Читать книгу Tantra Goddess - Caroline Muir - Страница 10

Chapter Three

The Power of Connection

While we waited for my funds to come through, Rick and I rented a small house by a dry creek bed in the poorer section of the Ojai Valley. Paint peeled off the clapboard sides and we had no furnishings besides a secondhand bed and a black and white TV. The abandoned garden surrounding the house survived somehow in the dry, caked soil. But I vowed to make this place our home for as long as we needed it. I had no idea how much money the trust fund would generate, and I was careful not to overextend myself in this flush of expansiveness. A few cans of fresh paint and some good yard sale furniture would get us off to a good start and the scent of sweet orange blossoms was everywhere.

But one night we pulled back the bed covers to find four scorpions resting on the bed sheets. I screamed and ran outside. How would I endure this? We slept in the truck that night.

The next day Rick got a call to shoe some horses at a nearby ranch and I went along for the ride; anything to get out of our private ghetto. We drove our rig—a white Ford pickup pulling a tall corrugated aluminum trailer that still bore the word “PRODUCE” in faint lettering—up a winding road, and passed through the gate to the Levines’s five-acre ranch. We passed corrals, tack rooms, and a barn before pulling to a stop in front of an older ranch house situated under the oak trees. Madeleine Levine approached as I climbed out of the truck, her arms outstretched to greet me.

“You’re here!” she said, giving me and then Rick a generous hug. Along with glistening white teeth and a perpetual smile, she wore a low-cut T-shirt, contoured riding pants, and knee-high riding boots. She waved for us to follow her. ““Come meet Barry. He’ll love you, Kernie. He loves company. Rick and I will work on my horses.”

Rick and I glanced at each other and followed her into the funky house then into a bedroom, where I was met by a pair of blue eyes so intense they shook me to the core. His face, crowned by a head of medium brown curls threaded with silver, made my knees tremble. His look was so bold and forthright I felt naked under his gaze.

Barry Levine was a successful Hollywood screenwriter who lived most of his life from bed. He weighed over four hundred pounds and could barely walk to the bathroom or to the car to drive into Hollywood for meetings with the heads of all the major studios. But that didn’t hold him back. He was creative, productive, and very interested in women. He motioned for me to stay while Madeleine took Rick to the stable to begin their day of grooming and shoeing her magnificent Arabians.

I looked around the room. There was a large sunken bathtub encircled by windows nearby, and the accoutrements of bed life surrounded him: pillows of various sizes, a water-filled carafe, a tray of vitamins, a breakfast plate with remnants of an English muffin. “Would you take my tray to the kitchen?” Barry said.

It was as if I were ordered by royalty to perform the task. “Of course I will,” I said, feeling his gaze as I walked from the room. When I returned from my errand, Barry nodded toward a worn easy chair across from him. “Have a seat,” he said. “I want to connect with those eyes.” His commands were clear and benevolent.

No one had ever asked to “connect” with my eyes before. I wasn’t sure I even knew what he meant by “connect.” I sat down. Barry looked into me more deeply than anyone had ever looked into me, more deeply than I had even looked into myself. I felt vulnerable in front of the most astounding sight I had ever seen.

Barry lay belly down on his king-sized bed clad in a cornflower blue velour caftan. He supported himself on his elbows, a telephone nestled in the crook of his arm. His flesh took up half the bed. “So where did you get this name? Kernie. That is your name, right?”

I told him my brother hadn’t been able to say “Carolyn” when we were kids, and Kernie became a nickname that stuck. “You can call me Kern,” I said, feeling strangely familiar already with this mammoth being before me.

He smiled, focusing his sharp intensity on me. “Kern. Do you have any idea how absolutely adorable you are? When I saw you jump out of that pickup, my first thought was how can I spend time with her? Kern, let me ask you. Does this horseshoeing cowboy speak to your heart? Are you happy?”

I felt exposed under that direct gaze of his. With nowhere to hide I came pouring out. I told my new confidant how sad I was not to be able to reach inside of Rick and contact the person in there. I shared my grief about my grandfather’s death and told him the news of my inheritance.

“How wonderful!” Barry cried. “An heiress just walked into my bedroom! How does it feel to go from rags to riches?” He asked me why I was settling for a sweet, sexy, yet-to-incarnate cowboy like Rick. I jumped to Rick’s defense, though even as I spoke of what a good man he was, tears burned my eyes. I could see it coming: I was going to have to make another change very soon.

Rick had been an “I’ll save you” relationship and the fulfillment of this Kansas girl’s dream of the all-American cowboy. It felt so natural to just love him. He had survived Vietnam and was my way of serving the cause. He was my partner in rebellion—rebellion against my dad, rebellion at the confined though expansive container of a life I had created with Arnie. Was I so unprepared? Was I truly just a rebellious, lost and lonely teenager acting out unexpected behavior?

Rick was also a man I loved sharing my sexuality with. I felt safe with Rick in many ways. Life with him had been a grand adventure. But my romantic fantasies of loving a cowboy had failed to include the realities of living with an emotionally damaged Vietnam vet. I had thought he would rehabilitate simply by our being together, or that my love for him could cure anything, but it was proving to be a long and arduous return for this wounded cowboy.

We talked about my situation and what possibilities there might be for better living conditions than having scorpions for bedmates. Barry was a problem solver, and we were soon creating solutions for me. These solutions would require me to become more responsible and more accountable. I was ready for it.

Barry explained why a fifty-four-year-old man his size welcomed visitors in his sunny bedroom. Barry craved complete presence by anyone within his range. Two years earlier he had undergone intestinal bypass surgery and he was still recovering from the new and radical surgery. He had weighed 600 pounds when he went in for the surgery, which involved removing most of his intestinal tract. Barely digested food went straight to the colon, where it was eliminated many times throughout the day and night. He was proud to weigh only 450 pounds now, but the dozens of trips to the bathroom were exhausting and much of the nutrients from the food he ate were never absorbed due to the removal of his intestines.

Barry was part of the in-club in Hollywood, and well-known producers and directors were often on the other end of his phone line. He had achieved enormous success with several hit films that decade, and he continued to sell his screenplays. Barry was commanding and clear. He wasted no time on small talk. He quickly gathered the information he needed to identify me—I was thirty-four and divorced with a daughter living with her dad. Rick and I had recently moved to Ojai from the North Coast, where I practiced Hatha yoga and dabbled in self-taught massage, metaphysics, and past-life regression. I offered to show him a few of the stretches from my yoga practice. I was very flexible, and he was delighted to see my movements. It was an extreme contrast to him, as he could barely even walk to the bathroom or to the large tub near his bed.

From his bed—his throne—Barry watched life on his ranch through a large picture window. He needed and wanted to be informed of everything, and he was thoroughly entertained by Madeleine’s prowess with her Arabians. She would ride by his window on her favorite black stallion, spectacular in her riding pants and leather boots, her lovely breasts bouncing in a thin tee-shirt. As she passed she would call out a greeting to “Barr.” Soon we were twinkling sensual magnetism to one another, and I had to admit I felt turned on. When we said goodbye, the Levines invited me to come back and visit anytime.

The next morning, our phone rang. The Levines wanted to know if we had a portable TV they could borrow. Their television had broken and Barry needed a TV as soon as possible. Rick had to return that day to finish shoeing Madeleine’s horses, so we put our 24-inch TV in the trailer along with Rick’s anvil, dozens of pairs of horseshoes, mallets, nails, an acetylene torch for heating steel, and other tools of the trade. I rode in the trailer to make sure the TV reached its destination safely.

“It’s not color!” Barry wailed, when he saw what we had brought him.

But we were still saving the day for Barry, as watching TV helped him relax and kept him tuned into shows that were important for his work. He and Madeleine were grateful for our generosity and assured us Barry’s TV would be working again soon.

Barry and I talked through another afternoon, and at the end of it he told Madeleine I wanted to relocate. “Why don’t you move in here?” she said. “We have a small cottage here you could rent.”

That night I told Rick my plans. I explained it was time for us to take some space and for him to get his financial life together. I could not sleep in a house with scorpions, and I wanted more. I wanted someone to help me buy my own vehicle, help me invest my new money, and show me some family love. I invited Rick to spend one night a week with me in my new cottage and be my lover, but I wanted to live apart.

Rick was in a spin. “You just met them!”

“I know.”

It had only been a week since we’d met the Levines. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t do the adventurous existence of hand-to-mouth survival anymore.

After all those months in a trailer and then in the rental on the dry creek bed, the cottage was a relief with its relative comforts. I spent the days cleaning and setting up my house, planting flowers out front, and running errands in town for Barry or Madeleine. Madeleine came into Barry’s room in the evenings and brought dinner to us on trays. I liked giving nurturing and healing touch and she asked me to sit with Barry as often as I wanted and massage him. “He needs touch more than anything,” she had said. I massaged Barry’s huge expanse of back, neck, legs, and feet, and enjoyed flirtatious play with this amazing creature draped in velvet caftans. As I massaged Barry, he drifted in and out of lazy naps and moaned with delight. Sometimes Madeleine would come in and sit in the easy chair across from the bed, playing her guitar and capturing my heart as she sang haunting love songs she and Barry had written about their love for each other. Between songs, she told me stories of her career as a singer/songwriter, playing with Kenny Loggins and appearing on the Smothers Brothers show. She told me how she had met Barry and how he had seduced her. Madeleine came from a Mafia-connected family, and Barry was a New York Jew who had started his career in New York City clubs, where he discovered a famous comedy act in the 1960s. In Hollywood he rose fast to the top, but he was unhappy there and he ate his way to this immense weight, stopping only when he realized the threat it was to his life. With Madeleine’s support he had agreed to the radical surgery that could save his life from the ravages of obesity.

The Levines were different from anyone I had known. They were vibrant and loving. I loved talking with Barry and laughing at his stories. His wit earned him millions before it was all used up keeping him alive. But besides his great creative wit, Barry and Madeleine were dedicated to emotional authenticity and to speaking their minds; you never had to wonder how they felt. I needed that and found it easier to do it myself with their support and modeling. They knew that emotional health meant physical health, and both were top priority. Their nutritionist taught me how to eat to maximize my health and energy. In a year, I cleansed a lifetime of pizza and cheeseburgers and lost the last of my baby fat.

In the beginning I was in denial of the sexual attraction between Barry and me. I couldn’t imagine how sex could fit into this unfolding new relationship. But I was melted butter under his gaze. Barry had confided to me that Madeleine was not terribly interested in sex, and he needed pleasure—he wanted passion. He was also distressed that because of the size of his belly he couldn’t even reach his penis to pleasure himself. My compassionate heart responded. Three years before I would meet Charles Muir and eight years before I would hear of Tantra or sexual healing, I offered to assist Barry with his dilemma and surprised myself with my own sexual healing: Here was a penis so unthreatening I began healing my confusing fear of them. A vulnerable penis belonging to a vulnerable man was nothing to be afraid of.

Barry insisted that his fiery Italian wife would not want to know what we did. Even if she did know, she would not want to be told. I knew she loved Barry, but their differences were obvious, too. Madeleine was always outdoors—repairing buildings, grooming or riding her horses, or playing music in her studio. She stopped in throughout the day to confer with Barry or bring him lunch. Sometimes she picked up her guitar and sang for us. I loved their connection and creativity, loved being part of their daily concerns and commitments. I wanted to help in any way I could, even if it meant taking care of Barry’s needs and fantasies without sharing it with his wife. We talked constantly about sex, and when he asked me one day to touch my own “pussy” while he watched, I shyly agreed. The curtains were drawn and we told Madeleine through the window, “Barry’s napping.”

Being with Barry was my first experience with a man who talked me into orgasm, looking deeply into my eyes as I pleasured myself in the easy chair across from his bed. I would then massage his back and he would roll over so I could lift his small member out of its nest and place it into my mouth. In just a few seconds he would squeal and orgasm, thanking me over and over as I wiped and powdered him like a baby on a changing table. After reapplying the Noxzema to his always-sore anus, I covered him with one of his velvet caftans and he rested. I was then free to help with chores, work outside with Madeleine, or write in my journal in the quiet, cool solitude of my rustic cabin.

Barry had told me of the many Hollywood beauties he had dated and that he had always “scored.” He was successful, which appealed to any actress, but he also knew how to connect with the heart and soul of a woman. I understood now that for Barry scoring meant he got to see and touch and taste a woman while being pleasured himself. Intercourse was not in his repertoire.

Barry’s meetings at the Hollywood studios were frequent, and I became his driver. I would haul Barry, lunch, and anything else he might need in my new Dodge van, where he would lie in the back on a big futon with Indian print bedspreads draped all around for the full-day excursions into Los Angeles. We laughed and talked, Barry entertaining me the whole way. We stopped on the coast so Barry could breathe in the scent of the sea with all the van windows open wide, and we’d visit his favorite seafood drive-in and feast on calamari and fries or fish and chips. He never left the van for these picnics, as walking was the most difficult thing in his life and he needed to save his energy for the meetings in Hollywood. When we were ready to head “back to the ranch,” we’d call Madeleine, who would tell us what to pick up for dinner.

One day, a woman named Mira came to visit the ranch, and she fell in love with our zany, creative family. Mira was a burnt-out fashion designer whom the Levines knew, and she was ready to leave Los Angeles and live a quieter life. We offered her the empty bedroom in the old ranch house, just around the corner and a few steps down from the Levines’ suite. The family was growing.

Mira quickly fell into step as our helper in service to all of the family needs. She tie-dyed the fabric we used for Barry’s caftans and made colorful wall hangings and slipcovers. She never accepted Barry’s invitations to relieve him of his sexual tension, but she loved him and waited on him in every other way. I adored Mira as I adored Madeleine and Barry.

Evenings now saw the four of us getting high, telling stories, and listening to Madeleine play guitar. Recreational excursions into altered states of consciousness were a regular part of our lives. Barry and Madeleine were quasi-hippies, like Mira and me, and we took our share of mescaline and LSD, loving the magic of our times together. Barry didn’t believe in alcohol or cigarettes, and we had to sneak them, a small thrill, as if we were kids hiding our pranks from Big Daddy. I used a lot of mouthwash and mints to cover my smoking habit.

In stolen moments, Barry and I played with our sexuality in our precious but limited way, always watching to make sure we didn’t get caught. That was a big part of the excitement. And we escaped being caught in the nick of time more than once. I don’t remember much about my own sexual satisfaction with Barry, but my heart was full and I felt needed and loved beyond measure. He only penetrated me once in those two years, proudly, with his few inches of love and a heart full of vulnerability. Somehow he miraculously heaved himself on top of me and thrust six times before falling over in post-orgasmic bliss.

One of the great gifts of my time with Barry was that I began to understand that sexuality expressed along with genuine love is essential for me. It is what makes me tick—it is how I expose my vulnerability and experience my totality. With Barry, I thought of myself as a healer. I knew the power of love, and I knew how to transmit my love through my hands, eyes, and body. I also learned how to receive love through my eyes. This was our primary foreplay—our eyes did most of the kissing, fondling, and caressing that prepares most people for sex. I was pioneering sexual loving before I had a clue that this was my spiritual work.

And what a relief it was to discover I could choose another family after having left my own. I felt nourished, integral, and I was aware for the first time of my freedom, even the freedom to create more family. The Levines and Mira welcomed my daughter on visits and graciously entertained Johnny, Rick, and Arnie, and even my dad and his wife, Marty, when they came once to visit. For the Levines it was enough just knowing they were my kin and my duty to them was paramount to all.

In 1977, two years after I’d moved to the Levines’ ranch, I decided it was time to find out if Rick and I had anything worth salvaging. We visited, and our passion for each other was magnetic. I asked Rick to live with me at the Levines’, with Madeleine and Barry’s blessings. Within months I bought a house, a typical suburban house with a swimming pool, just a short walk into the town of Ojai. We moved in. When Rick asked me to marry him, I said yes. His emotional wounding from Vietnam and from his early childhood concerned me, but I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted a life of ease, and that seemed possible with Rick now that I knew more about loving, communicating, and relating in a successful way. I believed in the healing power of love and trusted that Rick would get all he needed with my love and greater commitment. The future was filled with magnificent dreams.