“Women in major cities are now paying for tantric vanginal massage…Guru Krishna Osiris, who practices in the greater London area, advises that heterosexual women should receive the massage from a male therapist. ‘It’s a sacred, holistic, and emotionally complex experience,’ he explains, ‘one which deals with a woman’s entire psychosexual being. His Shiva—the Sacred Masculine—should be perfectly aligned and balanced with her Shakti, the Sacred Feminine.’ So what’s it like to receive a professional yoni massage from a near-stranger? Our reporter, Annie Sanders, went along to Guru Krishna to find out . . .’Composure Magazine, Sept. 2, 2016
Two months previously. . .
I am a sex god, innit? So ladies, pay me to make you cum.
You don’t mind if I smoke luv? You do? Well, I’m off duty. Pleasin’ women ain’t want it’s all about when I’m off the clock. Wanna talk to the bloke? Be ready to choke. Heh. Where was I. Oh yes. Making you cum. Well you might be a bit of a challenge, darlin’, you look so uptight and a little cynical and that means of course I’d have to charge ya double for my trouble, and you also look broke. Last season Pradas, that handbag so obviously from the bargain bin at TG Maxx, your roots are showing, so you’ve not been to the salon in a while. So you need this feature, dontcha? A big break. A lead into one of those staff-written mags mostly full of pictures of women richer than you wearin’ things. Like Composure or Carrie Blair. Which means that, just like for all the other muppets, I have somethin’ that you need. Aw c’mon. Don’t look at me like that. You don’t get very far in this game—the game—unless you’re an excellent judge of women.
Of course I’m judgin’ you right now, luv. Daft question.
So yeah. Sex god. How—you might be askin’—did a sadistic arsehole like me end up with a pink flowery website full of pictures of lotus blossoms and candles and New Age woo about handjobs—sorry—“tantric yoni massage”? Yeah. I use air quotes. Sorry about the ash, luv. You need to bin that skirt anyway.
See you can’t just say to a chick “if you give me 300 quid I’ll finger you till you get off”. They might think that’s something they can get for free from their significant others—may my less knowledgeable brethren be fruitful and multiply, they are the reason I’m in work—or battery operated boyfriend. Then there are the other words. Gigolo, et cetera, et cetera. Bad words are very bad for business. Some philosopher or other said that all thought is language. Change the words, change the perception, changed that internal story, and you change the game. The game. No. No plain English in this line of work. You need to give your clients the spiritual experience, don’tcha? It has to be therapeutic and meaningful. Or be sufficiently disguised to allow the janes —geddit, johns, janes, aw darlin’ if you could see your face right now! Ha! — to kid themselves on they ain’t payin’ for sex. Then there’s the law, of course. No better way to get around the vice squad if you’re a therapist and a spiritual advisor, now, is there?
My name? Don’t make me laugh, darlin’. Of course Krishna Osiris ain’t my real name. It’s Chris O’Brien. You think my old mum was one of them Stonehenge hippies? All shagging me dad to the sound of Jimmy Hendrix as the sun comes up on the solstice and growing fair trade skunk in her back garden? Nah. Mum was a traffic warden ‘fore she retired.No one is going to shell out hundreds to have Chris O’Brien from Walthamstow tease their snatch, innit? You can’t just have a vanilla name like that. No. You need to be exotic. My professional name is a bit of a joke no-one gets. Krishna is a god of passion and sex in his own way, and of course a flute player, so he’s great, just fucking fantastic, at fingering holes. And Osiris because I’m well into the neurolinguistics. Big O. Big sighs. Who cares he’s from a different fucking pantheon? Most of my janes wouldn’t know their their Vallalhas from their valium.
But you have to have the look to match the moves. You can be the Eastern Tantric Sex Guru of their dampest dreams, but you have to be a general sort of ‘Eastern’, if you’re going to work with women with a subconscious racial fetish. Most of my janes are like that. Not self-aware at all. They don’t know their bodies, they don’t know their sexuality, and that makes them easy marks. In fact it’s better not to look like a Paki at all. You can’t look like droopy Mr Sharma in the corner shop. They want the fantasy. Fortunately I’m blessed with the right skin tones thanks to my black Irish roots. Olive skin, and you’re mesmerised, ain’t ya, by these baby blues, right? I look like something offa romance cover, right? Even used to model for a HarleyQuinn Romance imprint once. I’ll just shake out my raven-black shoulder-length locks for you luv? Undo my shirt a bit, do a David Hasselhoff without the chest-hair, Man-chest sells, tellin’ ya. I modeled for book covers back when I was readin’ psychology at Oxford, before I realised this gig paid better and the work is as regular as clockwork and I jacked in my D.Phil. Mum was heartbroke. Said I was the first one in the family to have a chance at making something of myself. But don’t worry. I apply everything I learned in those psych classes. And the economics classes too.
In fact, I think I’ll just leave the shirt off. You can leave if you’re feelin’ uncomfortable. No? You must really need the feature. You look a bit flushed, luv. Shall I turn on the air-con? No? Well then, I’ll pour you some water—only the best, I have it shipped down from the Glenboagle mineral springs in Scotland because your cosmic energies will be more aligned when you imbibe the purity of the Celtic essence — wink, wink, nudge, nudge—of course I just refill the used Glenboagle bottles at the tap. Recycle the bottles. Save the planet. No one is any the wiser.
What’s that? How did I get into it? Gap year. Went backpacking around India, got robbed, and ended up in one of the Hill stations. Those high mountain towns the British used to retreat to when they were in charge. Pandgani in Maharastra, because by then it was May and it had got fuckin’ hot. Not as hot as the ashram. So this guru called Sacred Singh in the 1970s ended up setting up a hippie commune in California for all them Babyboomers tryin’ to dodge the draft and find themselves. Started to stockpile arms, though, so when ole Ronnie Ragan came in he deported Singh back to India. Bunch of his followers from America came with him, they bought crap land in the town and before you know it the place is a centre of ‘pilgrimage.’ By the time the old goatfucker died it became a nice little earner. You have to have an HIV test before you stay there, so that should give you an idea of what goes on. The Freelovin’ Sixties never ended there.
What’s that got to do with broke backpacker Chris from Walthemstow? Because Chris was out of money, and horny as a goat. So I entered the ashram. Studied all that mystical bullshit. Developed the right ‘accent’. Pounced around in pure white pajamas spouting spiritual wisdom about crystal energy and how sex was the awakening of deeper Truth. . .and got scared pussy every night. ’Course I had to study to get it right. You don’t get where I am without knowing just how to make a woman making her feel good about fucking a near-stranger. The best sort were the Swiss and German divorcees. You could really put the touch on ’em, in more ways than one. Nice earners. And when it was time for them to go back to Europe you’d spout more mystical claptrap about how even though two souls were separated their energies would resonate in perfect synchronisation for a thousand lifetimes or some shit. They lapped it right up, tears in their eyes. Fuckin’ hilarious.
Cynical? No, really? That’s your astute journalist’s powers of observation, luv.
More water?
See, a fool can learn what I know. What does it take, I mean really? Common sense, maybe a course on actual massage (I did the ayurvedic courses in India, and the sports ones when I arrived back in Britain) and some reading. Lots of reading. And then practice. Women don’t know their bodies and think I have some sort of magic pussy power. Rubbish. Could teach their fellas how to get their girls off, but let’s face it, women are conditioned to please men, not the other way around. It never occurs to most men that they could be sex gods too. And that, is of course, why I’m in work. I am a sex god, and they pay me to make them cum.
—Why am I telling you this? Not exactly what you expected, was it, when you phoned for the appointment. I bet my fee—our session’s about to start in about five minutes, you better strip now—cost you your rent m
oney for the next month, right? The way journalism done, these days, right? You have to speculate to accumulate. So what a great article. Visit a sex guru for real, write up the piece. Leave the stockings and shoes on, luv. Lose the knickers. Actually no. Give them here.
Seriously? Asda knickers? The reason I’m telling you how it really is is because of the question you haven’t ask. Stand up, darlin’, hands on the wall. Good girl.
That question—the one you never asked—is how I get my rocks off. I spend my day pleasuring women with tantric coconut oil and crystal healing. Bend forward a bit, darlin’. . You have a perfect arse, you know that? When you come here next time you’ll be wearing my choice of panties and they won’t be from bloody Asda. You might have noticed my sadistic, and narcissistic tendencies. Oh yes. Most narcissists are not self-aware, but I am. A dominant narcissist, terrible fucking combination, innit? I know exactly what I need. My janes are the perfect supply. I have quite a following. Groupies, so to speak. But you have to keep up the act with the groupies, even though they’re under your complete control. Like you are right now. Does that feel nice, luv? But … my own. . .shall we call ’em tastes? Proclivities? They run to the dark. Rather like yours. Didn’t I say at the start I was an excellent judge of women? Of people in general.
Christ you’re wet. And shakin’. Keep your hands where they are, did I tell you to straighten up? See, luv, all my beasts need to be supplied. And this particular beast can’t be fed unless the woman who feeds it knows exactly what I am. My real self ain’t a liar. I need at least one bird in me hand that knows what I am. A cunt, for sure, but not a liar. Ah, you like that do you? How about if I do this? You know you’re going to crave me like a fix, right? The real me. Chris, not Krishna. You won’t be callin’ me Chris though. There is is, the real moan of total surrender. And you hate it don’t you? Don’t bother answerin’. I see you do. You hate this, and you hate me, and you’re getting off on your own distress. You, sweetheart, are fuckin’ perfect. For perfect fuckin’.
But not to today. Today I make you cum, because you’ve paid me for it. I’m going to finger fuck you blind. I’m going to make you beg me for more. And I’m going to give you more until you beg me to stop, at which point I’m going to ignore you. No, not yet, lover. Only when I say. Keep your hands on the wall. By the time I’m done with you today, I’m going to own your pussy, your orgasms, and you. Nod if you understand, darlin’, I already know you’re past coherent speech.
Then we’re gonna to sit in my jasmine-and-coconut scented study under the cocksucking Himalayan salt lamps and we’re gonna to write your article.
Just the way I want it.
The End
Postcards From The Hedge. 