CHAPTER SIX: Devin
Sometimes I get sick of being called The One…
The Yoni Master…
The man with the magic hands...
The Guru…
What the fuck does all that even mean, anyway? It makes me sound like some holy man from Tibet or India, like I should have a scraggly beard and wear long robes and walk around on hot coals or something. I shaved off the scraggly beard years ago and the only time I wore a robe was when I hung out with Hef at the Playboy Mansion when it was cool to do so.
Guru my ass.
Give me a fucking break.
I’m just a regular guy from Bakersfield, California who was in the right place at the right time and met the right person who put me on what some would call “the path of enlightenment” for the last fifteen years. I am not pretentious. Nor is my ego so large that I believe everything that is written and said about me. All that doesn’t make me a guru. That just makes me one lucky son of a bitch.
Sometimes I wondered what my life would be like today if Genevieve St. Claire hadn’t decided that I was The One.
The One she took under her wing and taught everything she knew about pleasing a woman, even though the two of us had never actually had sex, at least not in the traditional sense of the word.
The One she introduced to Yoni Master Maharishi Yogi in Thailand just two weeks after we met for the first time at the Four Seasons. She paid for me to apprentice with the Maharishi for nearly a year while he taught me the art of Yoni. It was a little like The Karate Kid’s training, only with a different kind of “wax on, wax off”. I honed my craft on local women and female tourists who heard of my skills through the grapevine and sought me out for a private session at a thousand bucks a pop. Once the Maharishi formally pronounced me a Master, Genevieve deemed me ready to take on the world.
Genevieve’s fame reached far and wide, and she became my biggest fan and promoter. I accompanied her on her book and speaking tours, where she introduced me onstage to the thousands of women in her audience as her personal Yoni Master.
She referred her rich and famous friends to me for private sessions, done freely in exchange for public endorsements on their TV talk shows, in magazines, and online.
She introduced me to countless celebrities and socialites who would brag of my skills to their friends.
She let me live in her Malibu beach house for free while I built up my reputation and my bank account.
She introduced me to her literary agent and her publisher and helped me secure my first book deal and produced the infomercials and DVDs that pretty much made Devin McMasters a household name.
She gave me the name Devin McMasters.
Before I met Genevieve, I was just plain, old Devin McMasters, a name she deemed too common for the master she was molding me to be.
It was Genevieve who arranged the financing that allowed me to buy the old resort in the mountains north of San Diego and spend millions turning it into one of the premiere resort and spas for women only called Paradiso: Italian for paradise.
Genevieve and I were fifty-fifty partners in Paradiso, though I was totally in charge and just sent her business manager a check four times a year for her share of the profits. And the profits were huge and flowed like a river without an end. In the millions of dollars each year.
Women came from all over the world to experience Paradiso’s magic healing powers. They came full of stress and toxins and negativity and left realigned, rejuvenated, and redefined, whether my hands ever touched them or not. Some called their time at Paradiso a religious experience. Others said it was spiritual, others said it was simply the most relaxing place on earth.
Whatever, women paid tens of thousands of dollars to spend the weekend at Paradiso and more for the various services and merchandise we offered, like a six-ounce bottle of massage oil for $150, or a Paradiso t-shirt for $95, or autographed copies of my books, Yoni for Couples, Yoni for One, and Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Yoni But Were Afraid To Ask for just $195 for all three. Throw in an autographed photo of yours truly for an extra hundred bucks.
I know.
Crazy.
I should have been ashamed of myself. I should have been, but I was not. Who could blame me for charging ridiculously-exorbitant prices when clients gladly paid them and then come back for more. And who could blame them for coming back and spending all that money?
There was no place on earth like Paradiso.
And there was no one like me.
I was The One, whether I liked it or not.
All that crap aside, I was very proud of the work my staff and I did at Paradiso, and confident that no client had ever left dissatisfied. Their every need and comfort was seen to by my excellent, handpicked staff and executive director, Ben Chin, my old college roommate who first introduced me to Genevieve all those years ago. Ben was more than a friend and employee. He was like a brother to me and worked even harder than I did to make Paradiso not just a place, but an experience, a memory to treasure. That’s why I put so much trust in him. He ran Paradiso like a fine machine. All I had to do was show up at orientation to greet the guests and administer Yoni to a few select ladies that I deemed truly worthy of my time and touch.
Scratch that.
Worthy isn’t the right word.
That just sounds arrogant as hell.
It’s more about a woman’s sincere need Yoni, not her want for it. Hell, most women wanted it, but only a select few needed it and would truly benefit from it. Those were the women I sought to help. The others could get fingered in any bar any night of the week.
So, as Ben would say, “If you’re here just to get your pussy rubbed by a famous guy, you’re in the wrong place.”
I’m not a human vibrator, for Christ sake.
I’m not a professional masturbator.
I am a Yoni Master…
The Yoni Master …
To offer Yoni to every woman who wanted it would be like Picasso passing out Xeroxed copies of his art.
It would negate the value of Yoni.
It would negate my worth as the master.
And that could be the end of everything Genevieve, Ben, and I have worked so hard to achieve.
So, I practiced what the Maharishi taught me to do when I was indiscriminately selling my skills to every woman in Thailand who came along with a fistful of dollars.
It’s hard to explain, but he taught me how to lay my hands on a woman’s face and neck and tell if she really needs Yoni or if she’s just looking for a good time.
If she just wanted a pussy rub—a happy ending, it was generally called in the massage business— I had a staff of highly-trained masseuses who could handle that job to her utter satisfaction. It wasn’t Yoni, but nobody ever complained. It also didn’t cost $2,500, which was the going rate for an hour of my time.
To ensure the client’s satisfaction, I had personally trained each masseuse on how to quickly bring a client to a happy ending, and though they did not have my skill or my touch, they were quite capable of making a woman cum in less than a minute.
I’d been asked many times how I keep from getting excited myself while performing Yoni on clients. To be honest, I get no sexual satisfaction from Yoni because in my mind it is not a sexual act, at least not for me.
Does a male gynecologist get an erection when examining a patient? Perhaps the first year out of med school, but after that it becomes routine. Yes, believe it or not, even pussy can become routine.
Besides, my master in Thailand taught me to resist the look and taste and smell of a woman’s pussy while performing Yoni. It was an interesting journey, training my brain not to alert my cock when a pussy was spread and squirting its warm juices like a fountain.
I won’t lie.
In the beginning, there were a few times when I thought I was going to cum in my pants without even touching myself, like a waking wet dream. But as the Maharishi explained when I asked him what to do, “The mind controls the body,” he said in his thick Indian accent as he tapped a skinny finger to his graying temple. “The brain controls the cock. It’s when the reverse occurs that men get into trouble.”
Now, after many years of meditation, training and practice, I can massage a woman’s pussy and G-spot while she coats my hand and arm in her pungent juices and not feel a twitch in my cock.
And perhaps that was my problem.
Perhaps that was why I was so fucking miserable, despite the wealth and fame.
It had all become too clinical for me, as routine as shining my shoes. No number of scented candles and special oils and moaning women and squirting vaginas could ease the boredom I was feeling with my craft and ultimately, my life.
I was starting to dread the weekends and the women who looked at me with desire and desperation. It was becoming like factory work. Like putting nuts on bolts. Stickers on a Rubik’s Cube. Fingers in pussies. I was starting to hate Yoni and though I had not said anything to Ben or Genevieve, I was thinking about disappearing.
Not going away, mind you.
Not taking a sabbatical or a vacation.
I mean literally disappearing.
As in dropping off the face of the earth and never being heard from again.
I’d just walk out the door and into the night and out of existence.
I could do it easily now.
Other than the businesses, which would survive without me, at least for a while, I had nothing to tie me down, no attachments of any kind whatsoever.
I had never had a serious relationship because my career consumed me and sucked me dry.
I had no family and no friends other than Ben and Genevieve, whom I rarely saw anymore because she now lived off the coast of France with some twenty-year-old French painter named Pascal and I spent most of my time in California. Genevieve was in her sixties now and had developed an odd fear of flying over the last few years, or so she claimed. I think it was just an excuse not to travel.
She had a good life and I was now on the periphery of it, even though much of her good life was financed by my hard work, which was fine for a long time, but was getting a little old now that she wasn’t contributing anything to the mix.
Ben calls me petty when I bitch about it, says I’m just jealous and reminds me that if I had not met Genevieve that night at the Four Seasons, none of this would have happened. I won’t lie. It was not about the money. There was more than enough money to go around. The truth was, it was hard for me not being central to Genevieve’s life. This was the woman who was once the center of my universe and now she might as well live on Mars given the time and distance between us.
So yeah, sometimes I think about just walking away…
Money certainly wouldn’t be a problem.
I am rich beyond my wildest dreams, worth tens of millions of dollars.
Maybe I could crawl back into the skin of Devin McMasters and start anew without the weight of Devin McMasters on my shoulders.
Maybe I could learn how to respond to a woman again in a normal way.
Maybe I could meet a nice girl and fall in love. Maybe even get married and start a family.
Have kids.
A dog.
Mow the grass.
Go to little league games.
At least then I wouldn’t have to put on a fucking disguise and troll the bars for women who didn’t want a fucking massage just to get my rocks off; women who just wanted to fuck without strings and mystic expectations.
I envied them.
More so, I envied the guys who fucked them.
I wished I could be like them.
I wished I could be one of them, rather than being The One.