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MY BALLS ACHED as they rested on the front of a zafu.
It was my first Zen sesshin (intensive meditation retreat). After 4 days of endless sitting periods, bowing, chanting, no eye contact, sleepless nights, and ritualized eating, I thought I was gonna die. This was in a Zen Center on the East side of downtown St. Paul, during the middle of a Minnesota winter: which meant 40 of us cloistered in the walls of an old warehouse, day and night.
It was day four, and I couldn’t deny an embarrassing surge of sexual energy. It electrified my skin, and caused—um—a few other physiological consequences. All day I sat with a boner in the Zendo, amidst every manner of sexual fantasy—alternating with simply feeling and watching the sensations of the male libido. During walking periods and between long stretches of zazen, I couldn’t help but notice my fellow female meditators who—black garb and blank stares aside—were beginning to look quite good. Quite good indeed.
One minute we’re walking kinhin in single file, and the next we’re frolicking in a meadow, her dress half off and a nice luscious kiss against my…
Buddha statue.
Wait: Feel the floor, watch the breath, aware of the contemplative space around me…
Swinging happily in a sky chair, bare breasts brushing against my….
One…two….three….four….one….two….one….in….out…I am home, I have arrived…I am home, I have….
And so it went, over a 10-hour stretch all day. But as the day ended so did the retreat. Though very relaxed, I felt yet heavy, bored, listless…and horny.
Finally! After four stuffy days of restriction, a rush of exhiliration and freedom lifted my being as I ran out to my car for the short drive home. I was free! No more bells to tell me when to walk, gongs to sit or stand, wooden clacks to eat….
I did it!! I sat for four days straight!!
I suddenly didn’t feel tired or irritated, but eager to return to my life, my home, and my friends.
Yep, I was on the way home… However, just as I had watched the sensations of desire only minutes before, I now watched as I searched for a local strip club. Any trashy joint would do—there had to be dozens between here and Minneapolis…
So I took the long way home—a detour through neighborhoods most likely to be stripper-friendly, determined to see this energy through for once…
“Will I actually do this?” I wondered. I had never stepped foot in a place like that before—only heard of them! But despite my relative uncertainty, sure enough I found myself in a warehouse district, pulling into a discreet parking lot.
“Déjà Vu,” said the neon-pink sign. I had heard of it before. All through high school my classmates inducted themselves into adulthood on their 18th birthdays with a lap dance at Déjà Vu. Always, I had crinkled my nose with disgust at this disgraceful and demeaning activity toward the womanly figure—making them mere objects for sexual gratification. After graduation there were those horror stories about seeing girls from our class who had, well, started a dancing career. Disgusting!
I went in.
I stepped in—shakily—and looked around with hesitation: Rock music, and some girls on stage. After four days of blank walls and strict breath-observation, the lights, sounds, and naked bodies glowed with shocking vividness.
I took a seat. The club was sparse but for some lonely middle-aged guys. My eyes moved slowly—with resistance—toward a direct shot at the stage show.
I had just turned 23, but these girls were young—and self-conscious. It was revolting, really, even if some of these young ladies were cute. Acting as if they enjoyed prancing around with dildos and dancing on the laps of drunken college kids to 2 Live Crew’s “We Want Some Pussy,” the incongruity of their movements with an underlying resentment was nearly mortifying. I sat and watched my disgust as it all unfolded before me, just as I had watched the lust that brought me there in the hours before.
Would it feel any different if the girls were un-self conscious and physically expressed a love for what they did? Like in Vegas, Perhaps? Hmmm…. …
“Would you like a personal dance?” asked a voice to my left.
There stood a young girl no older than 18 and wearing very, very little.
“Uh…..no……thanks.”
I was quivering. I hadn’t had sex in a year. My gut felt sick. “I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings,” I thought. She walked away, visibly disappointed yet numb to rejection.
Ten minutes passed. I looked around, breathing, observing my nervousness and disgust… and my excitement…and a sea of depression under the facade of the exotic dance club atmosphere. Maybe it’s better to just observe and not engage these girls…more noble, perhaps…
“Hey there, I’m April! Wanna a lap dance?” A spunky blonde bounced in front of my table.
“Oh, no—that’s alright.”
“Come on,” she begged, coming in close. “I wanna tantalize you with my ta-tas.”
Butterflies.
“Tempting, but thank you,” I eeked out. “Regretfully, no.”
It was all I could muster.
“OK, suit yourself—but look what you’re missing out on.”
She jiggled her boobs in my face—her soft breasts brushing against the side of my head—and walked away. I didn’t know what to do.
“Just remember that you have to buy a drink for every hour you stay!” She shouted as she walked off. I had only bought one Coke, and my time was almost up.
I was dumbfounded by the reactions within, in relation to the appearances in my surroundings. Come on…what if I just said yes to a lap dance, then asked one of these young ladies if they really love what they do, and if they ever feel a vacant sadness for doing it? Or ask them what they care about most- just out of curiosity…finally being that person with which they could relax and be real… I imagined what it would be like if I were to pay for one of these miserable girl’s time and sit with them, in a heart-to-heart sort of way, like Holden Caulfield...
Could I do it? Would I ask the next young lady who approached my table? Here comes another one…my last chance…
Nope.
I just sat there for an hour and sipped my Coke, watched ladies dance and the lonely guys gawk…continuing to observe mind-objects coming and going; dancing and disappearing; the increasingly saddening display of young, dissatisfied girls; the deja-vu of my debilitating nervousness with sexuality, and my longing for liberation from such depression, vacancy, and desperation inescapable.
I barely saw the bouncers through my tears as I left.
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