By Will Cottrell
Fruito lunged and plunged. Sweat glistened on his quaking buttocks. He thrust and shoved; he dominated and towered: I’m the god, he told himself, impressed by the bamboo bed’s heavy shaking. I’m the god, it’s me… I am….it’s I….
Carlotta, meanwhile, thrust her concentration to her adhiharmachakra. Was that the name? Abidharma? Anahata? Ahimsachakra?
Or was that the cafe where, several hours ago, the pale guru had introduced himself?
Swami Fruito, a tall, lithe man had said, holding out a thin, limp hand. “Sacred lineage holder of Tantra fruitology – the only one on the island.”
Anyway, she was day-dreaming. She wondered if the thin, lank-haired man had noticed.
But Fruito was chanting a mantra.
Over his shoulder, she focussed on the tattoos bounced on his pumping buttocks: the two papayas of one cheek jostling a brace of snake fruit on the other.
Fruito added a speciality: hips circling for a-one, two, three, then a dynamic – yes! – overpowering thrust into the applauding yoni. With all sphincters on lock, his sacred banana remained under auspicious control.
But a rising anger blurred his focus.
Damn that Swiss-German on Facebook. Outrageous to have stolen Fruito’s kudos. Unspeakable to have co-opted his prestige. And now the Swiss-German was out there claiming to be a co-holder of the fruit tantra lineage. It was – there was no other word – sacriledge. Hadn’t he – Fruito – studied on that weekend retreat last year in the Amazon? Hadn’t the indigenous Brazilian (for $500) blessed his chakras by the fire? Hadn’t the mantra’s been hummed, lulled by the cooing geckos; hadn’t the certificate been signed so that he – no longer the meagre Otto Bamph – was now Fruito, Swami Fruito; lineage holder, its very sage, it’s aegis, its apogee?
And: the only fruit tantra teacher on the island.
It had been and would always be so, the indigenous Brazilian had affirmed, before asking about a work visa. A student of fruits, yes, a disciple of fructose. Henceforth only he – Fruito – would teach that fruits were chakras, a hierarchy of nectars, a divine pathway from banana to pineapple to strawberry to grape; a tower of fruity divinity.
Anyway, he thought as he circled his hips raptor-like, adding layer upon layer to Carlotta’s undoubted bliss; anyway: he – Fruito – had four hundred likes on his Facebook page. And the Swiss-German only had seven. Such were the consolations of the spirit.
Under him, he felt Carlotta’s energy drifting. Back to business. He quickly considered his Trip Advisor reviews – four and a half stars! – before engaging his perineum and drawing its energy sphere into his heart.
Invoking the great spirit, he transferred this love-blessed power to the mango by the side of the bed.
Chopped into thin, spreadable slices, the fruit gazed longingly back at him. He fell briefly into its fruity rapture.
“Goddess, breathe,” he whispered in Carlotta’s ear, took a mango slice and added its nectar to her breasts. “Imbibe the energy of the mango,” he muttered, channeling the divine, “feel its Marihanakosha, let it sink into you, my priestess.”
The couple’s passions were interrupted by a banging on the door of the coconut tree bungalow.
“Fruito, you cheap bastard, I know you’re in there,”
Fruito recognised the voice: it was Manuelo who lived next door.
The Swami, to alert the Argentinian outside of the divine activities within, let out a sizeable groan. He pumped harder to rouse the bed – already worn and shaky from the Swami’s great prowess – into a warning of creaks. He added some papaya to the soggy mess upon the woman’s chest and licked at her neck.
“Breathe, priestess, imbibe.”
The banging continued. “Fruito, get your ass out here.”
The woman, focussing greatly upon her inner milieu, noted the door frame shaking.
Meanwhile, the Swami redoubled his efforts. With great agility, he tickled her g-spot, engaged her root chakra, charmed her solar plexus, and added some crushed melon to the spreading sacred mush.
Just at that moment, the door latch gave way, and Manuelo lurched into the room. Humping greatly, the swami gave a final heave. Engrossed in a web of sticky juices, he could feel the woman’s shakti about to rise to her crown chakra, about to explode into rays of light; he welcomed the approach of her cosmic bliss.
But the Swami’s last great penetration had overpowered the bed, which cantilevered to the floor, and sent the couple sprawling towards Manuelo. Losing its purchase within the divine yoni, Fruito’s sacred banana popped free from its moist sheath, and, as the Swami lost all control of his root chakra his sacred banana let fly its cosmic juices, coating the bare legs of the Argentinian with divine nectar.
Carlotta, pulling the bed sheets to her breasts, gasped.
Manuelo looked down at his legs and then back at the Swami.
“Fruito, you swindler, you didn’t pay for the bloody fruit again,” he said.
“Bloody Mrs. Tang is at the gate again, and she’s not leaving until she gets her money. And I’m not covering for your ass again.”