Joseph Kramer didn't just reinvent the career of Sexological Bodywork: He helped convince state regulators to sanction it. As I chatted up Brown — a middle-aged, balding man with soft hazel-green eyes and an easy manner — the room began to fill with other men: some young, some old, but most in that paunchy wilderness of middle age.
They seemed almost relaxed as they milled about, clustering as they did in little knots and making small talk. Each wore a name tag. Each had arrived with two innocuous towels, a bedsheet, and a pair of tube socks. Still, the crystal phalluses resting on a nearby table assured me this was no yoga class.
But I already knew that. Still, Kramer the man teaches Taoist Erotic Massage, and as such, this deity is leery of journalists. True to his shamanic reputation, Kramer had agreed to speak with me only on condition that I first attend a class at the Body Electric. I had to understand the experience, he reasoned. I had to be open to his pedagogy. I had to prepare myself for his message. I had, in other words, to get my head right.
But there was little time for such considerations. We hugged. We massaged. We jumped like cheerleaders. Now, sure, I was blindfolded. And sure, someone was clammy to the touch. One of my mates thought he had big hips; another spent a small fortune each month on lubricants. It can also be disconcerting when three beefy strangers close in on you for a group hug. Another worked my shoulders and forearms. A third moved slowly down my thighs toward my calves. He unbuttoned it, and then lifted it off my shoulders.
Next went my belt, my pants and, finally, my underwear. When it was over, there we stood, all forty of us, blindfolds off, stark naked and hugging. No, we tried to be completely present in our embrace — nothing more, nothing less.
