Love is like a bottle of gin, but a bottle of gin is not like love.

So who greets me in practice yesterday morning with a big smooch but creepy Doug. The irony there is that he probably saw it as a sign from the universe that we were in the same shala at the same time as a follow up to our days together at Pune. Except wait, we didn’t have days together at Pune. We chatted one night and then he got to watch me dance for hours with the delicious Avaran, the Italian who whispered “Mi Amore” in my ear whilst grinding into my hips. I would’ve forgotten Doug entirely except that he kept popping up everywhere—again, another sign for him? Sure it’s ironic that he’s here and staying with one of the more annoying people I know, but does that make it a sign from the universe? Well, let’s turn that gaze back to MY navel and say for a minute, yes. Because had he called me, as he said he was threatening to do, I might have forgotten his bizarrely inappropriate affections. For whatever reason it was OK to feel Avaran’s hardon right up close and personal without, at that point, even knowing his name, but the way this Doug fellow would kind of twitch out and grab at my waist, just not OK. And had I forgotten that in the disturbingly vulnerable moments I’ve been experiencing since my return from Pune, who knows what would’ve happened. I might’ve said, heck yeah, let’s hit the Kumbe Mehle together! (A funky Indian saddhu festival which I’m sure I’ve misspelt but just can’t be asked because I don’t have goddamn adequate internet access. Must check out the wireless deal at German Bakery…)

Pune, where the love is so free they make you take an AIDS test before entering Osho’s ashram. I can’t possibly complain enough about that. Suffice it to say that for whatever reason I finally put aside my skepticism and gave in to the love. Let me say up front that what I’m left with just two days out from being ensconced in the ashram is no love at all. I went from being unsure just how to juggle a multiplicity of love to being left with that single sinking suspicion I’d been found wanting by every last one. OK, deep in my heart of hearts I still hold out hope for Avaran, but that is certainly the most tenuous thread of all. Perhaps that’s why it has the most potential.

The idea at Osho is to uncover the love that is already within, largely by ridding yourself of your demons of sexual suppression. That translates to taking a bunch of group encounter therapy sessions to get you feeling nice and raw, and then latching on to whatever shards of affection may come your way. Or maybe that’s just how I approached it. I went for it via a family session first, looking at the inner child issues that impact my adult relationships, then wrapped it up with a bow in a tantra workshop.

So here’s how the sex actually unfolded. For the first five or six days I got nothing. Famine. Then I lose the roommate. For the final coup de grace, I lose the room. At this point I’ve already begun the tantra workshop, the leaders of which have asked us not to have sex for the course’s duration. Avaran’s one of the leaders.

In the meantime I learned a bit of the lingo. If someone asks you for a date, they want sex. If someone asks you to hang out, or replies to a date with the idea of hanging out, it means they want to talk a bit first. I understood this to be fairly straightforward language and would have relayed that I had experienced neither, but for a dinner date that I actually accepted. Since we had a date that involved the man actually pulling out his wallet, I’m not sure it counts as a proper Osho connection. Besides, the slap and tickle was seriously wanting, so sex did not ensue. Luckily I bumped into Avaran later that evening and we had a righteously hot, if fully clothed, encounter.

Have I mentioned I’m still wandering around wondering where I’ll sleep?

Naturally I end up in bed with my dad from the family session, which would’ve surprised no one watching my constellation. (I’VE GOT ISSUES, PEOPLE!) Amir was sweet and hot and had a fabulous apartment including a beautiful king-sized bed just made for tantric sex. Why not? The next day the hotel would have a room for me and I could get to taking that tantra course more seriously. In the meantime, he fed me dinner, too. I love it when a man wants to feed me—damn you, husband! Ex-husband, my life’s not that complicated.

The hotel did not have a room for me the next day. Amir was kind enough to come to my rescue again, but once was probably more than enough. It was more of a regurgitation even than a repeat. Worse still, he would be kicking me out at 5 in the morning because he wanted to hit the dynamic meditation in the big black pyramid. I couldn’t sleep lying there feeling I was just waiting to be kicked out. Besides, I’d met someone else who’d taken my fancy.

Rupert had caught my eye at dinner. Apparently I’d caught his eye on the dance floor—with Avaran?—but he’d not hit my radar until he showed the sense to laugh at my jokes. Something about it, right now, reminds me of meeting and hanging out with my husband for the first time. We, too, met in this bizarre, removed from home environment, trying to get in synch with someone or something around us and, wow, there was someone who kept firing. There was that moment where I looked at him, either him, accompanied by the sense of, wait, who are you over there rising into my awareness like a fizzy bubble.

I actually left the big comfy bed, jumped two fences, then found myself at Rupert’s door, knocking oh so softly, for him to be on the other side almost immediately, knowing where I’d been and yet inviting me into his bed for a cuddle. Which turned into a not-so-satisfying fuck. Which turned into a lovely breakfast and a delicious romp before class. Yum. That was what, Tuesday morning? I left Thursday night, and in between we spent most spare seconds together, enmeshed in intense conversation and touch and open and closed and fucking and chaste, ultimately connected in our disconnectedness. I invited him to come to Goa to continue the conversation, and it seemed as though he might, maybe, just maybe might. And now for my sign from the universe? I’ve lost his contact details. I really don’t know how I managed to do that, I mean, I had the fucking card yesterday because I wrote down my best friend’s mobile number on it, my best friend who I had to call because I realized already that quickly that the famine was back on.

Rupert told me his secret. The secret. The reason for me anyway, the love is covered up. It’s not, as Osho would say, repression. I’ve scarcely repressed a sexual urge I could act on in my life. No, it’s this—the idea of The One.

I have here before me Osho’s The Book of Secrets, it’s this nine-pound baby, shrink-wrapped. I was about to crack it, just to check and see if the pages all had words or this apparent tome was created to suggest that there were many secrets. I decided not to bother—I’m sticking with this one. The One.

Rupert—his defenses down, remember, we were at Osho—told me he harbored this idea that when he met The One he would just know. He would experience on a soul level that it was she and she was it. In that I recognized my fantasy—not to find The One, I don’t know any women who buy into that—to be The One. I’ve never met a woman who did not want to be that. The idealized woman. Your hair, your skin, your personality—flawless. You are the sun and the moon. You embody perfection and so can do no wrong. Just a look and you’re done. The hard work is over.

It was his out. Then I revealed mine; the lover in Goa. You see, I hadn’t gone to Osho wanting for sex. I’d been good and fucked the morning I left, and from the tone of the text messages knew I could expect more of the same when I got back. And then I started to question what I was doing with the lover in Goa.

How can I have a meaningful relationship if I keep myself splintered amongst these diversions? Svegito, our family encounter leader, had warned that the more bonds we make with lovers, the less likely we were to have a single, stable relationship. Even Matt, my de facto SLA sponsor, would say if he’s not the one to move on. The lover in Goa is no more the one that Avaran; yes, I even reconnected with him to make sure he could contact me when he’s in Goa.

And I don’t care about Amir or Avaran, but Rupert and the lover in Goa have gotten annoyingly under my skin. I didn’t think Rupert would turn out to be my knight in shining armor, but then, maybe. Maybe he could come to see me as the idealized woman, thus fulfilling both our needs. And, and…you see, I’ve dated him before. The man for whom you are never good enough. You are not the one and never will be. What I love about these relationships is that they tend to be so incredibly prolific for me. They force me to focus my pain. They are an addiction, complete with the extreme highs and lows.

Do I want this? I wish I could say the answer were no but I’m coming once again to the realization that if I am attracted enough to someone to sleep with them, the answer will be yes. Do I go to the lover in Goa on this front?

So what are my signs from the universe? My two friends here, the ones who will pick up the pieces, the ones who have no interest but mine, the ones who actually seem to dislike Nick…they tell me, stick with Nick for the season, he’s the surer bet. And then there’s an email from Rupert. He’s coming.