Cleopatra and Frankenstein(27)
CHAPTER FIVE
Late August
The Climaxing to Consciousness group met every Friday in a hot-yoga studio on Canal Street above a store advertising $10 aura readings. Zoe had been persuaded to come by her roommate, Tali, who had hair the color of Windex spray and said things like “Your pussy is your power.” She had agreed solely because the class was free, which meant it was the only thing she could afford to do that night.
Until that week, she had been making just enough money as the sole employee of a women’s boutique on Christopher Street. It was a tiny velvet box of a store, owned by a stylist with family money and a fairly obvious drug problem to whom Zoe had lent a tampon at an after-party (she’d used the applicator as a coke straw). The clothing sold there catered to the tastes of a particular type of West Village woman, one both wealthy and vaguely bohemian, who worked as … Well, Zoe wasn’t quite sure, but in some career path that meant she was free to shop during the weekday.
Zoe had been instructed to sit in the window and look pretty to attract foot traffic, which suited her inner exhibitionist well. Despite this robust marketing plan, the store was often empty for hours at a time, leaving her free to practice her lines uninhibited. And, since it remained closed between her shifts, Zoe decided that she was free to borrow the clothes with impunity, as long as she was careful not to spill on them, a plan that nipped her own nascent shopping habit in the bud. Best of all, she was paid under the table in cash, which meant she had even been managing to save a tiny bit of money for the first time in her life.
But then she got the medical bill. She’d opened the envelope from Beth Israel carelessly enough, not anticipating that it contained the financial equivalent of a dick slap. Within it she found outlined in clinical detail the substantial costs of the brain scan she’d had at the hospital with Cleo and Frank. She had health insurance (paid for by Frank, of course), but that only brought the remaining payment down to just over $1,000. Her options for getting funds fast were limited. Since the wedding, Frank had made it clear that the Brother Bank was officially closed. Going to her parents would require telling them that she’d had the seizure in the first place. She had no choice but to pay the bill, and in doing so wiped out her entire measly savings in one go.
And so, her Friday-night plans had been reduced from dinner at Indochine with her Tisch friends to attending a free sex-positive meetup with her slightly unhinged roommate. At nineteen, Zoe was substantially younger than most of the men and women settling into a semicircle on the wooden floor when she arrived. She thought that, if asked to describe the group afterward, she would sum it up by saying there were two people present wearing, for no functional purpose, leg warmers. One pair belonged to the man who was now standing in front of them, slapping his large palms together and asking everyone to take a comfortable cross-legged position.
Zoe sat down next to Tali and studied the group more carefully. She counted two tie-dyed T-shirts (one emblazoned with the slogan “The Motion Is the Lotion”), a handful of newsboy caps and fedoras, one white woman wearing a bindi, and an assortment of crystal pendants. The only other person near Zoe’s age was a girl sitting directly across from her in a deep V-neck T-shirt that barely contained her pushed-up cleavage. She had a pretty, slightly sulky face that reminded Zoe of a French bulldog.
“Welcome, guys,” said Leg Warmers. “As most of you know, I’m Kyle. And how are we all feeling tonight?”
“Fucking fantastic, Kyle!” yelled one woman—the bindi wearer—and the group whooped in agreement.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, beaming. “Now before we get started, do we have any new members tonight?”
Several people tentatively raised their hands, including Zoe and the busty girl across from her. Zoe felt the group’s attention shift to her, and the warm sensation of being witnessed, and inevitably admired, rushed through her.
“Welcome,” said Kyle. “No need to be nervous. We’re all a bunch of weirdos in here, but the good kind, I promise. Now, hopefully you already know a little bit about Climaxing to Consciousness and what we do here.”
Nevertheless, Kyle launched into a detailed explanation of the practice. Zoe felt her face grow hot as he described how a “stimulator” would stroke the clitoris of the receiver in an attempt to bring her to a higher plane of consciousness. According to Kyle, there were three physical stages: the caressing of the receiver’s inner thighs, the application of pressure to the upper left quadrant of her clitoris, and the grounding of the groin area with a flat palm after orgasm had been achieved.
“Upper left, guys!” repeated Kyle. “That’s the sweet spot. Now, any questions?”
He smiled enthusiastically around the room. Zoe, who felt she was grounded enough already, looked toward the door longingly.
“Nope? Well, tonight’s group is just about getting to know each other,” said Kyle. “We’ll be re-creating the stages of the physical meditation verbally through some fun word games and exercises.” He winked at the group. “So sorry, none of you will be taking off your pants tonight.”
Several people mock-groaned or whooped, followed by a smattering of applause. Zoe checked her phone; she had been there less than ten minutes. For the first exercise, Kyle asked the group to go around the semicircle, each person shouting out how they felt in that moment. Excited! Nervous! Horny! Ready to do this! Grateful! Loved up! Motivated! Sexy as hell!