Have you ever hit rock bottom? You know, that place where all hope seems lost and death is the only thing you have left to live for? Well, I have been there a few times and I’m sure most have you have struggled at points in your life when you were at your wit’s end not knowing which way to turn.
Way back in 2012 I really was out of my mind. I had been diagnosed with inoperable stage four cancer which was terminal. My mother died and my wife laughed in my face as she taunted me with accounts of her illicit affair with her new super-fit boyfriend.
I went to see a shrink who told me that I was perfectly sane because what had happened to me in a very short space of time would have knocked anyone flat on their face.
Each night I would visit dark suicide sights dreaming of escaping that living hell by doing myself in. What was the point of living in physical agony as the cancer ate me alive while my ripped-to-shreds broken heart wept rivers of bright red sorrow?
My mantra was live just one more day, not for my sake but for my children’s sake. I really had lost my mind so I decided to visit a local meditation centre to see if I could find it.
I understood that the pictures in my brain were just like clouds passing across a clear blue sky. They were impermanent. However, the floating visions of my wife with her new man while I was slowly dying of cancer were just too much to stomach as the rain fell from my sky-blue eyes. I attempted to just focus on my breath entering and leaving my nostrils but after only one or two breaths, the picture of the Wicked Witch copulating with her new fit and super-healthy boyfriend just smashed up any possible short-lived relief from this relentless bad trip.
I religiously perused a mishmash of spiritual books in a mad last-ditch effort to flee this present-day lousy dream. I flipped each page praying that the elusive escape route would be discovered in the very next paragraph. I hoped to find what I was looking for before the day I died.
My freaked-out mind movies were still driving me crazy so in desperation I arrived at the door of the local Buddhist Centre for a meditation class. Would I glimpse the truth in this sacred abode?
I sat with seven other utopia seekers in a white room before a massive golden Buddha. I wondered if any of the other chasers of wisdom and salvation were ill and heartbroken with a screw loose, like me. A smiling rotund man with cropped hair and glasses draped in red and orange robes breezed in and sat elevated before us. He reminded me of one of those fat beaming Chinese Buddha idols that I had frequently spotted in Far Eastern markets. Would he be the spiritual guide to show me the light and illuminate the path to happiness?
To start with there would be a 30-minute meditation session to help us still the mind, so we could reside in a place of peace and calm. Yes, that is the refuge I was searching for. We were instructed to sit comfortably, to close our eyes and focus on the breath entering and leaving our nostrils as we listened to his guided meditation.
I followed his gentle southern-English-accented delivery as he spoke softly, continually counselling us to concentrate on the breath. I found it nigh on impossible to focus as thoughts and visions of my wife with her new partner kept jumping into my bloody brain and stabbing my soul. I returned to the breath ad nauseam but before you could chant ‘Nirvana here I come’, a picture of my wife shagging her new boyfriend, an image of my dear departed mum, a vision of my death from cancer, a replica of my house overseas or a mind movie of my poor kids after my death would scream into my very unstill head. I just couldn’t remain present as regrets and painful recollections from days gone by and fears of possible future occurrences repeatedly dragged me away from the right here, right now. After an eternity a bell chimed, and I slowly opened my eyes and mind to the shiny golden Buddha, and a serene and smiling Buddhist monk.
I waited eagerly for the spiritual guidance that would unlock my self-imposed mental prison cell, allowing escape from this place of suffering. Wang Chuk, the monk, continued by recalling a German TV programme he had viewed many years ago. In the programme a hypnotist invited six males and six females to join him on stage. He then put them under his spell and explained that when he touched them on their shoulder, they would have an intense explosive orgasm.
Hold on a minute! What the f*ck was going on? A Buddhist monk teaching about orgasms! He continued and revealed that when the hypnotist subsequently tapped their shoulders they would moan and groan in joyous ecstasy. Shit, I was at this class to let go of any visions of past moments of rapture and clear my head of the black thunder clouds drifting across my mind, which boomed that future orgasms seemed highly unlikely unless I decided to become a Manchester United fan and use my right hand. Shocking bolts of lightning highlighting my wife and her new bloke having orgasmic pleasure together flashed in my suicidal skull. I had made a disastrous blunder in reflecting that this could be my peace on Earth, light years away from the black hole of eternal despair. It was just making the nightmare a lot bloody worse.
Well, maybe he wasn’t a sex-starved mad monk when all was said and done, because he went on to point out that it is all in the mind; you don’t need the external world to taste ecstasy. The hypnotised males and females had not engaged in any physical sexual activity yet had powerful orgasms. He added that the pure tranquil feelings gained from deep meditation are one zillion times more potent and satisfying than a sexual orgasm.
Wow, I’m off on my bliss trip to meditate now and when they finally lay me to rest to join the “Spirit in the Sky” you can have the consolation of thinking about me living in the perfect state of Nirvana. You can stick your physical orgasms up your arse! Now there’s a thought!
Another bit of useless info I once read is that pig orgasms last up to 30 minutes. Apparently pig ejaculation is measured in minutes, not seconds. The largest estimate is 15 minutes; then add a possible second ejaculation of 15 minutes, and that might be where the 30-minute number came from. Of course, it depends on the pig!
Therefore, if I don’t reach the blissful orgasmic state of Nirvana or fail to build up enough positive karma to return as a human being, I will be reincarnated as a pig. At least I will be able to enjoy lengthy periods of ecstatic and frenzied, long-lasting physical elation with my corkscrew-shaped knob before ending up as bacon on some fat bastard’s butty.
It was a further 10 minutes meditation, where I struggled again to stay present by focusing on the breath, before we had tea and biscuits in the comfy lounge. The Nirvana seekers were a lovely “Heart-Shaped Box” assortment full of love and peace. We chatted about all things spiritual until the topic eventually turned to music. I asked Wang Chuk what his favourite song was.
The holy one replied, “Fat Bottomed Girls” by Queen!
I spluttered into my cup of spearmint herbal tea as I retorted, “My goodness, you are a celibate monk. I was expecting a tune such as; “Like a Virgin” by Madonna.”
Everyone laughed including the monk. Good to see I hadn’t lost my sense of humour and repartee skills during these grim dark days.
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