I went to a tantric sex class
And I don't think I'm any better in bed.
While my blog has become a somewhat taboo topic for my family, it’s still one for much entertainment and delight amongst friends. People like to see people naked you see, and they love to hear about them squirm. Hence why my perverted chums support Comfort is for Wimps with recommendations of unorthodox (or just plain oddball) activities.
Unsurprisingly, the suggestion to go to a tantric sex class came from my friend who brazenly loves anal sex. She proudly announces it so openly that it’s actually kind of endearing. She couldn’t accompany me for location reasons but another friend, Emma, jumped at the opportunity. Emma is quite liberal in her approach to sex too. As far as I know anal sex isn’t a pastime of hers, but at one stage she did want to take me to an S&M club and put me on a leash.
So out of all my friends, she seemed like the ideal candidate to escort me to tantra; not only did she have an open mind and an interest in perverting me, but she also works with mentally ill people – to her, new age tantra hippies and lonely men looking to bump pelvises was not going to be anything novel.
I wasn’t feeling as at ease with the situation as Emma. After the Cuddle-Workshop-of-absolute-doom I put myself through last year, I’d personally had quite enough of people who put the strange in strangers. Emma encouraged me by suggesting that maybe we would become total legends in bed, but I’m just going to cut to the chase now:
The tantric sex class was probably the least sexual or sensual thing I’ve ever experienced. Lying naked between Tony Abbott and Kim Jong-un would probably have been more arousing. From the moment we arrived and met with this particular tantric community, we knew there was no way these people were going to be able to inspire us into two-hour orgasms.
The venue was the Columbia Hotel, a converted old Victorian townhouse. I thought they would have decked out a small private space with soft lighting, incense, cushions and pheromones, but instead we just walked into a big empty room with high ceilings, chandeliers and chairs configured in a circle like an AA meeting. Emma and I seemed to be the youngest recovering alcoholics in the room.
We had name tags and all
After we introduced ourselves by name, relationship status and how we were feeling, we knew each other about 0.0003% more than we had 15 minutes earlier. So it was quite a shock when we were all instructed to move into another part of the shit-for-brains room to commence stirring our pelvic bowls together.
Martin, the guy leading the experience, cranked his wigger tunes and instructed us to shake our bones – suddenly the room was full of standing epileptics. Some people started to verbally “release the energy from within” which sounded like distressed zoo animals. Emma and I bopped and jiggled, trying our hardest to vibrate our bodies as intensely as the rest of them. Obviously it was a lot harder for us because we had to juggle that with the suppression of intense laughter.
“Stir your pelvic bowls, release them!” shouted passionate Martin.
‘RAHHH!’ the group responded like fierce animals.
The summoning of the world’s end lasted about 20 minutes and by the end of it everyone looked like they had just given birth. But oh my goodness gracious, it was now time to sit down, chill the fuck out and do some verbal sharing.
Needless to say, most verbal sharing dribbled out of their mouths like chewed up fruit loops. One guy felt so warm and excited by all his stirring that he saw “a rainbow of energy exude from his fingertips and toes”. Alright champ. Another lady let us know that she almost vomited when she was screaming out all her energy. That would have been gross. Then there were the two ladies who bonded over the fact that they both thought they were going to wet themselves. I think that’s called incontinence and you might need a thick panty liner for that.
So that was a whole lot of eccentric to lead into the next exercise – something I could have done with friends and hated just as much – DANCING. I loathe dancing. Emma loathes dancing. We don’t dance unless we’re drinking or high, and even then we’re only as good as Napoleon Dynamite.
This was when we really agreed that we should have put hallucinogenics on the pre-tantra agenda.
It was horrendous. Emma is half the size of me and I do squats at the gym on the reg, so when we were told to rub bottoms she kept bouncing off mine. Everyone was really getting into the wiggling and the rubbing, while Emma and I just seemed repulsed by each other. She wanted nothing to do with my pelvic bowl, nor I hers. It actually got a bit awkward between us so I decided to break the tension with a few slut drops.
After the stupid dancing we had a tea break where we were told to wash our hands before entering the room again. I hoped this was just ablutions before prayer time so there would be no more touching. But obvs that was a silly thing to hope. This part of the evening was to be about facial caressing.
By the end I was absolutely bored to death and Emma kept talking about fried chicken. But there was still one more lot of verbal sharing to do. When we were asked how we felt I wanted to say horny but Emma wouldn’t let me, so I just said some rubbish about being relaxed and happy and then we snuck out.
We could have stayed back for a bit and chatted but it was 10pm already and we had work the next day. Not all of us are lucky enough to be able to go home and take acid and sleep in our hammocks until noon.