Published Dec 1, 10 AM
By Nikki Tuck
It’s an oxymoron, right? If a normal hippie’s values include consuming only yoga and hemp, than a hippie millionaire should naturally value consuming mostly expensive natural fortified beverages, overpriced private yoga classes, and young hippie girls.
It doesn’t take a leap of imagination to guess that aging hippie millionaires are into me. I’m a bit of a hedonist, do not age-discriminate, and have beautiful friends. I met this particular Hippie Millionaire at the Country Market in Brentwood. He invited me to Kirtan. This, I learned, is Hindu chanting with drums on the floor of a very rich doctor’s house in Santa Monica.
See, I was hanging out with the super rich yogis. The people that put up Bhagavandas for the weekend at their house. Where, if he has to pee, he squats over a bush.
Spiritual seekers with a lot of money need to turn to Maharajas and Hare Krishna chants to center themselves. I’m assuming one has to make a career of heartless business practice in order to become very rich; all money is dirty at the top. Can we agree on this? So, they wish to counterbalance their sometimes-disgraceful workdays with guided meditation practices. But these folks don’t feel comfortable turning to Jesus or Moses, because there wouldn’t be room for their guilt-free naked yoga sessions. I must say, I was swept up by the Hare Krishna spell myself. Drumming in a room filled with candlelight and good looking actors (like Lisa Bonet) had a godlike vibe.
I think that incredibly wealthy people get bored easily.
Their early 30’s are spent playing with all the toys available (and maybe a few trips to Betty Ford), and now, in their 50’s, with the kids all grown up and the ex-wife out of their hair, they must turn to alternative forms of entertainment. Aren’t Sting and Trudie professional tantrics? What better way to spend a lavish day than attempting to hold an orgasm for hours?
My particular Hippie Millionaire liked to orgasm while breathing “ram” into my mouth. With each thrust and contraction, instead of taking in oxygen from the air around the luxurious embroidered pillows from New Delhi, we instead huffed “ram” into one another’s mouths, thus restricting proper air supply to our lungs.
If you can keep yourself from laughing, it’s fucking brilliant. And totally absurd. Absurd because the millionaire is 51 years old and his kids are almost my age. Absurd because I actually like regular sex — and normal dirty talk. Sometimes I prefer to moan and yell exclusively. But reciting chants and mantras? Oxygen deprivation? On purpose! It’s both funny and exhilarating. This isn’t normal. This is just the sort of yogi bullshit that infiltrates one’s mind — though a visit to crazy town can be kinda’ fun, it’s certainly not sustainable. Who does this?
The Millionaire liked a lot of kinky things.
Really, I must say, he had a wonderful heart; his Hindu practice was dedicated to a life of pleasure and success, and there is nothing wrong with that. He used to tell me that if he had to sell it all and drive away he would, with no problem. He was not married to his material wealth.
Oh, he also wanted me to pee in his mouth. No, I did not stutter. He said that female urine is not toxic like men’s. Men’s urine will stop the sting from a jellyfish; women’s urine is sexy. He told me that all I had to do was go to the bathroom and let just a little out, then hold it and come back to bed, squeeze my kegel muscles until I was standing right over his face, aim and fire.
I told him: ABSOLUTELY NOT.
He said the exchange of fluid would be erotic — not dissimilar from swapping spit in a French kiss.
I told him that it was actually very different, and if I needed to EXPLAIN the difference, then it was time for me to leave. But, my wonderful Hippie Millionaire was extraordinarily understanding, and settled for missionary sex just before he came on my tits.
I still recite mantras in my mind when I get frustrated. It does feel good. Maybe I could keep up with the yogi thing if I was filthy rich and hung out with Lisa Bonet regularly. I fancy myself a yoga warrior. I like casual sex, screaming at idiots in traffic, and Ani Difranco songs. I am also comfortable with the occasional trip to crazy/yoga town. As it should be.
About Nikki Tuck
Traveler, voyeur and photographer Nikki Tuck runs around with a camera around her neck and her underwear in her purse. She likes to boss words around and drinks black coffee. She also packs light. Currently, she writes and shoots film on the East Coast.