JOE discovers tantra in Dublin

Mystery has long surrounded that odd eastern practice forever associated with Sting’s sex life. Only one thing for it – diving naked into the world of tantra. JOE sent one of the team to experience a tantric massage. The result? He asked that we don’t print his name…

Tantra may be an ancient tradition drawn from the religious and cultural practices of the people who inhabit the upper-reaches of the Indian sub-continent, but that’s not what we think about when we hear about tantra or tantric sex.

Instead, an image of Sting in the middle of an eight-hour ejaculation-free sex marathon leaps to mind. That mental image, of the 50-something former Police singer locked in a fruitless, sweaty embrace, is enough to turn anyone off the idea.

But is there something to it? Sting was right about the Amazon so could he be onto a winner with the whole tantric thing too? When JOE heard from its sources (gumtree) that a tantric masseuse was visiting Ireland from the Costa del Sol, we had the opportunity to find out what the real story was.

Amanda, from tantra group Astarte Life, has been dropping over to Ireland and giving tantric massages to interested parties for quite some time now, and is booked up on every occasion. What exactly a session would involve was still a mystery at that stage, but Amanda was happy to fill in some of the gaps.

“The Tantra that I deliver is an old philosophy originating in India, which promotes personal and spiritual growth, aiming to recover the relationship between spirituality and sexuality,” she said in an email after we queried what the actual craic was. “The massage works with your life-force energy, also known as sexual energy, waking and distributing it through your body to revitalise and recharge you.”

But would it mean JOE would have to get naked? Because JOE doesn’t like getting naked. Especially with strangers around.

Sounded quite strange, but not wholly terrifying. But would it mean JOE would have to get naked? Because JOE doesn’t like getting naked. Especially with strangers around. “During the massage both of us are naked, and all that is required from you is to relax, and allow yourself to take direction from me in order to receive the massage,” the email continued.

But doesn’t naked + massage + money = illegal? Had we got the wrong end of the stick? Was this, in fact, a sexual service?

“I also teach you basic techniques to help you to manage and control the sexual energy that I raise during the massage, in order to retain this in your body and not lose it through ejaculation,” continued Amanda.

Hazy

The concept of raising sexual energy during a massage was a hazy one, but it sounded a bit like a hand-job. A hand-job – only without the happy ending.

Surely this was proof positive that it wasn’t a sexual service, I decided. Who would pay money to not ejaculate? People who were after hand-relief or whatever wouldn’t bother with this type of thing, especially when there are so many dodgy Chinese massage parlours doing recession-buster €50 price offers on a rub ‘n’ tug.

Tantric massages are priced at €200 so the sheer monetary imperative was surely a guarantee that it was straight. But then there was the obvious point – why would the prospect of ejaculation even come into the equation?

There was surely a point to the mysterious endeavour – a point above and beyond getting touched up.

There were more questions than answers, but after consulting with the rest of the JOE team it was decided that there was surely a point to undertaking this mysterious endeavour – a point above and beyond getting touched up.

“Using the Tantric techniques that I teach, you can learn to flush the energy raised during arousal, up through the body to recharge your batteries and to make you feel good,” continued Amanda. That sounded just about crazy enough to work.

So, confused and a tad freaked out, I donned my lucky boxers and headed into the city centre where the tantric masseuse had rented a short-stay apartment. I sheepishly wandered inside, sat down and started chatting about the theory behind tantra with Amanda – a friendly, 40-something character originally from the UK.

She described how she went along and got a tantric massage in Spain one day and got hooked, explained how she felt our sense of touch is grossly neglected and pointed out that this was most definitely not a sexual service. Which meant I wasn’t risking arrest. Happy days.

Amanda then explained some of theory behind tantra – how we had various shakras in different points on our body and that they would all be tended to at various stages. Breathing was important too, she explained.

Unlike other massages, which stress the important of relaxed, shallow breathing, during a tantric massage you’re supposed to jack up your air intake – inhaling as fully as possible before dumping every inch of air back out of your lungs. This practice, I later found out, would have bizarre consequences.

With the background covered, it was time to get down to business. So to speak. Amanda handed me a sarong (a sarong!) told me to nip into the shower and then meet her in the bedroom. I’d had one about an hour earlier, but thought I would run with it.

Starkers but for the sarong, as per Amanda’s instructions, I creaked open the door of the dimly lit bedroom. The walls were covered with generic, ethnic throws, there was a smell of incense and a radio was oozing some strange, eastern pan-pipery. Amanda, now wearing a sarong that matched mine, was sitting cross-legged on a mat that had been placed on the floor in the middle of the room.

Journalistic cynicism can be a difficult monkey to chase from your shoulder but in the interest of fairness, I decided to commit to the process as whole-heartedly as I could. If it could better Sting’s life it could better mine. So, I too sat on the mat and crossed my legs – taking care not to expose anything through the folds of my sarong. Not that it mattered. Because it would soon be done away with.

Surely, I thought, not all of one’s shakras would receive the same attention. Because that would be awkward.

Once Amanda had got me going on the whole breathing all the way in and all the way out thing, she told me to close my eyes. She then seemed to slip into some sort of stream of consciousness. “This is a time for youuu… JOE… in this sacred space… it is a time for you to relaaaax…”

After a good 10 minutes, I was instructed to stand. So, light-headed from inhaling far more oxygen than I needed, I staggered to my feet. I kept my eyes closed, still fully committed to the process, but was vaguely aware that Amanda appeared to be walking in circles around me. She then took one of my hands, mumbled something I didn’t quite catch and, well, sort of kissed it. She then went around the other side and did the same with the other hand.

Shakra

I remembered Amanda had mentioned that we apparently had a shakra on each hand. This was an alarming development because there were others located in some fairly out-of-the way places. There was one on each foot, below your navel and another in an even more intimate part of the body. It’s so private, in fact, that I’m not sure it even has a proper name. It’s rarely spoken about. The only monikers I can ever recall it being tagged with were ‘golden inch’ or the ‘ginch’ for short. Surely, I thought, not all of one’s shakras would receive the same attention. Because that would be awkward.

The question looked to be answered when I creaked my eyes open a fraction to see Amanda crouched at my feet. She whispered something about “worshiping the God within” and, from what I could ascertain, kissed them too.

I was then instructed to lay down and as I did so, my sarong was unceremoniously whipped away. I resisted the urge to snatch it back and, feeling alarmed, exposed and on the verge of cracking my hole laughing, continued to the ground.

There was another difference – in most massages, certain areas are verboten. Suffice to say, that wasn’t the case in this instance.

The next hour was taken up with a pretty well executed massage, not dissimilar to what you would get from any number of other masseuses. There were, however, some key differences. For one, I was regularly reminded to keep breathing as deeply as I could – and when you’re in a state of near hyperventilation, it’s difficult to relax. I also noticed that at some point, which I couldn’t quite ascertain, Amanda had ditched her sarong and was just as starkers as I was.

There was another difference – in most massages, certain areas are verboten. Suffice to say, that wasn’t the case in this instance.

Five deep breaths all the way in, and all the way out. And again. And again. I cranked up my breathing like this for an hour-and-a-half while lying perfectly still and expending practically zero energy. Nothing spiritual happened and I didn’t manage to capture and utilise any sexual energy (because there wasn’t any), but by the time the session was up, the breathing thing had given my whole body a dose of pins and needles, I could barely feel my legs and I felt like I was going to throw up.

Once given the nod by Amanda that the whole thing was at an end, I got dressed and ran through a few questions about the popularity of tantric massage in Ireland. Amanda told me that she has a ton of customers both here and in the Costas where she’s based. She says she  has a stack of interest every time she visits our shores and a load of repeat business.

I headed off, feeling like I had knocked back a half-dozen Harvey Wallbangers and a breakfast roll. The hidden benefits tantra, for me, sadly, remain as enigmatic as ever.