did Shahria and Roya, who ordered their evening ensembles for attending their lady in waiting’s big day.

The Haute Collection

Like the private couture showings I had attended with the harem women from the other households, this particular collection took my breath away. From the seamless execution down to the exquisite detailing of every ensemble, it solidified my ambition to be a shining star in the years that followed.

Rumour had it, I learned, this Queen’s ‘Other’ dressmaker was a cross-dresser in private. Tad swore that his scoop came from a reliable source. This said person, who went by the name of Maureen, was a former Hartnell employee. During her tenure in the House, she had embellished crinoline gowns with measurements to match her employer’s. Although these gowns were registered under the name of Mrs. Freeman, these pieces were discreetly acknowledged as Mr. Hartnell’s personal stash, since there were no registered clients by this surname in any of the House’s order books. The staff in-the-know had discerned this pseudonym as a pun chosen by Norman or rather ‘Norma’ (as in Norma Jean, a.k.a. Marilyn Monroe) to represent how wearing feminine gowns offered a sense of freedom to the wearer.

According to Maureen, time and again Mr. Hartnell had mentioned in passing that his ‘effete’ persona had not eluded him since his days at Cambridge University, where he performed as Marcelle in the 1923 production of Folly with the university’s Footlights production.

She added that Mr. Hartnell would never do anything to compromise his position and business as a leading designer to ladies of the British Royal Family and the aristocratic ‘society’ clients upon whom his success was founded.

Nevertheless, she said, this Queen’s dressmaker had never married, but enjoyed a discreet and quiet life at a time when homosexual relations between men were illegal. Unlike his competitor, Mr. Amies, who was an avid self-promotor, this Edwardian gentlemen considered himself a confirmed bachelor and was seldom seen at public events.

Norman Hartnell’s prudence did serve him well. In 1977, he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother when the kingdom was celebrating the Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II’s ascension to the throne.

A reporter once wrote in an exclusive interview with Sir Hartnell:

“May I suggest, Sir, that you might feel rather more like an ordinary oyster that has produced an unexpected pearl!”

Although both of the dressmakers were in amicable terms, at leass in public; there were some unfortunate ad-lib remarks made during interviews –Amies termed Hartnell a ‘soppy’ or ‘silly old queen‘ whilst describing himself as a ‘bitchy’ or ‘clever old queen.’ Hartnell, on the other hand, had been known to term Amies ’Hardly Amiable’.

As with many characters within the high-fashion circles I would come to experience first-hand when I came of age to join their ranks, bitchiness and back-stabbing were often the norm within this cutthroat industry. But in the merry month of May in 1968, moi, the fashion freshman, was decisively reverential toward the now-defunct House of Norman Hartnell.

It was not until the year 2008 that the name Norman Hartnell was acquired by Li & Fung (Fung Capital), a prominent international fashion and beauty acquisitor, as part of their extensive London fashion portfolio that also includes Hardy Amies Ltd, No.14 Savile Row.

Chapter Sixty-One

Neilyn Munrow & Fair Cecily

“There will always be a desire for something new, fresh and innovative, as well as a yearning and respect for timeless elegance and beauty.“

Helena Christensen

1968

F. F. F.

Bunny’s black, white and gold invitation read:

You and a companion are cordially invited to:

F. F. F.

Fancy Feast Festival

(Formal)

Fetish F*** Fest

(Informal)

Attire:

Black Tie & White Briefs
and/or

Evening gowns & Lingerie.

Seven P.M.

At

Reddish Manor

Broadchalke

Wiltshire

England

Please be punctual.

Sincerely Yours,

Neilyn Munrow

&

Fair Cecily

Dressed in our finest, the six of us departed from the Dorchester to Wiltshire, a journey that took two hours, arriving at Reddish Manor, the country estate of none other but the world-renowned English fashion, portrait and war photographer, diarist, painter, interior designer and Academy Award–winning stage and costume designer for films and the theatre, the Cecil Beaton. That evening, he was Ms. Fair Cecily.

Although I had no idea when I first arrived, I soon found out our hostess’ true identity.

Count Mario had arrived unexpectedly from New York, where he had just completed a photographic assignment for Vanity Fair. He bumped in to his long-time pal, Tad, at the Dorchester where he was also staying. The athlete had invited the Italian to the soiree as Señor Triqueros’ date.

The champion sportsman and the fashion photographer had a lot in common. They were both men about town publicly seen with beautiful women in their arms, even though in private they preferred the company of males. These two entrepreneurs knew everyone who was anyone, especially within the sports, music, artistic and aristocratic circles. It came as no surprise when the Count agreed to join us for this oddball soiree.

“French Maids”

A muscular black ‘maid’, dressed in a short white apron and a backless flouncy ultra-mini skirt, answered the door. A huge black and white bow held the apron and skirt in place at the back. The apron barely covered her shaven chest. When she guided the guests to the drawing room, her exposed buttocks swayed bootyliciously for all to ogle. Glimpses of her well-endowed cobblers left up to one’s imagination what lay dangling between those muscular legs, sensually enshrined in thigh-high platform boots. A perky maid’s cap, tilted at a calculated angle against a massive black afro, topped off her uniform. Any hot-blooded ‘diva’ would be envious of her guise.

She held a white feather duster that at any moment could double as a whipping cane, depending on who was naughty (whacked red on the buttocks) or nice (tickled pink from exhaustive giggling). These ‘maids’ were scattered around the maison ready for action.

Many of the mature ‘Ladies’ had handsome beaus in tow. It was Tad who later revealed that these bright young things were either kept boys of their respective cross-dressing sugar-daddies, or boy toys hired from classy male escort agencies that catered solely to older gentlemen (or, in this instance, ‘ladies’ who needed a pair of muscular hands to lean on or “work with,” depending on the service provided or how much ‘she’ was willing to pay).

Much like an Edwardian lady who would never venture outdoors without a male escort, harem women, like their Edwardian counterparts, also required male escorts when venturing outdoors. Not only was it socially unacceptable, it was also a cultural taboo for a woman to sojourn alone.

The difference was that the ‘women’ at that evening’s soiree were of theatrical pretence, while the Arabian females were mundane realities.

Grand Entrances

While the invitees were actively mingling and chatting animatedly over cocktails, it was also time for the grand entrance of Ms. Neilyn Munrow, a.k.a. Neil Munro ‘Bunny’ Roger.

Heavily made up to resemble ‘The’ Marilyn Monroe, Ms. Munrow floated down the grand staircase in a white dress, similar in style to that worn by the actress in The Seven Year Itch.

Neilyn sashayed sexily down the stairs, stopping above a wooden platform built specially for her ‘swirling skirt’ performance. Gusts of wind blew from under the rostrum up her pleated skirt, as she posed this way and that to a flock of clicking cameramen who were intimates of our ‘hostesses.’ Amused guests applauded thunderously, even though they were not surprised by the display.

Ms Munrow’s finale paved the way for our other hostess, Ms. Fair Cecily, to take centre stage.

Fair Cecily was a name bestowed upon the world-renowned Cecil Beaton by his confidant and mentor, Diana Vreeland, who was at the time the ex-fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue’s current editor-in-chief.

Atop the grand staircase was the creator of Miss Eliza Doolittle’s black and white ‘Royal Escort Opening Day’ ensemble, which Ms. Audrey Hepburn had worn with great aplomb in My Fair Lady.

Mr. Beaton had transformed himself into Ms. Fair Cecily, a.k.a. My Fair Lady. From her fabulously oversized and over-embellished hat down to the ruffled lace parasol, Ms. Fair had perfected her ensemble. She had fashioned the Fair Lady in her own image – tall and slender with a waspish waist, Cecily was the personification of Beaton’s Fair Lady feminine manifestation.

The numerous stage and film costumes Cecil had famously designed he had subconsciously created for himself. These private F.F.F. soirees provided both the hostesses and their kindred spirits the unconstrained release they needed to express their auxiliary selves, where pomp and circumstance was the norm.

Although I neither knew nor cared at the time about the psychological analysis of cross dressing or cross-dressers, my mentors and teachers would certainly educate me on this phenomenon, either in passing or as an educational topic at tutorials.

Back then, I was having the time of my life observing these eccentric creatures outmanoeuvring one another in their exotic costumes with outrageous mannerisms to match.

“Uniformed Footmen”

When the gong struck thrice, it was time to proceed to the dining hall. ‘Maids’ and footmen were at hand to assist us to our places.

These footmen were as cute as they come. Their uniforms were no more than a white high-collared tuxedo bib with black lapels, providing an appearance of a dress jacket. The bib was attached by a black narrow band with a gold buckle secured at the back. A pair of shirt cuffs, complete with gold cufflinks and black bowties, completed the upper section of their uniform.

They wore no trousers except a tiny leather thong to camouflage their genitals. Transparent nylon socks secured by sock garters and a pair of polished laced-up shoes formed their lower sheath. Other than these skimpy coverings, they were naked as jaybirds.

Ready to assist the guests in any way, shape or form, these beautiful young helpers were available to be addressed or undressed after our pseudo-persnickety banquet. The dinner proved to be a flirtatious foreplay that would eventually lead to a night of turpitudinous debauchery.

As was often the case, these “maids” and “footmen” were heftily rewarded by wealthy patrons if they played their cards right. The promise of being a kept boy was their ultimate prize. These eye candies were there for the ‘ladies’ and for themselves. It was a rule of thumb at this kind of soiree.

The reason for Tad’s Fortnum & Mason picnic celebration was the fact that this secret invitation was an unspoken perfunctory acknowledgement that the invitee had made it into this notable clandestine inner sanctum. The idiom “birds of a feather flock together” certainly rang true for Mario and Tad, since they moved within the who’s who circuits with ease, if only superficially.

Dinner Conversation

Our hostesses changed outfits pretty quickly after their debut entrances. Ms. Neilyn Munrow now wore an exact duplicate of the shimmering evening gown Marilyn Monroe had worn when she sang her raspy rendition of Happy Birthday, Mr. President. To complete her outfit, she was draped a scrumptious fur stole as she led the way into the dining room.

Ms. Munrow had competition when Fair Cecily appeared in an exquisite sequined evening dress. A long flowing train trailed behind as she floated in to take her seat at the far end of the lavishly decorated dining table. Her dress was an identical copy of the antique gown Ms. Hepburn had worn in My Fair Lady, when she attended the grand ball and danced with a foreign prince.

No one could compete with Ms. Fair Cecily. She was, after all, ‘The’ Cecil Beaton, who had created the wardrobe for the movie.

Tad, like Mario, was placed next to Fair Cecily: one sat on either side of her. A dominant ‘female’ who went by the title of Duchess Marianne sat between Mario and my Valet. (This Duchess turned out to be a British Member of Parliament). Cecily’s handsome beau, Ivan, was sandwiched between Tad and me. The society ‘lady’ next to moi was an aristocratic old guard, twice removed from the House of Windsor from the defunct Kingdom of Romania. He was a distant cousin of HM Queen Elizabeth II, who, that evening, had assumed the role of ‘Princess Eudoxia of Bulgaria’ (his usual identity at soirees of this nature).

Inevitably, the dinner conversation soon turned to celebrity gossip.

“You look fabulous, darling Cecily,” Princess Eudoxia complimented the hostess.

Fair replied, augmenting Ms. Hepburn’s personality, “Thank you, my dear princess! I do recognize my inherent ‘star’ quality, and my stance is indeed a combination of an ultra-fashion plate and a ballet dancer. Not to mention, my features show character rather than prettiness.”

She continued, “My voice is peculiarly personal, with its unaccustomed rhythm and sing-song cadence that sometimes develops into a flat drawl that ends in a childlike query.

“You know, Eudoxia, it possess a quality of heartbreak, don’t you agree?”

The hostess laughed at her self-assessment, and so did the audience.

“I’m intelligent and alert, wistful but enthusiastic, frank yet tactful, assured without conceit, and tender without sentimentality,” she added to an already amused crowd.

Mario asked, “How do you perceive Liz Taylor, whom I understand you have photographed?”

This gave Cecily cause to disparage. “She’s everything I dislike. I’ve always loathed the Burtons for their vulgarity, commonness and crass bad taste. Liz combines the worst of American and English taste.

“I told her not to powder her nose in front of the cameras, but she wanted compliments, so I gave her none.

“Her huge breasts hung like those of a Peruvian peasant woman suckling her young. The biggest diamonds and emeralds covered her fat, coarse hands like oversized gloves.”

The guests were taken aback by such venomous appraisal coming from a man who made his fame and fortune photographing well-known personalities the likes of Elizabeth and Richard Burton.

Ms. Cecily sneered, “This is the woman with the greatest ‘draw’ yet by comparison. Everyone else looked ladylike.”

Silence fell over the crowd. It was ‘Duchess Marianne’ who broke the silence.

“What do you make of Princess Margaret?” she queried.

“Ahh, the princess. Though she looks pretty, she wears too much make-up.” Fair paused before expressing, “There is no interim between a shut serious mouth and a flashing grin. Though I came away with the impression that HRH is amusing and witty.

“When my light meter was placed near her, she opined, ‘It’s like having my pulse taken! And by the way, this is my best side.’ In truth, the difference is quite astonishing. We laughed about raising her head in order to shorten the effect of her nose.”

Beaton’s presence was astonishing. Joviality returned to the room.

Out of sheer exuberance, I questioned impetuously, “What of Marilyn Monroe?”

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted having spoken. As if I were an imbecile, all eyes turned on me, especially the contemptuous stares my Valet and professor casted my direction. For a second, I prayed for the ground to open and swallow me whole.

Fair glanced at Neilyn before they burst into hilarity. Their laughter softened the impact of my plebeian inquiry.

“Oh, Marilyn, the naïve child who played at being an adult and foresaw her unhappy outcome.” Fair sighed before she opined, “She walked like an undulating basilisk, scorching everything in her path but the rosemary bushes.

“Her voice, of a loin-stroking affection, had the sensuality of silk or velvet.”

Neilyn purred saucily at this compliment.

“The puzzling truth is that Miss Monroe is a make-believe siren, unsophisticated as a Rhine maiden and innocent as a sleepwalker. She was an urchin pretending to be grown up and having the time of her life in Mother’s moth-eaten finery. She tottered in high-heeled shoes, sipping ginger ales as if they were champagne cocktails.”

The audience laughed at Cecily’s criticism of the deceased actress. The two people who were not amused were Andy and Triqueros.

I turned away from my mentors and looked at Fair as she continued, “She romped and squealed with delight, leaping onto the sofa like an over-excited child asked downstairs after tea. Such an artless, high-spirited, and infectiously gay performance that ended in tears.”

And so went the opprobrium from one celebrity to the next, until after dinner, the digestif was announced. Only then did the criticism cease in readiness for the night’s orgiastic activities to begin.

Chapter Sixty-Two

From Russia With Love

“Sex is like snow, you never know how many inches you’re going to get or how long it will last.“

Neil Munro ‘Bunny’ Roger

(a.k.a Neilyn Munrow)

February 2013

My Email to Andy (Part Two)

When Max and I met for dinner the following evening after my run-in with the pimp, cab-driver and rent-boy, I was pleasantly surprised that the German had chartered a traditional Thai cruise boat, complete with a personal server, for a romantic dinner cruise down the Chao Phraya River.

This waterway is used daily as a major transportation system for locals and tourists alike. At night, when the glistening Buddhist temples and sparkling grand palaces are lit, the water on this river transforms, completing the appearance of a shimmering golden wonderland.

As we sat enjoying the mystical beauty of this kingdom, images of Anna and the King of Siam floated across my mind. A bewildering enchantment washed over me as our boat meandered slowly across these unruffled waters.

I imparted my day’s activities to my handsome companion, who lay comfortably next to me on an array of embroidered cushions. Above us, the Milky Way drifted by aimlessly as the boat glided across this “Land of Contravention.”

When I started to tell him about my sordid night at the brothel, he burst into laughter. I took that as a cue to go on.

I related my surprise when I saw Wat, the cab-driver, and Nom, the rent-boy, waiting for me outside the hotel the next morning after the brothel incident.

True to their words, they took me sightseeing (though I had to pay their expenses, as you did with your Filipino boys). I soon discovered that the locals have a way of camouflaging their enmities with superficial merriment. No wonder visitors nicknamed this kingdom “The Land of Smiles” – even if it’s an ostensible contradiction.

Max was an excellent listener. Throughout my babbling, he injected little, but he charmed me with his dazzling smiles. I was entranced by his humour and worldly outlook. Needless to say, we ended up in bed sooner than expected.

Within the Chamber of Love

His irresistible eyes pierced my soul, arousing the fibre of my being, just like yours did before our separation. I surrendered to his effervescent exploration with no hesitation. His nimble fingers moved to strip me bare, and I reciprocated with enthusiasm. Max had miraculously manifested in my life, and I was at his mercy. Like a seasoned magician, he had immobilised me with his intoxicating virility.

Even though I had known the German for only a few hours, this man had already possessed me, and vice versa. Neither of us had any wish to banish our animal magnetism; we embraced it with adoration. Under his bewitching spell, I trembled and had to battle for stability.

Andy, I hadn’t experienced this kind of animalistic attraction since our separation. Max, like me, was also recovering from a lost love.

The two of us throbbed uncontrollably when our lips finally interlocked in delirious cognizance. I was sure our torrential passion would scorch our burning emotions, which would eventually destroy the fibres of our mutual existence.

Like Wat and Nom, who had masked their authentic feelings in public, Max and I made no exception of ourselves. But within that chamber of love, we bared our vulnerabilities to each other.

My dear ex, I felt his drumming palpitations as though they were yours. I savoured his intoxicating manliness with intensity.

His pining sentiments had also seeped through the cracks of our otherwise flawless union. While his languid kisses resembled a man in unwarranted agony, his vibrant eyes also told a tale of sadness. Within that unanticipated moment of ecstasy, we fought for equilibrium.

As our ardour intensified, so did our desire to cast off that which no longer served us. Yet our invisible bondages manifested outward, obstructing the eroticism that had held us captive thus far. We needed each other to mend our cynicism – to believe that love could again be ours.

As soon as he eased into my contracting willingness, his solicitous gentility disseminated my trembling uncertainties. Rapturous pleasure washed over me.

Through Max, I had rediscovered the blissfulness of living, and so had he. That evening, we took time to develop our love dance as we tangoed in humming synchronicity toward a series of intensified releases. We were perpetuated by our newfound yogistic delights – postures I had not exercised since my harem years. Not only did our intimacies invigorate our physical attributes, they also stabilized our mental equilibria.

When he finally entrusted his fill into my receiving kernel, I was more than eager to reciprocate. My stream’s milky of ardor coated his musculature before he scooped to share my solvency in passionate kisses since time immemorial.

Unwilling to relinquish his still throbbing hardness, I glided effortlessly on his deposits, thus fortifying our passion and lubricating our way back to another stream of unbridled exhilaration.

That night was the first of many with this charismatic German.

1968

The Hungarian

Brought on by excessive alcoholic consumption and the use of recreational drugs, or, most likely, both, the F.F.F. soon transformed into a farcical bash. The ‘ladies’ and their hangers-on started a series of burlesque flirtations that appeared more zany than provocative. Andy, Triqueros, and a few escorts who’d only consumed a moderate amount of alcoholic beverages looked on with amusement, as the ‘women’ discarded their bejewelled ensembles only to reveal seductive lingerie, several sizes too small for their overly bodacious and corpulent figures.

Moi, the goody-two-shoes who hadn’t guzzled a drop of liquor, found these cockamamie Affaires de Coeur almost painful to witness. In a corner, Tad and Mario were busy toying with several winsome ‘maids’ and footmen while at the other end, my teacher and Valet were chatting coquettishly with a couple of attractive escorts. Without seeking permission, I snuck away unnoticed to explore this magnificent house and its many treasured artefacts.

As I opened the study’s door, a startled figure jumped from behind the desk in this dimly lit chamber. For a split second, the disconcerted man didn’t know what to make of me.

I exclaimed apologetically, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

He resumed his stance immediately. “I’m looking for my cigarettes. I thought I left them here earlier,” Ivan answered.

I replied without thinking the worse of anything, “I should have knocked before entering.” I paused before I added, “I wanted to tour this beautiful house.”

“Why aren’t you enjoying the company of the others?” the Hungarian queried.

I shrugged my shoulders and gave him a trenchant smile. With a sly grin, he nodded in acknowledgement of my sentiment. “Let’s find somewhere comfortable to talk.”

We settled on a comfortable sofa overlooking the foyer. He extracted a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. For a split second, I thought it strange, since he’d mentioned he’d forgotten where he had left his smokes.

Though he had sat next to me at dinner, he hadn’t said much. After all, Ms. Cecily and Neilyn had held court throughout the evening.

Although he wasn’t as young as most of the escorts below, he had an attractive poise that many classically trained ballet dancers possess.

“What do you do?” I enquired.

He seemed taken aback by my question, as if I should have known without asking. He took his time to answer: “I’m a danzatore.”

I had no clue what that word meant. I did not respond.

He resumed, “I was with the Budapest State Opera before my wife and I escaped the Soviet Bloc. These days, I dance and coach internationally.”

“Your wife?” I questioned.

“We’re divorced,” he answered morosely.

My curiosity got the better of me.

“How did you meet Mr. Beaton?” I questioned.

“We met when Nora and I were performing with the London Festival Ballet. Cecil came backstage to congratulate us. Since then I’ve posed for him on several occasions.

“Currently, I’m in London on an assignment. Cecil invited me to this soiree when I called on him a couple days back.” He looked at me quizzically.

“How did you meet Cecil?” he countered.

“I don’t know Mr. Beaton well. I’m a guest of Bunny’s,” I replied.

Assuming I was one of Ms. Neilyn’s boy toys, the Hungarian smiled wickedly and gave me a flirtatious wink.

Before I could comment, he had lifted me to my feet. “Come, let’s find somewhere quiet so I can get to know you better.”

In the Rose Garden

We proceeded out of the service entrance as the last caterer was about to slam the door shut. The refreshing night air was a welcome change from the giddy interior we had just left.

Guided by the smell of blossoming roses and blooming country perennials, Ivan led me to a garden filled with spring blossoms. The distant lights cast a winsome silhouette on my companion’s sinewy figure. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties.

I was dazzled by his childlike exploration when our lips met in a tender embrace. His gentle touch sent shivers down my spine. I felt like I was enticed into a performance that had been choreographed for us.

As quickly as that thought flashed through my mind, his nimble fingers traced my boyishness, as if they drew their agility from my very being. I mirrored his action with scintillating grace, as we complemented our foreplay with ardent affection.

His tongue lingered sensually around my lips, as if he were uncovering the youthful beauty he had lost. I held onto his long wavy hair as he enveloped my face with his, entwining our tongues in a sensual exploration neither of us wished to relinquish.

His willful hands undressed me. Reaching into my unbuttoned shirt, he twitched my succulence to attention in readiness for his pearly fangs to devour. He held firmly onto my arched back as I surrendered to his luscious buoyancy.

He lapped at my adolescent waist, teasing every wisp in allowance for his imminent entry. His slithering tongue swirled and jabbed at my navel, before drifting to the target of his ravenous devotion.

With my pants and briefs half-way down my knees, Ivan delved into me, worshipping my juvenance like Apollo on Hyacinthus. Whiffs of fragrant hyacinths filled my nostrils, sending me into a hypnotic trance.

The danseur coaxed my throbbing sturdiness to heights of unparalleled excitement. Unwilling to release this carnal pleasure that had engulfed my person, I pressed his head onto my denseness with fiery precision. Ivan certainly lived up to his name, not only in the world of ballet but also as a lover of men.

With a glowing complexion of vivacious vitality and not an inch of body fat on his gymnastic musculature, I returned his favour. I went to town relishing his maleness, readying him for my onslaught.

He wasted no time to pump into me with cherished dexterity. Just as he was about to deliver, I backed away and flipped him onto his back.

In a single stroke, I ploughed into the dancer with aplomb. His seductive eyes pierced perspicaciously into mine, stirring me to frenzied perfervidity, while his twitching contractions did nothing but enhance my erotic exaltations. Unable to control my blither fervencies, I surged into his opening. Climaxes of splintered jubilation gushed into his entrance, filling him to overflowing capacity. I stayed within until my heaving subsided.

Yet, we wanted to go where angels fear to tread.

His agile fingers scooped a handful of my delivery within and smeared it onto his satiety before easing into my blossoming bud, which had unfurled voluntarily to welcome his protrusion.

Like the intimate endearments seasoned partner-dancers share, our ardent gazes had strengthened our bond towards his ultimate release. Gusts of euphoric exuberance coursed through my physique, encircling me in an unbridled cocoon of invisible ardour.

Our blissful sentiments of unbroken melody soon propelled Ivan to flares of solicitous elations. As his forceful audacity flooded me, it also triggered my second outpour. We exploded in synchronicity to nature’s primal call.

We remained in each other’s arms until the night chills beckoned us to re-join the frenzied crowd we had escaped not so long ago.

An Unpredicted Revelation

In the early nineties, a black-and-white picture in an English newspaper caught my eye. The headlines read:

Defected Hungarian ballet dancer denies charges as a double agent for GRU and MI6.

Staring unflinchingly at me was the premier danzatore, the Hungarian I had an unrivalled erotic encounter at Reddish Manor back in 1968 during the F.F.F. soiree.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Sparkles & Blings

“Opportunity knocks for every man, but you have to give a woman a bling.”

Mae West

1968

The Arrival

Prince P and Dr. Fahrib arrived on the Al-Fayoum with a new entourage of E.R.O.S. recruits accompanied by their BBs, BSs and their tutor, Monsieur Alain Dubois. This new batch of “foreign exchange” students were fractional replacements for Narnia and Albert, who had been dispatched for rehab.

Lilee, Leon and their respective Big Sister, Joyance, and Valet, Aaron, were under Prince P’s auspices, while Camilla, Terrance and their corresponding chaperones – Emmaa and Buddy, were the responsibility of Sheik Fahrib.

Since we were on similar wavelengths, Andy and I took to them immediately. For the majority of the time we operated in harmony, though there were occasions when we differed in opinions.

Mario, on the other hand, had solicited the services of two beautiful females and an attractive male from a London modeling agency to travel with us to India. The purpose of our India trip was in part to meet with several Malayalam and Tamil Nadu film production companies; colloquially referred to as Kollywood. This term is a portmanteau of the words Kodambakkam (a residential neighbourhood in the city of Madras – now renamed Chennai) in Tamil Nadu and Hollywood.

Being a prolific multitasker, Mario was also using this opportunity to conduct a fashion shoot for Harpers & Queen – the newly amalgamated Hearst Corporation’s Harper’s Bazaar UK and Queen Magazine. Similar to its American cousin, Town & Country magazine, Harpers & Queen was widely focused on British “high society”, reporting titbits and gossip about the lives of socialites and the aristocracy, even though in reality, its features were often wide-ranging and highly original.

Since the first publication, Harpers & Queen has repositioned itself as Harper’s Bazaar, therefore bringing the publication in line with its international sister titles and becoming more meritocratic in terms of whom it will feature.

Back in 1968, when the Count was busy organizing the debut photo shoot for the magazine’s launch, Tad and his haut monde acquaintances were invaluable resources for Mario to make headways into the coterie of British nobility and glitterati.

Asprey or Garrard?

No sooner had P and Fahrib arrived at the Dorchester, the doctor was pulled in opposite directions by his wives and their women vindicators. Shahria insisted that her husband accompany her, Ain, Kifah, Iba and Lina to Garrard’s (the sovereign crown jeweller). This was the very company that had created the Cullinan diamonds (including Cullinan I, “The Great Star of Africa”), and masterpieces such as the Imperial Crown of India, Queen Mary’s coronation crown and last but by no means least, the Crown of Queen Elizabeth II.

On the other spectrum, Roya, Ayisha, Fatima and Safiya wanted the sheik to come with them to Asprey. After all, Fahrib had promised Roya over the phone that he would purchase any jewellery she desired from this renowned jeweller, the same House that had fashioned HRH Princess Margaret‘s five-string pearl necklace gifted her by her late grandmother, HM Queen Mary on the princess’s 18th birthday.

Roya’s sudden rise in stature as the carrier of the royal heir had slashed a wedge between the wives. Shahria, determined not to allow her subordinate to overshadow her preeminent wifely status, made it her priority to regain her position.

The battle over the jewellers was the first of many between the women in the Assalamu Alaikum household.

The peacekeeper, P, stepped in to clear the air. He volunteered to escort Shahria and her proponents to Garrard’s, with Andy, Jabril, Triqueros, the four newly appointed E.R.O.S. recruits, and moi trailing behind.

Meanwhile, Tad and the sheik shepherded Roya and her gang, together with the other “foreign exchange” students and Dubois to Asprey.

As for the two cultural attachés, they split, one to accompany each camp.

Garrard

When our entourage arrived at Albemarle Street, a stone’s throw from the Dorchester, we were greeted by Mr. Fuller, Garrard & Co LTD store manager and a couple of his assistants. P, the suave shopper, took the reins and herded the women into the premises. We followed.

This queenly store certainly lived up to its royal warrant. As soon as the women stepped over its threshold, they oohed and aahed at the glittering bijous that were elegantly displayed behind gleaming cases.

In the year 1843, Queen Victoria had appointed Garrard to the position of Crown Jewellers. This led to the production of silverware and jewellery for the British Royal Family, as well as the upkeep of the British Crown Jewels. Garrard’s fame surged when in 1852, they were entrusted with the responsibility of re-cutting the famous Koh-i-Noor diamond into a brilliant.

The store manager wasted no time giving us a brief history of their illustrious company, over tea, champagne and light refreshments served by uniformed maids. Unlike the ‘French maids’ at Munrow and Cecily’s soiree, these liveried maidens would make any English traditionalist proud with unequivocal decorum.

Mr. Fuller, positive that we would not be leaving empty handed, began, “Thank you for choosing Garrard as your jeweller.”

Since no purchases had yet been made, we remained silent. That changed as soon as Mr. Fuller resumed his spiel.

The ‘Mountain of Light’

“His Royal Highness Prince Albert, Prince Consort of Great Britain and Ireland, decreed Garrard to refashion the Koh-i-Noor to irradiance.”

P, knowing a little of the gem’s origin, questioned, “Where did the Kooh-è Noor, or what we Persians term as the ‘Mountain of Light,’ originate from?”

Fuller answered guardedly, “It was discovered in the 13th century near Guntur in Andhra Pradesh, India. The Kakatiya dynasty was its first owner.

“Over the years, the stone changed hands between several feuding factions in South Asia.

“After the British conquest of the Punjab in the 1849, Her Majesty Queen Victoria came into possession of this precious diamond.”

Jabril remarked, “Aren’t there speculations that this gem caused much bloodshed before Victoria claimed ownership? And will not ill fate befall any man who wears it?”

The store manager paused before announcing confidently, “That is precisely the reason the Koh-i-Nûr may be worn only by female members of the royal family.”

He breathed a sigh of concealed relief when there were no follow-ups.

“This diamond is set in the front of the Queen Mother’s Crown. It is now a part of the United Kingdom’s Crown Jewels and is viewed by millions of visitors to the Tower of London.”

P vociferated snidely, “Didn’t India, Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan claim rightful ownership?”

For a split second, the Englishman seemed lost for words.

“Unfortunately, the stone’s early history is lost in the mists of time. Under the Last Treaty of Lahore, this gem was deemed legally owned by HM Queen Victoria,” he declared.

While Fuller and the two Arabs were debating the rightful ownership of the ‘Mountain of Light’, the ladies were busy scouring the store for sparkles to add to their existing blings.

At The Barbers

Since Señor Triqueros, Andy, Aaron, Leon, and I were not into sparkles or blings, we excused ourselves to explore the nearby vicinity. We agreed to reassemble at Garrard at an appointed time.

As we strolled along the thoroughfares we stumbled across a charming barber shop. Since Andy and Aaron were set for a haircut and shave, we trooped into Geo F Trumper, a gentleman’s barber and perfumers established since 1875. This time-honoured establishment was a true master of grooming. With sharp blades and fine scissors, these professionals could transform a dishevelled cad into a man of distinction in a matter of hours.

Not to mention, it is one of the oldest and most luxurious institutions in London. Not only does it provide top quality grooming services, it also dispenses expertise in the formulation of soaps, fragrances and grooming utensils.

The shop was a mixture of dark mahogany and brass with ornate cabinets displaying everything from fragrances to shaving creams, hand-crafted hairbrushes and walking canes.

The moment we entered, my mind and body were seduced by the scents of Spanish Leather and sandalwood.

An Italian gentleman guided us upstairs to a quiet chamber, where four curtained cubicles fitted with mirrors and barber chairs were at the ready for the groomer to perform his artistry. Pristinely arranged atop the shelves in the stalls and within easy reach of the barber’s hands were arrays of immaculately polished scissors, razor blades, warm towels and grooming products.

Andy and Aaron soon disappeared into separate cubicles, leaving my teacher, Leon and me to our own devises.

Tea and crumpets were served to us. I began reading quietly a hand-written poem I had pulled out from my breast pocket while we waited patiently for our Valets to re-emerge.

The inquisitive tomcat Leon peeked over my shoulder to see what I was perusing and caught a glimpse of the content. He squealed waggishly as if he’d discovered a comical secret.

Victor stared at him and hushed him to be silent. He continued to snigger.

“Young, what have you got there that’s turning this chap into a moron?” my teacher asked.

I kept silent, but Leon resumed his fatuous teasing. “He’s reading a love note from his boyfriend,” he screeched.

In the process of deriding his mischievousness, the note fell to the floor. Leon snatched it up while Triqueros separated us from our childish teeter-tottering.

The fathead read aloud:

I want to tell you a story
of late night glory,
and dew,
and me
and you.

It was an experience
wonderful and strange!

I did it more than once:

Returning again
to where you’d lain.

I could scarcely contain
my curiosity
to see if I could tell
where the fruits of our amourosity
fell.

And, once I did,

I could not contain, again,
myself, and on I sped;
would not refrain,
but exploded in memoric,
meteoric
delight!
By myself,
in my bosom,
where you’d lain
that night.

Love,

Ivan

“I see. You’ve worked your charm on the Hungarian,” Victor muttered amusingly before he added, “There’s no need to be coy about it.”

I turned away sheepishly. Although he let the topic drop, he did not sanction it away. Instead, he revived it a few days later on a different continent as an exemplary lesson during one of our tutorials.

When our Valets emerged, they were the paragons of perfect modern gentlemen, subtly masculine and expertly performed. The scent of fresh Limes, Eau de Portugal and Bay Rum filled the air as we departed from this noble establishment to re-join the aristocrats who had practically bought out Garrard & Co. Limited during our absence.

Chapter Sixty-Four

The Male Gaze

“‘I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful,’ said the lake. ‘I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.’”

Paulo Coelho

(The Alchemist)

1968

“Gateway to South India”

The few days Sheik Fahrib and Prince P spent in London were hectic to the nth degree. The doctor’s squabbling wives and their proponents did nothing to bring equanimity to the Assalamu Alaikum household. Instead, mistrust and jealousies shadowed both factions. The sheik’s saving grace was having his companion and clandestine lover at his side when matters got malignant. What the decorous sheik lacked, his charming prince made up for diplomatically with the womenfolk.

The day of our London departure, the Ship ferried Jabril, the Assalamu Alaikum females, Camilla, Terrance, big-sister Emmaa and Valet Buddy, together with Precious and a load full of precious cargo, back to Sharjah while the rest of us boarded the Al-Fayoum, to Madras also known as “The Gateway to South India.”

The moment the females set eyes on adorable Precious, they were in love with him. As soon as the Harrod’s delivery concierge handed the animal over to Jabril, he was adored endlessly, even though the art historian wasn’t aware that the leopard would be his and Kifah’s wedding gift from me and Andy.

Prince P had rented a beautiful colonial mansion on the outskirts of Madras to house his entourage. The moment we boarded the Al-Fayoum, Fahrib let out a sigh of relief. He was delighted to be in the company of like-minded men together with six sympathetic E.R.O.S. recruits. As if a heavy load had been lifted off his shoulders, his robust comportment returned with a vengeance.

Morning Discussion

Our Madras tutorials consisted of Señor Triqueros, Lilee, Leon and me. I commented, “It is nice to see our Master back to his energetic self.”

“Indeed,” our teacher replied. “Young, social constructionism argues that human identity, both individual and interpersonal, is the product of the social contexts within which we spend our lives.”

Lilee chirped, “What is social constructionism?”

Triqueros grinned heartily, “You’ve come to the right person to ask that question. After all, my specialty studies are in sociology and communication theory.”

Since none of us understood the said terms, we kept silent.

Our professor resumed, “Social constructionism or the social construction of reality, is a theory of knowledge in sociology and communication theory that examines the development of jointly constructed understandings of the world. These understandings are said to form the basis for shared assumptions about reality.

“The theory centers on the notions that human beings rationalize their experiences by creating models of the social world to share, and they reify these models through language.”

Leon interjected, “Sir, can you explain it in simpler terms?”

We gleamed at his suggestion.

“Of course, lad,” Victor answered. “A social construct or construction concerns the meaning, notion, or connotation placed on an object or event by a society. It is then adopted by the inhabitants of that society with respect to how they view or deal with the object or event. As an idea, a social construct would be widely accepted by society as natural. This idea may or may not represent a reality that is shared by those outside the society. It would be considered an invention or artifice of that society.

“A major focus of social constructionism is to uncover the ways in which individuals and groups participate in the construction of their perceived social reality. It involves looking at the ways social phenomena are created, institutionalized, known, and made into tradition by humans.”

He paused before resuming, “Since we are under the auspices of our Middle Eastern patriarchs, let’s discuss their communication and social practises.

“Let me add: a social construct teaches us what we are allowed to feel or not feel and the way to express our feelings. From it, we understand which relationships are mandatory, preferred, obligatory, optional, or undesirable. We are taught what we can dream and what we must never dream; which wishes are within the realm of possibility and which are not; and last but not least, the common standards of aesthetics, virtue, and common good. In this sense, social constructionism creates each of us. It teaches us how to see, what to value, and how to respond once we have seen and valued.”

Lilee questioned, “I wonder why the female body is always presented as exotic, and a fascination to be scrutinize and imagine. Why not the male body?”

Our teacher found her question amusing. He responded after a moment’s thought.

“My dear Lilee, have you heard of the term ‘the male gaze’?”

She shook her head.

“‘The male gaze’ was used by a British film theorist .who argues that within the classical structure of cinema, men possess the gaze, and women are its object,” Triqueros explained. ”It is the gaze, the defining mode of masculinist discourse that constructs the ‘woman’ as textual object. Therefore, the male gaze prevents the woman from being herself - from having a ‘self’ that is separated from or prior to the socio-visual construct imposed by the male gaze.

“A gaze turns a subject into an object. The male gaze, when turned toward a woman or homosexual man, desires. In either case, it seizes control from the other. The other may experience the male gaze as a violation, a rape; the object of the gaze is no longer another person, but someone to be possessed or disposed of. Within the world of texts, the male gaze might be described as ‘one-handed reading,’ in that its purpose is clearly one of self-stimulation and erotic satisfaction.”

Leon queried, “Does that mean when Arab men give other men or boys ‘the male gaze’, the recipients are objectified as erotic playthings?”

“The answer is yes and no. It depends on the gazer,” Victor replied. Before addressing the class again, he turned to Lilee.

“Homosociality is a term used to describe the basic structure of patriarchy: men pleasing other men via the medium of women. It relies on a process whereby men attempt to establish some intimacy with each other, usually in a triangulated relationship with a woman who functions to disguise the gestures between the men.

“In the triangle of two men and a woman, the attraction between the two men must be taken as less serious than the attraction between each man and the woman. The attraction is only heightened when either man realizes that he can accumulate further power and influence by forming an alliance with another of the two members of the triangle. Since women rarely have power, the obvious choice of whom to form the alliance with is the other man. The alliance may take the form of cooperation, competition or even aggression. Whatever its form, the power-brokering alliance cannot be denied. This desire to unite powers with another man is one possible non-genital form of Eros. This kind of desire and attraction creates the exaggerated impulse to homosociality. The attraction can oftentimes be intense and potent. The majority of men operate this way, though few are aware of it.”

I blurted, “Like Sheik Fahrib and Prince P?”

Since Leon and Lilee were new recruits, they were taken aback by my proclamation, as this was news to them.

Leon queried before our professor could respond: “Why do heterosexual men find it difficult to direct their gaze toward another man?”

Victor, aware of his student’s bisexuality, questioned, “Have you firsthand experience in this?”

The boy avoided our teacher’s gaze.

“To read is to risk making one’s self vulnerable, to risk encountering what is called ‘the otherness that bites.’ Most people are highly selective about what they read, and will avoid texts which threaten their comfort or security. A man may not be consciously aware that to read another man’s body is dangerous, but subconsciously, he is aware. He is also aware that to read another man’s body raises the possibility that another man may attempt to read his, and perhaps in the reading, find him wanting,” Triqueros elucidated.

The tomcat Leon twiddled his fingers nervously and avoided eye contact with us. Though I did not voice my opinion, I had a presage that our teacher had touched one of the lad’s nerves – and that he had eyes for the Señor.

Lilee remarked, “Why is it also difficult for heterosexual men to turn the gaze upon their own bodies?”

“To gaze at another man re-positions a heterosexual male as a homosexual, thereby shattering his fragile masculinity. Reading affects the reader much more deeply than it affects the text; gazing affects the gazer more deeply than the recipient. Not only does the male gaze has the power to objectify; it can also feminize,” Victor expounded.

He continued, “Let me give you an example: Can anyone tell me what exposure is most feared in the shower?”

None of us answered.

“It is not the scrutiny of the penis, although this prospect may indeed make many heterosexual men uncomfortable. It is the moment when one bends down to pick up the soap which has slipped from one’s hands. It is in the imagination of this moment that the conservative male is most undone by the consciousness that there may be homosexuals in the shower whose gaze will define him as a passive receptacle of their sexuality – and as ‘woman.’

“There is a certain paradox here. Although it is the imagined effeminacy of homosexual men that makes them objects of heterosexual derision, here it is their imagined masculinity that is the consciousness of them as active, evaluating sexual subjects, with a defining and ‘penetrating’ sexual gaze that makes them the objects of heterosexual fear.

“Ultimately, men’s fear of the male gaze is the fear of becoming, feeling, or representing female desire within the phallocentric order. In the shower, the heterosexual and homosexual body is the same; the only difference is in the desirer.”

I opined, “I have never encountered that problem at Daltonbury Hall or the Bahriji communal showers.”

Victor laughed before returning to the topic at hand. “The schools you attended are progressive institutions and unconventional establishments,” he clarified.

“As if the male body were not already a difficult enough text to read, it disappears altogether when a man is unclothed. In a patriarchal system, the penis cues masculinity, and once that occurs, the body, ‘the being,’ disappears and the person becomes a function; the form becomes the essence, the masculinity, the ‘doing.’ The part overwhelms the whole, so that the whole fades into insignificance, leaving the reader in an attempt to read a part or ‘member’ which is, at best, dissociative.”

The Señor pointed at his crotch before he added, “This part of me, which is so synecdochically identified with the male body, has given me both too little and too much information about what it means to be a man. It has a personality like a cat.”

He glanced at Leon, who looked away immediately.

The professor resumed, “I have prayed to it to behave better, to be less frisky, etc. I have followed its nose in matters of love, ignoring good sense, and paid the price. However, I have also come to appreciate that it has its own specialized form of intelligence which must be listened to, or another price will be extracted.”

He laughed cynically.

“The penis will not behave: now a penis, now a phallus – the one when we wish the other. It is itself a text that we can barely read, even with double-vision. It is not one thing but two. The phallus is haunted by the penis, and vice versa. It has no unified social identity, but is fragmented by ideologies of race and ethnicity. Rather than exhibiting constancy of form, it is perhaps the most visibly mutable body part - it evokes the temporal, not the eternal. In regards to maintaining a steady will and purpose, it is mercurial, temperamental, unpredictable.’ It is this unpredictability which fascinates, frustrates, and ultimately offends many gazers of male bodies.

“We do not even know how to count the male body parts, since it is two and not one. The saying goes that girls are made of indiscrete stuff, like ‘sugar and spice and everything nice.’ No quantities are given, nor do they need to be. But boys are made of countable things, such as ‘snips and snails and puppy dog tails …’ Countable, if not to say detachable, things - metonymies of their always castrated penises.

“But do we count the penis as one and the phallus as another? Or is the penis simply a potential text, a text which seems to self-create at will? As described by some orthodox religions: the penis, which is the ‘logical extension’ of all rational men, was created in the image of the divine logos, and the phallus, which is rationally uncontrollable, must simply be the handiwork of the ‘Satan.’ The phallus is the wily serpent in the garden and, as the only body part which refuses to submit to the brain, the constant reminder of our fallenness. The phallus is the conveyer of original sin.

“Therefore, dear pupils, it is a contention that the penis is the most hidden of male body parts because of the ideological as well as the psychoanalytical temptation to turn the penis into its evil twin brother, the phallus.”

He continued enthusiastically, “You’ll notice the genitals on the ceiling paintings in the Sistine Chapel are disproportionately small. This makes them aesthetically safe and of desirable male ideals in ancient Greece. Attractive penises were the penises of pre-adolescents - small with no pubic hair.” Victor gave Leon and me a knowing glance.

“On the other hand, large penises attached to hairy bodies are considered unattractive and threatening. The cultural index of classical Greek penile beauty is that of modesty and subordination, an abjuration of sexual initiative or sexual rivalry,” our educator explicated.

I posed, “Is that why men shave their body hair to be considered attractive?”

“By and large, that is correct. Many men cannot figure out how to read their own penises realistically. Therefore, they refuse to read the penises of others. Judaism attempts to resolve the textual dilemma with the cry, ‘Off with its hat!’ while Christianity and Islam respond more adamantly: ‘Off with its head,’ creating a culture of either symbolic or literal castration. The Christian and Muslim male body was symbolically castrated through body-denial, the circumscription of sexual activity to heterosexual intercourse within marriage for the sole purpose of procreation, and the forbidding of jouissance.”

I posted an observation, “I take it that one reason for the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society’s (E.R.O.S.) secrecy pertains to our current discussion?”

There was a knock on the door just as our tutor was about to answer my question. Our group was summoned by Mario and hosts to a forum; thus, our tutorial was abruptly terminated.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Lover’s Tale

“Water says to the dirty, ‘Come here.’

The dirty one says, ‘I’m so ashamed.’

Water says, ‘How will your shame

Be washed away without me?’”

Rumi

(Poem Forty-Six)

February 2013

My Email to Andy (Part Three)

Max went about his export/import business during the day, and we met in the evenings. The days were spent exploring the city, with regular touristy itineraries: visiting Buddhist temples, grand palaces and museums. In short, I savoured the sights and sounds of this vibrant Land of Smiles.

The evening after our effervescent love-making, Max offered to show me Bangkok’s red-light district – Patpong. Although this area catered mainly, (though not exclusively) to foreign tourists and expatriates, it was the heart of Bangkok’s sex industry. Girls and boys roamed openly on its sidewalks, soliciting passers-by for a good time in their respective pleasure domes.

Although I was not a novice to these kinds of tawdry environments, I was riveted by the explicit shows offered by these club promoters. Farragoes of Thai males and females hassled pedestrians of all genders and ages for a chance to ogle at women performing stunts of creative erotic acts in the nude. One fine example was the infamous ‘Ping-Pong’ show. It featured women executing exotic feats with ping-pong balls in their genitalia.

It was obvious that Max was a regular at Purrsy Galore, a gentleman’s club. The staff were more than friendly to my fellow companion and greeted him like a big spender. Scantily dressed females escorted us to a table close to the miniature stage where their nightly shows were performed.

“Waitresses” with girlish waists, enhanced bosoms, buttocks and everything else took our orders. They wiggled seductively for Max to give their bootylicious bottoms flirtatious slaps to show his appreciation before sashaying away. Their teeny-weeny bikinis could hardly contain their oversized breasts from falling out when they set drinks on the low tables. Brief coquettish dialogues in pigeon-English and fake kittenish winks were exchanged before the servers disappeared to attend to other customers.

“How often do you come here?” I asked my companion.

“Whenever I’m in town,” he replied.

Before I could continue my queries, a Thai announcer blazoned for the show to begin. Flashing disco lights hit the stage as a ping-pong table was secured in place. Shortly afterward, a couple of half-clad females appeared on stage. Without further ado, they got down to business. Off flew their bikini bottoms, exposing two shaven vaginas. They straddled the table opposite one another and proceeded to insert ping-pong balls into their privates, in readiness for their tournament to commence. The female who could shoot the most balls out of her contractive opening would win and become the ‘Best Ping-Pong Shooter.’

I was beguiled and piqued by this cavum sport. Up until that juncture, I had not witnessed such a wacky performance, and I had no idea that women could prime their privates to propel objects across a room like shooting stars. Catcalls and wolf whistles ensured.

The following stunt was more cogent than the first. A dartboard was placed against the stage wall. Two different competitors came onstage. A dart at a time was inserted, and then the compère signalled for them to aim and fire their vaginal missiles onto the board. The winner not only hit the bullseye, but the darts she blasted stuck securely onto the target.

This was no easy feat, as it takes customary practise, precision and strength to hit the bull and stick the dart securely onto the board.

I’m sure most of the spectators viewed the women’s performances with provocative implications rather than analytical perspectives like moi. Nevertheless, these show girls were nothing short of solid entertainers, similar to artistes in a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, even if their act was of an erotic nature.

I was speechless when Max solicited my thoughts about the show.

1968

AVM Productions

Esquire Snow and Mr. Romesh Thapar had organized a meeting for the Count and the dashing and accomplished South India’s movie mogul A. V. Meiyappan. This far-sighted entrepreneurial filmmaker had a finger on the moviegoers’ pulse. He entered the world of movies in 1931, not long after talkies were introduced in India. For more than half a century, he worked incessantly, producing all kinds of pictures in different languages. This talented man of great foresight faced much adversity in his early career, but like any true pioneer, he fought relentlessly to get to the top.

AVM Productions, a major film studio, was one of Mr. Meiyappan’s many achievements. His film studio in Vadapalani, Madras, offered numerous opportunities and successes to the performing artistes and technicians of its day.

On a day in late May, the Italian Count Mario laid out the plot for his upcoming film project to top Indian movie executives.

Since our Khajuraho photo-shoot, Mario had been riveted by the erotic temple reliefs. Those of us who knew the photographer were not surprised by his decision to adapt Vātsyāyana’s Kāmasūtra into a creative screenplay.

“In my understanding of Vātsyāyana’s text, there are three major goals of human life in traditional Hindu society:

●    The first and foremost - Dharma: the fulfillment of secular and religious duties that derive from participation in a specific religious tradition and the notable stages of life.

●    Followed closely by Artha: the wealth required to attain material comfort.

●    Last but not least, Kama: the sexual desire and realization of erotic satisfaction.

“Fulfilling all of the above provides one’s liberation from moksha (nirvana) - the cycle of birth and death.

“It is from these three objectives that my screenplay originates. These aspirations have to be translated into a contemporary context, one that moviegoers can relate to,” Count Conti heralded.

Mario, the professional, had done his homework. To steer his benefactors to his conceptualized diegesis, he had laid the storyboard out in a slideshow so that we attendees could view and listen to the story’s plot.

A Tale of Love

His movie depicts the story of two girls, raised together, from different social classes in 16th century India. Niya was born a princess to a wealthy kingdom, while Vaneesha, her servant of exceptional beauty, came from a lower caste. As children, the girls were the best of friends, but Niya’s conceitedness created a riptide of jealousy and resentment within her friend Vaneesha. The fact that Vaneesha was given the princess’s hand-me-downs served only to exemplify her servant’s resentment.

On the other hand, Niya begrudged Vaneesha for being a better classical dancer than she. By the time both girls reached marriageable age, Prince Guja, Niya’s attractive older brother, had secretly fallen in love with Vaneesha.

The plot thickened when Niya’s parents prepared an arranged marriage between their daughter to the handsome Prince Ram from a neighboring state, whereas Vaneesha was allocated a lesser role in service to the soon-to-be Queen Niya.

The inevitable happened. When Prince Ram came to view his future bride, he was smitten by the servant girl’s beauty and grace instead of his betrothed. Ram and Vaneesha spent an erotic evening together in forbidden sexual pleasure, only to be chanced upon by Prince Guja. A three-way liaison ensued.

Guja was now determined to marry the servant girl, and even though Ram had second thoughts about marrying Princess Niya, he went ahead with their wedding rites.

Before Niya left her ancestral home as Prince Ram’s newly wedded bride, Vaneesha informed Niya that she would now possess something the servant girl had used, instead of the other way around. With Niya’s romantic dream shattered, she was reluctant to consummate with her husband Prince Ram on their wedding night. This angered the sexually frustrated Ram, who raped his petrified bride, setting a tone of violence and humiliation within their marriage. In spite of this repugnant turn of events, Niya yearned for a loving relationship with her apathetic husband.

Meanwhile, Vaneesha turned down Prince Guja’s marriage proposal, knowing that Guja favoured men over females. Out of anger, Guja publicly branded her as a whore. Vaneesha was forced to leave home.

During her solitary wandering, while making a living as a classical dancer, she chanced upon a young sculptor, Jaleel whose patron happened to be Prince Ram, who was now King.

The sculptor confided to Vaneesha that her exotic beauty and grace had been the inspiration for all the erotic sculptures that were now prominently displayed at the King’s palace. Since the dancer had nowhere to live, Jaleel placed her in the care of Sita, a wise female sage who was versed in the arts of the Kāmasūtra, the ancient text of seduction and love making.

Under Sita’s tutelage, Vaneesha’s romantic relationship with Jaleel took on a new dimension. Consumed by his infatuation for the dancer, the sculptor feared that his work would suffer. He ended their intense relationship abruptly.

Rejected by her lover, Vaneesha found comfort in Sita’s arms. In turn, the woman taught the young dancer the art of being a courtesan.

In Jaleel’s sculptures, King Ram recognized Vaneesha’s visage. He dispatched an aide to locate the dancer and deliver her to him as his new concubine.

Inevitably, the infatuated sculptor confronted his patron, the King. Entrenched in a “friendly” homoerotic wrestling competition, Jaleel won and obtained the King’s favor. He was also forewarned by his majesty’s aides that dire consequences would befall him if he defeated the King again.

Jaleel soon learned his beloved Vaneesha was now the King’s favorite concubine, and he had to keep his former relationship with the dancer a secret.

Meanwhile, news of an invading Persian Shah inched closer while Ram descended into opium addiction, sexual cruelty and debauchery, both to his Queen and concubines.

Prince Guja, who was still smitten by the three-way liaison he had between the king and Vaneesha, took charge on King Ram’s behalf. While Guja was away fighting a losing battle against the Shah, Jaleel and Vaneesha rekindled their passion in secret.

Queen Niya soon discovered their clandestine affaire and was captivated by her rival’s erotic expertise. She beseeched the concubine to teach her the arts of the Kāmasūtra as well. Both women agreed that their enmities would be a thing of the past if Vaneesha taught Niya the art of love-making. In return, she would assist her friend in sealing her relationship with Jaleel into a proper marriage.

The story ended with Prince Guja’s defeat in battle and King Ram’s suicide in the face of the Shah’s soldiers storming into the palace.

Niya, Vaneesha and Jaleel walked away into the distance, meditating on their newfound spiritual and sexual freedom. The final words from both women: “My heart is as open as the sky.”

Questions & Answers

As soon as the last slide flashed across the screen, The Count was inundated with a series of questions.

“I’m not sure if our Indian audience is ready for such an erotic production,” Mr. Thapar remarked concernedly.

Mario explained, “In Sanskrit literature, the Kāmasūtra is widely accepted as a standard work on human sexual behavior. Although my project consists of practical imagery on sexual intercourse, the script is largely in prose, with poetic verses.

“I’m sure you are aware, Mr. Romesh, ‘Kāma‘ (desire) is one of the four goals of Hindu life, including sexual aspirations. ‘Sūtra‘ is the thread that holds everything together.”

The learned Esquire Snow championed, “Contrary to common perception, the Kāmasūtra is not solely a sex manual but a guide to virtuous and gracious living that explores the nature of love, family life and aspects pertaining to a human being’s pleasure-oriented faculties in many domains.

“Although, in some parts of the world, it is portrayed as a list of creative sexual positions, in reality, only twenty percent is about sexual positions. The majority of the book is about the philosophy and theory of love, what triggers desire, what sustains it, and how and when it is positively or negatively applied.”

“Though this work is considered to be one the most comprehensive collections of sexual positions describing a number of female capabilities and of different types of sexual relationships, I’m not altogether convinced that this subject matter will have box-office appeal,” A. V. Meiyappan opined.

Count Conti countered, “I beg to differ. This tale of love touches on different human behaviors and their relationships to nature.

“For example, men are compared to stallions, bulls, or rabbits, and women to mares, elephants or gazelles. Apart from that, the script also touches on partner selection, marriage criteria, ways to gain favour, narratives of marriage traditions (including the bride’s role on her wedding night), and the mantles of courtesans and concubines. It also provides information on prostitution and its role in India’s social and cultural life.

While the debate raged forward, Señor Triqueros turned and gave me a witty grin. “Young, remember my lesson on social constructionism and communication theory?” he whispered sardonically.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Sex & Love

“The beauty and wisdom of Tantra

Is that it enhances sexuality

As a doorway to the

‘Ecstatic mind of great bliss’.

Truly, at the peak of orgasm,

We pierce through the illusion

Of fragmentation and separation

And glimpse the unity and

Interconnectedness of all beings.

And through our partner,

We fall in love with life.”

Victor Angel Triqueros

March 2013

My Email to Andy (Part Four)

Although I considered my Patpong experiences a hoot, never for a moment did I think Max was anything but trying to shock me as a first time visitor to Bangkok. He was unaware of my sophisticated outlook at my young age of twenty-one.

The next evening, after a fabulous dinner, he wanted to show me a Boy Bar. When I enquired what a Boy Bar was, he beckoned me to follow.

We arrived at one of the Soi (street) off the sub-district Silom’s main drag. As is still the case to this day, this city comes alive at night and this particular soi was no exception to the rule.

Max guided me through a smoke-filled entranceway and into the inner sanctum of Fanny Boy, a nightclub. A handful of half-naked, heavily made-up ladyboys was shuffling and giggling on stage.

The moment we found a table, a beefy Thai man in a pair of snappy underwear (the front and back of his briefs literally snapped together) appeared onstage. He threw one of the lady-boys roughly onto the ground, tore off her undergarments, and proceeded to thrust his erect schlong into her orifices, showing no signs of mercy to his ‘victim,’ who was revelling in the man’s savage onslaught. By the time the stage lights dimmed, the brute had shagged no fewer than four she-males in their faces and buttocks. This sadomasochistic performance was a far cry from my ardent harem experiences.

That act was followed by a tamer presentation. Muscular youths in fitted white briefs oiled and glided their glistening bodies against one another in fake erotic wrestling matches. Before long, they had slid off each other’s underwear, comparing throbbing erections for the night’s Big-Cock grand prize. Audience members were invited onstage to ‘weigh-in,’ ‘handle’ and jerk the ‘merchandise’ to orgasmic explosions before casting their votes to select the grand champion.

Leading a competitors’ third leg round the stage, Max gave the young man a full throttle with his luscious mouth until squirts of the boy’s liquid honey coated the German’s face, hand and lips. He lapped and drank and was still hungry for more. A matter of so many dicks and so little time, Max went to town sucking and supping to his heart’s content.

The German shot me the occasional glance to get my reaction. Impassivity stared back at him. Although I was entranced by these sleazy performances, I found them deeply lacking in intimacy, even though I did not tell my companion at the time. In my heart, I knew that this man was not an appropriate candidate for a long-term relationship but an ideal contender for a holiday fling. Since I was on vacation, I went with the flow.

The show’s finale came in the form of a minotaur-looking herculean. He appeared on stage seeking his prey, who happened to be a guy from the audience. The ‘bull’ picked up his exploit by the shirt collar before stripping the man bare. He threw him onto the ground and molested his compliant victim in every conceivable and unconceivable sexual position known and unknown to humankind. From ‘spinning helicopter,’ to hanging from bars on the ceiling, to being lifted upside down on a wall before finally betiding the man backwards on ropes, their coition was like watching a fantasy erotic Cirque du Soleil performance.

That was my third ‘Bang-cock’ evening spent with the German.

1968

Sex

Since Mario’s arrival in London, Tad and the Italian had formed an unbreakable bond, a bromance, so to speak. Although both men had met at various social functions and knew one another, they had not formed a friendship until then. The two took to each other like fish to water. Since they shared similar predilections in all things ecstatic and pleasing to the eyes, plus an extroverted savoir vivre to the company of the fashionable set, they became inseparable. I had become second fiddle within their newfound comradeship.

This unexpected revelation provided me time to strategize for the correct moment to break my repudiation with the Arab athlete without hurting the man’s feelings.

The morning after our meeting with the Indian movie moguls, Señor Victor Angel Triqueros inquired of me, “Young, have you further news from your Hungarian admirer?”

“You mean Ivan?” I replied.

“The one and the same,” Victor poached wittily.

“I haven’t,” came my answer.

“You are already aware of the differences between sex and love, aren’t you? Just to be sure you understand your E.R.O.S. role within a larger framework,” my professor hinted just when Lilee and Leon entered.

Changing the topic, the Señor announced, “Today’s lesson is on Sex and Love.”

Both students sniggered, when Victor pointed to Leon and said, “Young man, tell me your definition of sex.”

Caught off guard, the boy muttered, “Sex is a motivational force that brings two people into intimate contact.”

Our teacher spurred, “And?”

Lilee chirped, “And, a satisfying sexual experience is an essential part of a healthy and enjoyable life.”

“Very good, Lilee,” Victor exclaimed before he added, “The sexual cycle consists of three phases: Desire, arousal (excitement), and orgasm.

“However, adult sexuality has seven components: gender identity, orientation, intention (what one wants to do with a partner’s body and have done with one’s body during sexual behavior), desire, arousal, orgasm, and emotional satisfaction.

“The first three components constitute our sexual identity; the second three compose our sexual function, and the seventh is based on our personal reflection on the first six. Therefore, sexual function is the physiological capacity to experience desire, arousal, and orgasm.”

“Doesn’t that make sex a biological phenomenon?” I asked.

“That’s correct, Young. That said, sex also needs to be understood from a spiritual perspective. Can any one of you tell me what love is?”

None of us spoke.

The Señor explained, “Contrary to widely accepted elucidations of love, love is within our intrinsic nature and does not need to be cultivated. For love’s manifestation to happen, artificial barriers have to be removed.

“Unbridled love is found in all creatures big and small, in all flora and fauna, and in humans who have no organized religion or culture.”

The female questioned, “Why is it that the more civilized we are, the further we stray from love?”

“Young lady, you must understand that the majority of cultures, organized religions, gurus, and holy men are inimical to sex. Sex is projected as sinful. Yet, the evolution of love is nothing but transformed sexual energy.

“As coal becomes diamond with the passage of time, if lust is transformed into sex, it will mutate to become love. When religions proclaim that sex is profane and has to be controlled by one’s effort, this suppression will eventually explode into an obsession, thereby causing perverted neuroticism that can manifest as anger, aggression, crime – the list goes on. This potent energy has taken on an alternate manifestation due to centuries of sexual suppressions,” our teacher expounded.

“That said, in moments of copulation, we humans can experience meditative ‘Samadhi’. It’s during intensive coition that we experience nirvanic blissfulness. For those who meditate and reflect on this sexual truth, they realize that during climax, the mind is void of thoughts. Emptiness fills the mind, thus allowing divine bliss to encircle the person. This is the beatified secret that turns sex into love.”

Victor gave me a wicked wink before darting an affectionate gaze at Leon. Triqueros’ subtle gesture nabbed my intuition that there was more to their student-teacher relationship. My sixth sense told me that the professor was using my rapturous surrender with Ivan and that morning’s lesson as a veiled diversion to disguise his and Leon’s supernal consummation. Although I had brushed this serendipitous intuition aside, my curiosity soon led me to discover the truth behind their intimacy.

Victor resumed, “Sages had long uncovered the mind’s secret. If thoughts can be freed during intercourse, ‘Samadhi’ can also be attained through yogic meditation and prayers. Through meditation, a devotee can remain in continuous bliss.”

Out of the blue I questioned, “What is in human beings life’s core? Is it God, or the soul?”

The professor thought for a second before he replied, “Young, perhaps you should rephrase the question as: ‘What will we find at the core of everything?’”

He continued, “When we look closely at nature, we find there is only one ongoing process: continuous creation, procreation, and resurrection of life in newer and more advanced forms.

“Plants nurture seeds. The seeds grow into new plants, new flowers and fruits. Life itself is a never-ending process of creation and procreation.

“The same concept applies to humans. We label it ‘sex.’ This labeling has given rise to condemnatory feelings in humans. Nevertheless, the consistent effort to procreate continues. This we call ‘sex energy.’”

Leon asked, “What is sex energy?”

“I’ll get to that, boy,” Victor answered smilingly. “Millions of years ago, there were only rocks, mountains, rivers, and oceans on planet earth. These organisms strove to produce better life forms. Over time, these life-energies manifested into plants. Yet, these verdures were not content; they wanted more advanced company. Thus, creatures great and small came into being. But earthlings were nowhere to be found. Nevertheless, inherent in these other forms of life, human beings came into existence in due course.

“These earthlings, like their predecessors, were eager to create new life. We humans named this tendency ‘sexual passion’ or ‘lust.’ However, humans, too, desire progress. They do not want to end as themselves.”

“Why?” I chimed.

The class laughed at my idiotic question.

“Because of the inherent life force, the drive to produce better beings. The human soul is constantly striving for a better self, a more superior life form. However, how will a better human being take shape?”

Triqueros paused to see if anyone had the answer. None came, so he declared, “Instead of respecting the sexual act, religions gave it negative and suppressive connotations. In truth, there is nothing more important in the history of humankind than the sexual urge. Without understanding the consequences, organized religions and their disciples turned on this divine life force. In their suppression, humans became so obsessed with sex that it led to acts of violence, such as rape and other forms of perversion. Most mental dis-ease stems from sexual repression.

“Despite passive attitudes toward sex, earthlings are not able to ignore sex. On the contrary, religious scholars and clerics use the Bhagavad Gita, the Bible, the Quran, the Torah, etc. to camouflage pornographic elements within their holy books. Though they speak of ‘God’ and ‘Divinity,’ at their core, these texts are filled by sexual inclinations.”

Lilee queried impulsively, “What’s their attraction? What is this mighty pull?”

“You see, Lilee, although sex is within the core of humankind, many feel remorseful after the act because they want to be free of it – because they found nothing substantial after their brief encounter with bliss.

“The missing attraction is that humans are unable to reach the depths of their being through regular experiences, except during coitus. There are two vital things that happen during intercourse:

●    First and foremost, in the moment of orgasm, the ego vanishes. For a moment, there is no trace of the ‘me’ or the ‘I.’

●    The second phenomenon is that for a brief period, Timelessness emerges: there is no past, no future, only the present. Therefore, the unconscious urge to experience this mystic domain of egolessness and timelessness is present.

Behind this craving is our soul’s searching attempt to relive the seat of spiritual realization, the mystical ‘sex energy.’”

I remarked, “How can I transform the ‘sex energy’ into spiritual energy to reach ‘Samadhi’?”

“Young, the ‘sex energy’ is the verve within every living person. The higher the vibrational frequency, the lesser the sexuality. When the reverberation level peaks, this energy is transformed into love and compassion. This ultimate flowering is known as ‘divine energy,’ but it originates from sex.

“The sex energy, or, for that matter all energies, can transmute, but it cannot be created or extinguished. Creation and destruction are currently beyond human mastery.

“For centuries, orthodox religions had aimed at freeing mankind from sex via suppression. But the further the suppression, the more sexual the person becomes before that pent-up energy moves deeper into his/her unconscious, and they blame the devil for corrupting the person’s mind.

“In reality, when sex is suppressed, the one imposing the suppression is the devil. Sex requires transformation, not repression or indulgence. This blessed force is nothing short of what could be termed as Jesus’ divine love or Buddha’s compassionate providence.

“My advice to the three of you is: be alert, conscious, and mindful. Allow sex be a conscious force. Oftentimes, sexual encounters are meditative experiences. Through awareness and alertness during intercourse, one can achieve the deepest of human insights. It is in this thoughtless state of mind that rapturous ecstasy comes into form.

“By being in the present, without preoccupations of the past and future, you can make sex disappear, and blissfulness fill the void. Accepting sex as natural and sacred will assist the sex-to-love conversion.

“The stronger a person’s feeling of the ‘me,’ the ego, the lesser his/her capacity to unite with another person. This self-proclaimed facade separates the ‘you’ from the ‘me,’ distancing both entities. This gap between the ‘me’ and the ‘you’ is what causes intimate relationships to fail. As long as there is a separation between the ‘me’ and the ‘you,’ it is impossible for sex to mutate into love. For the oneness of love to manifest, this self-faced wall has to collapse for the ego to dissolve.”

Before the Señor broke up the class, he finalized, “Hopefully, Count Mario’s Kāmasūtra – Lovers’ Tale will elevate the public’s awareness of the truth about the mysteries of sex and love.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Body Electric

“Tantra is the natural way to God,

The normal way to God.”

Victor Angel Triqueros

March 2013

Andy’s Email to Me

Young,

I’ve heard of the Bangkok Boy-Bar shows from friends who have been. I’ve been told they are rather impersonal and contrived. Nonetheless, I’m sure it’s an experience. I can’t wait to read the rest of your escapade with Max.

Love,

Andy

Hugs!

1968

The Last Act

My time at the Assalamu Alaikum household was drawing to a close. Although I would be seeing the abstemious Señor Triqueros after my summer vacation, this man had been an unsurpassable mentor.

As per regular procedures for returning E.R.O.S. recruits to their respective educational institutions, Andy and I checked in at the Bahriji for three days to fullfil our obligatory requisite and medical clearance before leaving for our summer vacation.

I did not return to Kuala Lumpur that year but spent the early half of my holidays with Andy, touring the scenic Lake District in the County of Cumbria, England, before heading to Acapulco for the 1968 Summer Olympics Yachting Race with Dr Fahrib and his competitive team.

Although Tad was despondent without me at his beck and call, his newfound friendship with the Count was more than adequate for keeping him occupied. After all, my next household assignment was at وكر الذئب Aldhdhib Dann (Wolf Den), Tad Abdul Hafiz’s stately mansion in Riyadh, the capital city within the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Besides, we had agreed to a holiday cruise to Morocco around the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, ending at Marrakesh with a visit to our model friend, Driss.

I had a chance to enjoy my teacher’s company within the tranquil gardens of our Madras residence while Mario and the Arabs were conducting daily meetings with the Indian movie moguls.

From Lovers to Soul Mates

We sat enjoying a cup of tea on the verandah after our morning tutorial when my teacher enquired, “Why are you looking forlorn, boy?”

“I’ll miss your presence, and your guidance,” I replied glumly.

“We’ll only be away for a few weeks and will be seeing each other soon. You are such a sentimental kitten,” the Señor razzed. “Besides, your soul mate Andy will be with you. He is a superb Valet, lover, mentor and more. You guys will experience Tantra for a lifetime.”

I gave my professor a puzzled look. Reading my mind, he laughed. “A science had been developed: if you cannot find a soul mate, you can create one,” he said humorously.

“What is the science? I can do with a soul mate,” Aaron declared.

Triqueros, finding his enthusiasm amusing, answered, “That science is Tantra, Aaron.”

“I didn’t know Tantra was a science. My E.R.O.S. professors never mentioned anything along those lines,” the big brother expressed.

“You see, Aaron, to find a soul mate is to locate the person with whom all your seven chakras unite as nature intends. It seldom occurs, but when it does, it is an extremely beautiful relationship.

“But, like any natural phenomenon, it is not dependable. Waiting for your natural soul mate to manifest is like waiting for lightning to happen. When it does, it’s for a split second, and it’s gone.

“The scientific alchemy of Tantra is, it can transform your and your lover’s centers into a harmonious rhythmic union. Once you understand this alchemy, you can switch it on and off and have a thousand and one uses for it. The seven chakras within you are nothing more than body electricity.”

Andy queried, “How does one harness this electric energy?”

Victor resumed, “In your body, there exist subtle electric currents that are not visible to the naked eye. The subtler the current, the deeper it penetrates. Scientists have proven that when all your body electricity is channeled together, it can light a five-candle bulb. Quantitatively, this isn’t much, but like a splitting atom, it eliminates a tremendous amount of energy.

“You see, Andy, the seven centers create five specific knots in your body’s electric current. They can be changed and be rearranged into different shapes or forms. When the lovers’ seven chakras unite into one, they can be profoundly transformed. Therefore, Tantra is a science of transforming ordinary lovers into soul mates. This is the grandeur of Tantra.”

“Do I have to imbibe Tantra to be a good lover?” Leon asked inquisitively.

As if passing a concealed message for the boy’s ears, Victor replied ardently, “Lose control of yourself, Leon. Let loose your natural instinct when making love. In the beginning, you may feel frightened to be out of control; your thoughts will kick in to administer jurisdiction because your mind is afraid of losing itself to this uncharted territory.

“You must free yourself from copulation techniques you’ve been ingrained. By liberating yourself from these technical constraints, you’ll come to experience timelessness. It is within this timelessness that you’ll experience Oneness - a lucid passive consciousness and awareness that defies time and space. A divine eternity that exists as ‘One’ between the lovers.

“Young man, Tantra is not a learned technique but a surrendering of the self that allows godliness to embrace you in its entirety. You understand?”

My intuition had served me well. I had been positive that Victor and Leon were now an item. I now knew that the professor had taken Leon under his wing to educate his protégé in the ways of the world.

Tantric Sex

Although I had been taught the philosophy of Tantric Sex in the Bahriji and had conducted practicals with my ex-big-brother Nikee and Valet Andy, I still considered myself a novice in this complex field of human interaction.

I was glad when Aaron asked, “Señor, can you provide us with further insights into Tantric Sex?”

The teacher replied, “Surely. Tantra is the natural way to access God, or what we term as the God-self. The focus is to be wholly instinctual and self-regulated so that we can merge with the ultimate source or higher power.

“My definition of tantric sexuality, Aaron, is a return to absolute innocence and oneness with the truth. The greatest sexual buzz is not in scampering and scurrying, but silence. When your mind and body are void of content and you relax into stillness, you’ll discover a sublime benediction through the consciousness of being conscious.”

The big brother continued to question. “I’ve heard of tantric sects that teach techniques of channeling tantric sex. What are your thoughts, professor?”

“Aaron, a person who is too technique-oriented will miss the mystery of Tantra. Pseudo-Tantra is based on techniques because the ego is in control. Tantra is a non-doing, a wú wèi.

“Lao Tzu explains in the Tao Te Ching: beings (or phenomena) that are wholly in harmony with the Tao behave in a natural and uncontrived way. The goal of spiritual practice is the attainment of this natural way of behaving, like the planets revolving around the sun. The planets revolve effortlessly without any form of control; neither do they attempt to revolve themselves. Rather, they engage in spontaneous and effortless movement. This is the true beauty of Tao and Tantra.

“It is true that you can learn slow and unhurried breathing techniques to control and prolong the coition period. But it is not innocent or bridled, nor is it meditation, because the mind is in control of your ejaculations. For spontaneous ejaculations to happen, the breathing has to be in pandemonium.

“Tantric sex is a sexual prayer. It cannot be achieved through techniques. It is a heart relaxation, a mental, emotional and spiritual bond between the partners that activate the Tantric electric energy. Voila, before you know it, you’ll have achieved your sublime tantric sexual experience when you release and let go of your anxieties, expectations and ‘techniques’,” the Señor clarified before glancing at me and Andy as if we were perfect specimens.

He resumed, “Tantra is one of the greatest apparitions: a religion without priests, places of worship, or organizations to belong to. It is a creed that doesn’t destroy an individual but respects men’s and women’s individuality. Tantra gives credence to the body, while orthodox religions discredit it, thereby separating the body and the person within and destroying the body’s wisdom. In short, Tantra doesn’t deny, but transforms.

“The body is a sacred ground. Antagonizing the body annihilates the living being in it, propelling the individual’s sacred ground of truth into schizophrenia. It is a transgression against God when the body is violated. The body is a bridge between the divine and the being. Tantra pays reverence to the beatified temple of the individual, the body.”

Andy chimed expressively after listening attentively to the Señor’s elucidations: “First and foremost is the purification of the body of repressions. This will clear the path for the body’s electricity to flow unhindered. Loosening the body’s tensions allows alertness and aliveness.

“Tantra is an existential reality not a philosophy. When I say existential, I’m not referring to the existentialism of Sartre, Camus, Marcel, and the other learned philosophers. In contrast to these theories, which are built upon negativities, Tantra is a rapturous blissful external and internal ecstatic orgasm that lasts an eternity.”

We stared at my chaperone as if he had just delivered a seraphic message from the creator.

“This man has proven me correct,” our professor expressed. “He and his beloved have attained the ultimate Tantra experience, if he is able to speak with such firsthand experience. Do enlighten us further, Andy?”

My Valet vociferated after a moment’s thought. “In my understanding, philosophy has proven to be the most futile of efforts without solid delivery. It is filled with promises with no commitments. A dream without reality.

“When submerging within the tantric realm, adventure and truthful courage are needed. I can be lost, never to riposte, or I can return a changed man. Yet, Young and I venture into these uncharted territories with open hearts, minds and spirits, allowing our lovemaking to flow with delirious ecstasy.”

I was shocked by my lover’s proclamation. Up till then, I hadn’t realized that we had this electric connection. Although we had merged into our relationship with ease and grace, never had it entered my mind that we had unconsciously achieved Tantric experiences for which many yearn but seldom attain.

Taken aback by Andy’s pronouncement I blurted astonished, “Is that why P, Fahrib and Tad summon us to make love in their presence? I thought they were simply voyeurs enjoying our erotic performances.”

The group laughed at me.

“Many will be envious of Andy’s and your love and will do their best to crush your perpetual love for one another. There will also be those who will be illuminated by your sexual charisma. Mark my words, you and your beloved will be called upon to demonstrate and at times be tested because of the invincible bond you share. Never take your experiences for granted, but revere the assurances with gratitude and grace.”

These were the final words of the day from Señor Victor Angel Triqueros.

I nodded, without the faintest idea that my beloved and I would go our separate ways some years from then.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Vipers & Charmers

“Ecstasy is already within you. You do not have to look for it outside.”

Margot Anand

March 2013

My Email to Andy (Final Part)

My few days in Bangkok flew by quickly. When it came time to say au revoir, I didn’t expect that Max and I would be seeing one another again for some time, or at all. For me, our adventures were nothing more than a brief holiday romance.

Therefore, it came as a surprise when I heard him on the phone a couple days later. I was in Kuala Lumpur when the phone rang.

“Hi Young! I’m at Subang (Kuala Lumpur Airport). Will you come and get me? You’ll find me at the arrival lounge,” the German sounded urgent on the phone.

Before I could enquire further, he had hung up. I dashed to the airport in one of my family vehicles to find Max in the company of two provocatively dressed females who resembled those Patpong working girls. The trio were in a flirtatious mood when I approached.

Max announced before I had a chance to speak, “Meet Nia and Yum!” He introduced the women. “We met on the plane. They are here on vacation. Would you mind giving them a lift to their hotel?”

I thought nothing of it and agreed. No sooner had we stepped out of the airport than two burly policemen approached our direction. When the trio saw the police, they scattered in different directions, while I stood, stunned. The constables shot after them as they sounded the alarm to summon the other nearby law enforcers.

I was questioned about my association with Max and the women. I told them I hadn’t a clue who the females were and I’d known the German as of several days ago. I could hardly believe what they related.

The German had been under Malaysian and Thai police surveillance for some time. They had been tracking his illegal activities. The German posed as an import and export entrepreneur while smuggling Thai and Filipino prostitutes across affluent Asian countries such as Hong Kong, Singapore, Japan and Malaysia. He was in reality an underground sex trafficker for an organised syndicate.

These girls had been supplied with fake travelling documents by the crime syndicate. Max would then pose as their boyfriend or fiancé, and as the women’s sponsor to get them through immigration, camouflaging their true identities.

Upon arrival, the women were transferred to receiving pimps stationed at some obscure hotel or guest house. Max’s monetary share would then be wired to his German account. The man was also charged with money laundering.

Although flabbergasted by this piece of information, I did my best to co-operate with the Malaysian police by supplying them with the necessary information I knew of the man. I had no idea if he was caught and charged; that was the last I saw of the German.

This incident made a foul dent in my otherwise sunny family reunion. I cut short my Malaysia stay and returned to the United Kingdom, a country I cherish till this day.

This, my beloved ex BB and Valet, was my introduction to The Land of Smiles – an escapade I’ll never forget. ☺

Love and kisses.

Young

XOXOXO

1968

The Ace of Clubs

Two evenings before Andy’s and my departure from the sheik’s household, we were invited to a surprise party by our Arab hosts. It was a soirée in honour of Tad, the birthday boy. Andy and I were the sheik’s unofficial honorarios, and this was his way of thanking us for our Assalamu Alaikum household services.

Sheik Fahrib and Prince P had reserved the grounds of the Madras Club to host this celebratory party. This colossal grandeur was built by Mowbrays Copula, a respected businessman who later became the Sheriff and Mayor of Madras.

When he retired to England in 1792, his colonial home, along with its 105 acres of Mowbrays Gardens, was acquired by Mr. John D’Monte, who eventually died without heirs to inherit the estate. Upon his death he bequeathed his property to the Archdiocese of Mylapore, Madras.

Fast forward to 1963, when the Madras Club merged with the Adyar Club. They bought the Mowbrays Cupola and gardens, transforming the property to become The Madras Club official residence.

This historical expatriate establishment had played host to many a grand ball and royal visit, including one to honour the Duke of Edinburgh in 1870 and another for the Prince of Wales in 1875, before he was crowned King Edward VI. The honorary lists of British royalties extended well beyond Dukes and Princes. The likes of King George V, the Duke of Connaught and King Edward VIII had been esteemed at this legendary institution. It was on these stately occasions that ladies were allowed into this all-male domain.

Hence, at this Ace of Clubs overlooking the Adyar River, many Indian performers gathered that evening to celebrate Tad Abdul Hafiz’s thirty-third birthday. Fire breathers, jugglers, acrobats, stilt walkers, Indian dancers and, last but not least, snake charmers were on hand to entertain.

The Count and his Arabian allies were also using this opportunity to smooch with the Indian film industry’s movers and shakers in preparation for his upcoming Kāmasūtra – Lovers’ Tale project. Indian actors and actresses of the day mingled with movie professionals and creative film geniuses in the hope of securing their next major acting role.

As I toured this serene oasis, right in the middle of restless Madras, I couldn’t help but feel the old-world gentility and the camaraderie of the privileged few that passed through its corridors, the very same galleries and gardens where discreet Indian waiters in pristine white uniforms retreated to corners, only to emerge when summoned upon by their elite suzerains. As I stood in the shadows of giant neem trees observing the boisterous festivities that had now taken hold within the grounds of this exclusive club, an odd melancholic disquietude overcame my person.

This anachronistic relic of the Raj, where clannish snobbery reigned supreme, seemed out of context in the modern world. I had no idea why I was experiencing a sudden burst of emotional energy as trickles of tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Was it the few sips of champagne I’d consumed, or was it the sadness of leaving my Master’s service?

Puni

A pair of consoling hands touched my shoulders.

“Young man, why are you crying on such a joyous occasion?” asked a voice.

I quickly wiped away my tears before turning round to find a suave-looking gentleman staring at me. In the semi-darkness, I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties and of Indian descent, since he spoke with a British Indian accent.

“Err… I don’t know why I’m feeling this way?” I stammered.

He extended his hand to shake mine. “I’m Puni. And you are…?” he awaited my response.

I shook his hand to introduce myself. “Your hand is so smooth, like an aristocrat’s,” the Indian remarked sybaritically as he held on without releasing.

I countered, “Are you an aristocrat? It’ll take one to know one.”

He laughed at my comment before he replied. “I’m an actor and dancer.”

Since he had skived from answering my question, I pressed, “You didn’t answer my question!”

The Eurasian opined smilingly, “We should head back to the festivities. Otherwise, we’ll miss the harum-scarum of the snake charmers.”

We proceeded towards the madding crowd in silence while I pondered the man’s empyrean comportment. I found this Eurasian sensually hypnotic as he glided rather than walked to our destination.

Snake Charmers

Andy was in a huff when he saw me. “Where were you? I’ve been looking for you,” he vociferated sorely.

Before I had a chance to introduce my acquaintance, the British Indian had disappeared like a puff of smoke.

Andy added, “Tad is asking for you.”

“Me? What does he want?”

“Let’s go upstairs. He’s waiting for you,” my Valet ushered me up the stairs into a private chamber filled with books.

I could barely see Tad in the softly lid chamber. His silhouette beckoned me by the large French window. He was staring out onto the torch-lit garden at a couple of snake charmers playing their pungis, the instrument that is played to hypnotize vipers out of their baskets.

The Arab rested his hands on my shoulders as we stood, observing the merrymakers gasping when the serpents emerged from their wicker nests.

“Do you know that snakes can’t hear a darn thing?” the athlete expressed.

Neither my Valet, who stood unobtrusively in the background nor I, spoke.

He continued, “Snakes don’t have ears. They respond to the swaying movements of the pungis, thereby creating the illusion that they are responding to the sound of the musical instruments.”

He changed the topic abruptly. “I summoned you to claim the birthday present that the sheik has given me.”

I stared at him in astonishment, as no one had mentioned that I was the athlete’s birthday gift. He resumed, “I received word from E.R.O.S. that I’ll be hosting you and Andy after your summer vacation.”

Until that juncture, I’d had no clue that my next household would be the champion’s. Tad resumed, “I’ll have you for at least another three months, if not more.” I was totally dumbfounded by this statement.

Since our arrival to Madras, neither my Valet nor I’d had the opportunity to notify the athlete of my forgoing his kept-boy proposal. It was of little wonder he envisioned that I had unspokenly agreed. I had to come clean to the besotted Arab.

I unhooked the key necklace around my neck and slipped it into his pocket without uttering a word. He broke out in hilarity instead of the peeved response I was expecting.

He pulled me to him and kissed me passionately. Instantaneously, his maleness surged through my body. Like a viper bewitched by an artful conjurer, I was powerless under the intensity of the champion’s hypnotic glare. His masculinity intoxicated me. Our sudden burst of amorality had our bobbing hardness caressing one another behind our summer fineries. Like us, my Valet, who had been vigilant in the shadows, was equally aroused by this unbridled foreplay.

I fought to maintain my equilibrium as Tad’s intoxicating breath nuzzled my neck, in readiness to sink his pearly fangs into my tenderness, to claim my youthful essence. I was lost in this ecstatic invocation. This deliriously maniacal charmer had possessed an invisible hold on me. He was at once an ingenuous angel and a Machiavellian devil, charmer and serpent rolled into one.

My Valet’s discerning glare served only to heighten my sprightly libido. He had unleashed his alacritous affection to partake in our erotic proclivities. Their primal desires had penetrated my inner sanctum. I could no longer stave off my provocative inclinations.

Little was I aware that a third person had stepped forth from behind the curtain. Stripped bare, his sinewy physique resembled Hanuman, the monkey-god depicted in Hindu temples, though his comely features were of no monkey but of the handsome man I had just met under the neem trees. The trio triggered my thumping heart and throbbing groin to feverish excitement.

“Why am I chosen to indulge in this irrational phenomenon? Is this a test presented to appraise my resistance to Tad’s charisma or am I fantasizing what’s before me?” I questioned my thoughts when the men surrounded me. Their impiousness demanded immediate attention, and I was more than prepared to oblige.

Tad wasted no time to strip me naked in preparation to claim his prize. This generous man was delighted to share his gift with his comrades in crime, and I, the complaisant beneficiary, was happy to obligate. I engulfed their tumescence with gustatory fervor. Simultaneously and independently I gulped with pleasure at their frenzied effervescence, performed my oral dance with serpentine precision. I darted my hankering tongue in and around their bulbousness, savoring their ruggedness to feverish fervencies.

No longer able to obviate their peremptorily postulations, Tad lifted me onto the luxurious couch. He lifted my legs high above and delved his wiggling tongue into my holy of holies, relishing my sacred temple in readiness for his forthcoming delivery. Like Hanuman’s golden arrows of gilded concupiscence, both god and demi-god wasted no time in feeding me their flaming succulence.

I held onto the Arab’s bulging shoulders as he eased into my erotic sanctuary of earthly delights, opening the doorway for his comrades’ eventual entries. I coiled my slithering ethos around the Arabian charmer as we oscillated in rhythmic synchronicity to our heaving avidity. I was at once elevated to a nirvanic realm of blissful illumination where the Aleph of Time had overshadowed my consciousness. I floated buoyantly as waves of their quivering sturdiness pleasured my chamber of amatory sacrament.

My educator’s Tantric principles were correct. Our egos vanished into nothingness during moments of orgasmic release. The past, future and present had dissipated to nothingness. In their place, the vipers and the charmers had amalgamated into Oneness, only to re-emerge to an enhanced reality known as Samadhi.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Casting Couch

“It is only with the heart that one can see the truth;

What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

Antoine de Saint-Exupery

March 2013

Andy’s Response to My Bangkok Escapade

My, oh my! What a story! I bet you’re glad Max got rid of himself after what he put you through. I’ve heard of illicit tales like yours, but you are the only person I know who has experienced it first-hand.

Many third-world countries are havens for human traffickers like your Max. One has to be careful when travelling, especially to the Golden Triangle region. I hope the Malaysian authorities didn’t detain you for long. I’m sure your attorney brother vouched your rectitude and cleared your name from their watch list.

On a different note: I look forward to reading A Harem Boy’s Saga - book IV – Turpitude and reliving our fond memories. It has been more than forty years since we saw each other. It’ll be nice to see you again.

Please send my regards to your beloved Walter. Maybe I’ll get to meet him one of these days.

My dearest friend, be well (which I’m sure you are) and stay healthy.

Your beloved,

Andy

XOXOXO

1968

The Madras Cricket Club

My final day in India was occupied watching a cricket tournament at another prestigious expatriate club: one among three built by a British official named Alexander Arbuthnot, who wanted a property that catered to his cricket addiction. After all, it is a game that defines an Englishman for his Englishness. So, in 1846, the British expats stationed in the city got together, and the Madras Cricket Club (MCC) came into existence.

There were many charming facets to this two-acre property besides the cricket field, one being the 1927 often-photographed gigantic clock in the pavilion, which announced to the players that it was time for their lunch recess.

Back in 1968, when the club house and pavilion were in operation, cricketers had quite a ways to walk from the pavilion to the field.

It was at this shaded pavilion that our entourage sat, observing the sheik, the prince, the Count and Tad together with other expatriates as they played a friendly match with an opposing Indian team. As I sat munching spicy fish fingers and sipping a virulent orange tangy drink made famous by the MCC, my teacher inquired slyly, “Did you enjoy the soirée last evening?”

I couldn’t answer with my mouth full. Leon jumped in brightly, “It was fun, fun, fun!”

Since our chaperones were off playing squash at the club’s courts, Señor Triqueros was left as our guardian. Our teacher looked to Lilee for a response. She gave the professor a wicked grin before she expressed, “Not bad, not bad at all. Sajit was good, but not excellent.”

I stared at the female, not knowing what to make of her comment, when Triqueros gave us an unscrupulous wink. He commented wittily, “The three shortlisted actors were vying for the role of Prince Guja and Jaleel in Mario’s upcoming production.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I chirped.

Our guardian let out an unruly snigger before leaning in to reveal a secret. “The three actors you had sprees with last evening were set up by the Count to test their erotic prowess. He wanted to observe their performances.”

“How did you know?” I questioned.

He tapped his finger to his nose as if he possessed an insider secret. “I’m aware of what goes on in this camp,” he smirked.

I added, “How would Mario know how they performed, if he wasn’t present at my rendezvous?”

Lilee remarked, “I get it. Prince P and my big-sister were his conspirators. They disclosed Sajit’s execution to him, didn’t they?”

Leon remarked, “Since the Count, Aaron and Hadh were with me last night, he must’ve surveyed Hadh’s actions. Though I wasn’t suspecting an administered conspiracy.”

The lad, like me, was taken aback by our teacher’s disclosure.

I exclaimed, “Wow! I had no idea. I thought Tad was simply claiming his birthday present in the presence of Puni and Andy. Never did I suspect that the Eurasian was being sexually appraised.”

Victor imparted impishly, “This is a typical casting-couch scenario.”

“What is a casting-couch scenario?” Leon asked puzzlingly.

Victor held his protégé’s hand before he promulgated, “Casting-couch syndrome, or a casting-couch mentality, is the trading of sexual favors by an aspirant, apprentice employee, or subordinate to a superior in return for entry into an occupation, or career advancement within an organization.”

I asked inquisitively, “Why is it called casting couch?”

The professor smiled at my innocence. “Young, the term casting couch originated from the motion picture industry. Specifically, it refers to couches in offices that were used for sexual activities between casting directors or film producers and aspiring actors.”

Leon blurted curiously, “Casting couch aside, who got the role of Prince Guja or Jaleel?”

“I cannot tell you, boy,” Triqueros insisted stubbornly.

“Please sir, tell us,” we urged.

“Why don’t you tell me who you think got the role of Guja?” our guardian countered.

I shrieked excitedly, “Puni?”

Who stood before us no sooner than I had uttered the actor’s name? The man himself! He had returned for half time from the tournament.

“Yes… Did you ask for me?” The British Indian queried.

Feeling guilty for talking behind his back, I turned red from embarrassment.

Victor leaped to my rescue. “Young was telling us how the two of you met.”

Puni teased, “Last evening, he was weeping beneath the neem trees where I found him.”

All eyes turned to me, expecting a pronouncement about my weepiness. I kept silent.

As I thanked God for his wit, the professor changed the subject and asked about the match. Cricket saved me from further embarrassment.

Action Speaks Louder Than Words

Since the introduction of Cricket to India, locals had taken to this Englishman’s sport with Anglomaniacal fervor. It was without question that team Madras won that day’s match against the expatriate contingent.

That evening, before Andy’s and my departure from the Indian city, Fahrib and P summoned me to their chamber for a farewell chat. It was a gesture of gratitude toward Andy and me for our contribution to the Assalamu Alaikum household.

My chaperone, being the amiable valet, encouraged me to meet the patriarchs alone, since I was the one in service and he was only my chaperone. He opted to wait outside the chamber unless summoned.

I found both Masters enjoying a private moment together before the following day’s dissimulation commenced. This was a rare instance during which I felt like a trespasser into their discreet covertness.

The sheik, a man of few words, left most of the talking to the prince.

“You and Andy have become a part of our inner circle. It’s dispiriting to release the two of you,” he sighed.

After a brief moment of silence, P resumed, “You brought Fah and me together.” (This was his nickname for Fahrib).

“Before Andy and I came along, you were already longtime friends,” I chirped. “We’ll be seeing each other soon in Acapulco.”

“Come, sit between us,” P beckoned.

I did as told.

Without uttering a word, His Highness leaned across and kissed my lips while the sheik’s hand slipped into my thobe to caress my inner thighs. My innocence jumped to attention.

Hairy and bearded men never fail to arouse me, and this was certainly no exception. As I nuzzled my face against P’s hairy chest, the scent of fresh sandalwood and musk made me yearn for their masculinity.

Fahrib’s manly hand probed the edges of my thigh and made its way into my undergarment before easing it to my ankles, exposing my bobbing hardness against my tunic. The sheik’s brushing fingers served only to amplify my body’s squirming response. I reached to caress my Masters’ potencies, hungering to devour their sacred devotions, readying my openings for their imminent entry. They yearned for my adolescent virility as much as I enjoyed their manly redolence.

Like the vipers I had witnessed a couple evenings ago, P’s slithering tongue darted back and forth around my nipples, arousing them to attention while the doctor explored my cavity of sexual delight.

This time around, I was acutely aware that their stimulation was about giving rather than receiving. Our synchronistic arousals were of unreserved pleasuring, not guarded restraint. For a passing moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if they had mastered Dubois’ zentologism during my absence.

I was returned to the present with mouthfuls of palpitating splendor, which I savored with delight, preparing them for the double-entendre I craved so fervently.

Their lubricious kisses were the first between my Masters during my service at both households. In the past, our orgiastic coitus had never entailed the men’s locking lips, let alone caressing one another with abandoned duplicity. This time around, their intimacies had grown potent, stirring me to intensified states of irresistibility. They were electrified, filling me with their nectar of love just as I was unreservedly poised to fulfill their every desire. Our naturalist vibrancy and rhythmic oscillations had again propelled me into Tantra.

In free-falling serenity, I drifted in tantric lucidity, spiraling heavenwards to euphoric efflorescence. Once again, I was lost in time and space where my illusory self transcended all dis-ease before reaching Moksha. It mattered not the length of our copulation. I drifted in unbounded ecstasy, only to return when filled to overflowing capacity by my Masters’ endearing ambrosias of supernal gratifications.

By the time I snuck out of the darkened chamber, my benefactors had already handed me two gratuitous envelopes containing more than my chaperone and I could exhaust on our travels to William Wordsworth poetic lakes.

Epilogue

“Don’t be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are soulmates.”

Bernard Tristan Foong

Not only did the two packages contain sufficient funds to send Andy and me off on a delightful month-long holiday in The Lake District, a region of incredible scenic beauty, but they also contained two miniature boxes of priceless sparkles from Asprey and Garrard, adding to my higher education assets.

As the District’s charming villages and ancient woodlands beckoned our love, it also provided my beloved and me time to rejuvenate before embarking on our next Enlightened Royal Oracle Society assignment.

P

Since the blossoming of the prince and doctor’s romantic relationship, His Highness had matured by leaps and bounds. Although this vivacious playboy remained jovially buoyant, his sporadic irresolution had transformed to imperative confidence.

When we reunited in Acapulco for the 1968 summer Olympics, he, like his clandestine lover, Fahrib, was unassailably aristocratic in comparison to the first time we had met at the Sekham.

Although I have no idea how long their romance lasted, one thing I was sure: their friendship lasted many long years until the prince’s demise in the late nineties. Though I’m sure his wives, children and grandchildren mourned for the loss of this benevolent man, his beloved Fahrib wept no less.

Fahrib

This shrewd doctor of few words created a rich cultural legacy for the citizens of Sharjah, especially in the fields of international art, philosophy and medicine.

The Sharjah Art Museum, inaugurated during the third Sharjah International Arts Biennial in 1997, housed numerous collections from the United Arab Emirates and by many male and female Middle Eastern artists. Within its spacious halls and galleries, visitors can also view exhibitions by international artists.

Another of the sheik’s legacies is The Sharjah Museum for Arabic Contemporary Art, a subsidiary of the main museum that offers visitors a targeted look at the region’s contemporary art movement.

The doctor’s love of art overreached his home turf. In recent years, he spearheaded the region’s self-reinvention as a cultural destination. This included plans for the cultural district of Saadiyat Island, which will hold two major outposts of the Guggenheim and the Louvre.

The Roman poet Virgil once wrote, “Love conquers all things; let us too surrender to Love.” Perhaps this saying did apply to the prince and the sheik. I, for one, believe so.

Jabril and Kifah

This Levantine art historian remained a key player in his employer’s many artistic endeavours through to the end of his life as cultural and press secretary to the Emir. Though his marriage to Kifah was affable, it was not made in heaven.

While I was stationed at وكر الذئب Aldhdhib Dann (Wolf Den), Andy and I had the privilege of attending his lavish wedding both in Sharjah and Amsterdam. Signs of disintegration between the bride and groom were already visible before their opulent nuptials.

Like a Disneyesque fairy-tale romance in which beauty and her prince charming lived happily ever after, Kifah expected a loyal, doting husband who would cater to her every wish. But the weight of her naiveté soon came crashing down on her petite haute-couture-wearing frame.

Her husband, not known for his fidelity, was caught laying with both sexes throughout the cause of their marriage. Under the advice of her Islamic parents and the Assalamu Alaikum ladies, Kifah endured, eventually turning a blind eye to her husband’s extramarital liaisons on condition that she and her children were well provided for.

As compensation for her marital unhappiness, Kifah turned to compulsive shopping, even if her accumulation of luxury indulgence was but a temporary fix. At the very least she fostered a perfidious sense of self-worth when displaying her latest designer ensemble to her peers.

On the opposite spectrum, Jabril plunged himself into work, a passion he loved more than his flings. It was only a matter of time before his boss came to the throne and entrusted him the official title of Cultural and Press Secretary, where he remained active until his death.

The Señor and His Protégé

The abstemious Victor Angel Triqueros continued to be my cultivated mentor in the athlete’s household, guiding and advising me at every turn in my fourth household service.

Victor became increasingly involved with Leon. Their age difference was nine years, but their bond was that of old souls: the relationship was like bees and honey. By the time I left E.R.O.S. after my four years of service, Victor and Leon were termed as a match made in heaven. Their mentor-protégé relationship had morphed into a lasting interpersonal partnership in which each could complete the other’s predilections without hesitation.

My professor’s knowledge of life’s transcendence continues to baffle me to this day. Like his friend, Monsieur Alain Dubois, my enlightened teacher went on to become an accomplished social communicator and psychologist. He educated other E.R.O.S. recruits long after I left my harem life.

On the other hand, Leon resumed the role as his mentor’s apprentice until he graduated from the University of Liverpool with Honours in the field of Humanities and Social Sciences.

Albert

Andy and I visited Albert at his Cotswolds family manor home in south central England. In the tranquil countryside where his parents kept vigilance over their middle child’s health, he recuperated from his drug addiction rapidly.

The sober Albert lamented his heedless actions to both Daltonbury Hall and the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society boards. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. Even though Andy and Zac tried to persuade the E.R.O.S. committee to change their minds, the lad’s association with the society was terminated permanently. On the bright side, he was accepted back at Daltonbury Hall to complete his studies.

According to Albert, who kept in touch, the less propitious Narnia was expelled from both E.R.O.S. and her Italian boarding institution. Her parents threatened to enroll her in a convent school. Their hope was to ingrain sobriety into their wild child, though they had no idea of what she had been up to as an E.R.O.S. recruit. That was the last I heard of Narnia or saw of Albert.

Mario

Conceived way before its time, the Count’s controversial movie never made it to the big screen – until 1996, when the plot was appropriated by a female American-Indian producer and director. Though she revised the screenplay for an audacious moviegoing audience, this modified rendition, nominated for a couple of awards when premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, was banned from Indian cinemas.

I had the pleasure of witnessing Mario’s directorial treatment within the movie production world while stationed at Wolf Den. Much I learned from the Count and his team in set and costume design. This prefatory knowledge eventually enabled me to obtain a scholarship to pursue my second Master’s Degree in costume design at the Fitzgerald Theatre Department in the University of Hawaii, Manoa, in 1997.

Mario and Tad’s bromance blossomed until an inextricable entanglement over a love interest wrecked their friendship. My Valet and I were present during the downfall: their unyielding stubbornness made it impossible for us to amend their bond. It was an uneasy time for the men, especially when they had once been like Siamese twins, both in business and social transactions.

Tad

During the prime of the Count’s friendship with the athlete, Andy and I were sent into a socially active tailspin. Since the Arab and the Italian were heavily embedded within the beauty and fashion industry, my chaperone and I were whisked off to a whirlwind of international beauty pageants and fashion events.

Being a well-known sports figure, Tad had beauty product endorsements and advertising commitments to fulfill, apart from spending an unassailable amount of time training for his next athletic competition. Seldom had I seen a man with such intrepid virility. He awoke early for physical conditioning before heading to one of his competitive practices, only to return in the late afternoon for yet another round of painting the town red. The number of males and females who wove in and out of his daily life was insurmountable. Although I was agape at such championship, I soon acculturated into my patriarch’s lifestyle without fanfare.

Moi

It turned out to be a revelation in book five of A Harem Boy’s Saga – Metanoia that my life took a superlative turn to that of transformational enlightenment. I had matured and outgrown my juvenile puerility. In its place appeared a cultivated young man, ready to embrace life’s surmountable challenges and seize the connate opportunities that came his way.

I had grown into my own, making assessments and predilections I deemed fit at any given circumstance. My uncertainty had made way for confidence. And so the list went on. As is often the case, admirable qualities emerge from chaos, and vice versa.

One thing I learned at Assalamu Alaikum (Peace Be With You) is that peace can indeed be with you when you release, accept and go with the flow. Flow is the natural, effortless unfolding of our life that moves us toward wholeness and harmony.

Author’s Bio

Young alias Bernard Foong is, first and foremost, a sensitivist. He finds nuance in everything. To experience the world he inhabits is an adventure which is mystical, childlike and refreshing. He has a rare ability to create beauty in a unique fashion. His palettes have been material, paint, words and human experiences.

By Christine Maynard (screenwriter and novelist).

Bernard Foong (designer) – A brief history

Born in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. At the age of 8, he was assisting his aunt and cousin, learning the art of sewing and fabrics/colors matching. He attended an exclusive private boarding school in the United Kingdom before obtaining his Diploma in Fashion Design at the Harrow College of Art & Technology in London, England. He went on to complete his Master of Design at the Royal College of Art & Design, London, England. During his college years he won several international fashion awards and was already retailing bridal and evening dresses to several well-known department stores in England. Liberty of London, Selfridges, Harrods and Harvey Nichols to name a few that carried his designs. His Royal College of Art graduation wedding/evening wear collection was sold to Liberty of London and displayed in their store windows for the entire month of June that year.

For four years, he worked for Liberty’s bridal department as their in-house designer until a trip to Hong Kong, while working on a freelance project for ‘Bird’s’(casual wear) company, he was recruited by the Hong Kong Polytechnic University as their Fashion professor for the next 6 years. During his stay in Hong Kong, he freelanced for numerous fashion companies. From designing casual wear, swimwear, lingerie, and fur garments, men’s wear, bridal and evening fashions to accessories (bags, shoes, and head-wear). He also participated and organized numerous fashion shows, events, functions, and presentations in the Asia Pacific region.

Working for Keys Far East Hong Kong as chief lingerie designer - travelling extensively to the United States, he was soon recruited as an Associate Fashion Design/Illustration Professor to the University of Wisconsin, Madison and also lectured at the Minneapolis College of Art & Design for a couple of years.

Foong was then appointed as the Fashion Development Manager by an established department store – Parkson Grand (22 stores in Malaysia and one in Shanghai, China). Producing under the label, Natural Life by Bernard Foong, he designed casual-wear collections for the Parkson Grand’s flagship store in Kuala Lumpur. After a couple of years later, he was invited by the Temasek Polytechnic, Singapore to join their design school to establish a Fashion Design department. For two years, he assisted several founding members of the design school - working on the fashion department’s teaching curriculum.

The Fitzgerald Theatre Department, University of Hawaii, Manoa, Oahu, Hawaii awarded a full scholarship for Foong to complete his second Master of Art in Theatre Costuming. Now a resident on the Island of Maui, he has assisted many charity organizations in their fund raising events with his extravagant fashion and performance shows/presentations. In 2005, he and his partner, Mr. Walter Jay Bissett opened Fire Dragon Bistro Orient & Design Shop. He also designs costumes/fashions for numerous theatrical productions in Hawaii and abroad.

Appointed as chief lingerie designer for Cerie International Limited – Hong Kong, his lingerie designs can be found in major department stores in Canada, Europe, and the United Kingdom.

He showcased the BERNARD FOONG R-T-W collections and BERNARD FOONG @ Modern Classic Ltd. (an established – Hong Kong bridal & evening wear company) collections in Hong Kong. His 2008 & 2009 bridal/evening/bridal lingerie fashion show, “Grace” & “Coming Up Roses” were premiered at Hong Kong Fashion Week in July 2007 and January 2008 respectively at the Hong Kong Convention & Exhibition Center, garnering positive interest in many Asian press reviews, including a China nationwide television broadcast of his latest collection. Aika (International Opera Singer) wore several Bernard Foong special occasion dresses at her Japan & European tour in September & October 2009.

Foong was the chief Creative Director for Official (Special Occasion fashion manufacturing company) Guangzhou, China producing – BERNARD FOONG Couture (specialty one-of-a-kind creations), White (RTW - Wedding/Special Occasion wear), Foxy Cute (Smart Casual/Cocktail wear), SexZ (decorative bustier) & Diva Bitch (sexual lingerie inner/outer-wear) collections.

Besides working on his regular haute couture, R-T-W and lingerie collections he is a visiting consultant/advisor for:

●    Pivot Point fashion college, Chengdu, China.

●    Hong Kong Design Institute (fashion department), Hong Kong, SAR.

●    Hong Kong Poly/U, Hong Kong (School of Apparel Design & Merchandising), SAR.

●    Hong Kong Fashion Designers Association, Hong Kong.

●    Singapore Temasek Polytechnic – School of Apparel Design & Merchandising (ADM), Singapore.

Bernard is writing his autobiography (full-time), a five book series of Mr. Foong’s young life:

A Harem Boy’s Saga: A Memoir by Young.

A Harem Boy’s Saga series is published by Solstice Publishing and is available in print, audio and E-books internationally.

A Harem Boy’s Saga series Film Contract has been secured with an independent UK Producer, operating in Hollywood.

Acknowledgements

Throughout the course of writing A Harem Boy’s – IV – Turpitude, these past sixteen months, I am forever indebted to my tenacious editor, Ms. Ellen Fishbein. With her move from New York to Texas, a new career change and a busy schedule ahead, she kept her pledge of unwavering assistance to complete this fourth volume of my protracted memoir.

My writing skills improved by leaps and bounds under this beautiful woman’s tutelage. For this I am grateful and thankful for her help. Ms. Fishbein, I sincerely hope we will have the opportunity to work together again.

I wish her the very best in all her endeavors. She will be greatly missed by moi.

Another wonderful lady I would like to thank is Ms. Emerantia Antonia Parnell-Gilbert, my Literary Agent from Gilbert Literary Agency. Besides providing me with valuable advice and securing Solstice Publishing to publish A Harem Boy’s Saga series, Ms. Parnell-Gilbert has also procured a Film Option Agreement for A Harem Boy’s Saga with a UK Film production company.

I am excited to see this memoir series adapted for the screen in the form of feature films and/or a TV miniseries. Emerantia’s unfaltering support and faith in my writing gave me the incentive to continue on this long and winding road to complete my series.

I also thank Ms. Melissa Miller of Solstice Publishing for her credence in my memoirs and to Ms. KateMarie Collins (my Solstice Publishing Editor-in-Chief) for devoting time to format and upload A Harem Boy’s Saga for international distribution.

I am deeply grateful to Ms. Fiona Jayde of Fiona Jayde Media for her exquisite and mesmerizing book cover designs. Working with this talented designer was a breeze. Her instinctive mind captured my ideas with ease and grace, and she created cover images for A Harem Boy’s Saga that readers and I fell in love with instantly.

I cannot forget my dear friend Mr. Robert DeNigris, who took time from his busy schedule to proofread Turpitude’s manuscript. Mahalo, Bob! You are a gem.

At this juncture, I would like to say a big “Thank You” to all my friends and supporters who have continued to champion my revelations from the beginning, before Initiation, Unbridled, Debauchery and Turpitude came to fruition.

Last but not least, I am deeply appreciative of both my life partner, Mr. Walter Jay Bissett, and my ex-Valet, mentor, guardian and lover, Mr. Andrew A. Finckenstein, for their resolute support, contribution and encouragement to tell my story truthfully.

In Walter Jay Bissett words:

“The truth will set you free.”

And in Andrew A. Finckenstein’s:

“Dwell not in the past,
dream not of the future,
but concentrate on the present.”

Young.

young@aharemboysaga.com
www.aharemboysaga.com

If you enjoyed this story, check out the other Solstice Publishing books by Young:

A Harem Boy’s Saga Book 1: Intiation:

This provocative story is about an adolescent who was initiated into a clandestine sexual society. He was spirited to the Middle East, from his UK boarding school. He attended the Bahriji School (Oasis,) in The United Arab Emirates in preparation for serving in Harems for the wealthy and elite.

It is also a love story between the young man and his ‘Valet’ who served as his chaperone and mentor during the boy’s Harem service.

http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00KOEXWQQ

A Harem Boy’s Saga Book 2: Unbridled

Unbridled is the sequel to Initiation - A provocative story about a boy who was initiated into a clandestine sexual society. He was spirited to the Middle East, from his UK boarding school. He attended the Bahriji School (Oasis,) in The United Arab Emirates in preparation for serving in Harems for the wealthy and elite.

It is also a love story between the young man, his ‘Big Brother’ and his ‘Valet’ who served as his chaperones and mentors during the boy’s Harem services.

This book follows the boy’s erotic and exotic adventures and experiences at his 2nd Arab Household Harem, the Sekham. He was an apprentice and model, for the household patriarch’s controversial photography project, “Sacred Sex in Sacred Places”.

The author's experiences present facts that are truthful. Through these truths, which are often demonized by contemporary societies that deem such behaviors inappropriate, the author hopes to dispel condemnations and negativity which relate to his experiences.

There are 7 volumes in A Harem Boy’s Saga series.

http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00L8F1RYO

A Harem Boy’s Saga Book 3: Debauchry:

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

Lao Tzu

Debauchery is the triquel to A Harem Boy’s Saga, a provocative story about a young man who was initiated into a clandestine sexual society through his UK boarding school. From there, he was spirited to the Middle East to attend the Bahriji (Oasis) School in The United Arab Emirates in preparation for Harem services for the wealthy elite.

It is also a love story between the young man, his ‘Big Brother,’ and his ‘Valet,’ who served as his chaperones and mentors.

This book follows the teenagers’ erotic and exotic adventures and experiences at their third Arabian Household Harem, the Quwah. There, they became confidants to a prince, assistants in an international dance club venture, “Carousel,” and apprentices and models in a controversial photography project, “Sacred Sex in Sacred Places.”

This story is an account of the author’s experiences. Through these truths, often demonized by contemporary societies that deem such behaviors inappropriate, the author hopes to dispel condemnation and negativity related to sexuality, love, and personal freedom.

A Harem Boy’s Saga is a series of seven volumes.

http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00N2FRQMA

No Distance Between Us

This provocative story is about a young man who was initiated into a clandestine sexual society. He was spirited to the Middle East, from his UK boarding school. He attended the Bahriji School (Oasis,) in The United Arab Emirates in preparation for serving in Harems for the wealthy and elite.

It is also a love story between the young man and his ‘Valet’ who served as his chaperone and mentor during the boy’s Harem service.

Author’s note:

I had a privileged and unique upbringing in Malaysia. Following in my brothers' footsteps, I was sent to an exclusive boarding school in England. It is there that I was inducted into a clandestine organization, E.R.O.S. The Enlightened Royal Oracle Society. For four years, unbeknownst to my family, I was willingly and happily part of a Harem.

My story has been kept under wraps for close to 45 years. The correct moment has arrived for me to make known my unique education.

There are 7 books to this series.

http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00P9UOJSU

The Truth Will Set You Free

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

Lao Tzu

The Truth Will Set You Free is section from Debauchery - the triquel to A Harem Boy’s Saga, a provocative story about a young man who was initiated into a clandestine sexual society through his UK boarding school. From there, he was spirited to the Middle East to attend the Bahriji (Oasis) School in The United Arab Emirates in preparation for Harem services for the wealthy elite.

It is also a love story between the young man, his ‘Big Brother,’ and his ‘Valet,’ who served as his chaperones and mentors.

This book follows the teenagers’ erotic and exotic adventures and experiences at their third Arabian Household Harem, the Quwah. There, they became confidants to a prince, assistants in an international dance club venture, “Carousel,” and apprentices and models in a controversial photography project, “Sacred Sex in Sacred Places.”

This story is an account of the author’s experiences. Through these truths, often demonized by contemporary societies that deem such behaviors inappropriate, the author hopes to dispel condemnation and negativity related to sexuality, love, and personal freedom.

A Harem Boy’s Saga is a series of seven volumes.

http://bookgoodies.com/a/B01COB1MPY