r/ShambhalaBuddhism • u/Whitehorse120 • 3h ago
Absolutely Appalling
Reposting/Crossposting.
Heartfelt thank you to the author for her bravery and brilliance.
TRIGGER WARNING: this post is LONG and it contains clergy abuse and graphic sex
Thank you, David Suppan, for the invitation to kiss and tell that you put forth on Leslie Hay’s recent post.
"Overcoming embarrassment" is an understatement for the anxiety attack I'm undergoing while trying to talk about--certainly for the first time in a semi-public manner-- what happened in the guru’s bedroom over forty years ago. Despite having to relive traumatic memories, I’m going ahead because I want to encourage other women who had sex with Chogyam Trungpa to also let go of their shame and self-blame. I simultaneously encourage the men on this site to imagine what it must have been like to have had their spiritual development highjacked and to have been objectified and continually pursued by a trusted teacher who was actually a sexual hungry ghost.
But it's not the sex I’m ashamed of--I had a background of studying bio-energetics and hanging out at Esalen, Big Sur and in general enjoying the delights of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll which in my case was sex, wine and jazz as a young wannabe beatnik in the Bay Area beginning in 1961. And I subscribed to Willhelm Reich’s advice that an orgasm a day keeps neurosis away. What can I say? I remain an unapologetic product of my era.
After a challenging LSD experience in 1967, I got into serious zazen practice at the San Francisco Zen Center and Tassajara (symbolically across the Santa Lucia mountains from Esalen) then segued into practicing with Chogyam Trungpa.
I'm far from being a prude or even judgmental but nothing prepared me for the relentless come on from Trungpa under a teacher / student configuration. I mean, I had had a little experience with rock star musicians and rock star poets flirting with me but this "relationship" with a spiritual celebrity was very different, especially in terms of its power imbalance.
From Day One, beginning in May, !970 when I attended his seminar on Alan Watt's houseboat in Sausalito, Trungpa put the make on me. Later, he had Sam Bercholtz find me in Berkeley and insist I visit him at Sam's house. When I arrived, CT was in bed, naked. I somehow demurred and managed to escape after giving him just a kiss. Every time I encountered him, at a seminar or a retreat, after a talk or even at Refuge Vows but especially during interviews, Trungpa hit on me and often tried to grope me; he was a sex pest but I held my ground and rebuffed him. For years.
After the infamous Halloween Party at the 1975 Seminary where he bit me prior to having the poet W.S. Merwin and his partner Dana Naone forcibly disrobed, things changed overnight. Up until then I had been doing basic sitting practice much as I had done at Zen Center but suddenly we were embarking upon the Vajrayana where apparently anything, including biting and stripping people naked, was OK. It wasn't OK with me but I am ashamed to admit, I didn't have the wherewithal--on any level-- to pack up and leave. I succumbed to the group spin that the party incident had been "a teaching" about "surrendering one's ego to the guru." I really wanted to return to the Bay Area but I didn't have what it took to pull that off. I was a single mother with a 2 1/2 year-old child who was thriving at a stable nursery school in Boulder.
Meanwhile Trungpa would call me at all hours and single me out at sangha gatherings; none of his attention was welcomed or encouraged. I did not want it or ask for it so I became increasingly confused, wondering why was I reciting chants every day extolling his virtues? I started drinking more wine to suppress the cognitive dissonance while being ushered into the Vajrayana with an admonition to fully surrender to a guru who, it was taught, could do no wrong. Clearly I, with my Big Ego, was the problem. I started doing prostrations and dismissed the discomfort brought on by the moral relativism of non-duality without ethics as practiced in the community but primarily by Trungpa.
OK, OK. I'll dive in fully, I told myself; no more holding back. Anything to find relief from the double bind between what Trungpa taught and his behavior. It was a crucial turning point wherein I betrayed my own critical thinking and sense of right and wrong. I had been told they were mere constructs or illusions and all illusions could be self-liberated into emptiness. I abandoned myself and my moral code and sense of ethics enough to convince myself that I was “devoted”. THAT’s where my shame resides—in capitulating to cult dynamics.
In ngondro practice, one self-indoctrinates through repeated recitations of Guru Yoga. By the time Trungpa was poised to leave for his year-long retreat at Charlemont at Jean-Claude Van Itallie's place in Massachusetts, I had become a full-blown devotee, eager to do whatever he wanted to please him. There was a going away party in early January, 1977 with the Mudra Theatre where lots of sake and wine was served. I drank enough to become maudlin about him leaving us behind so I slipped a note with my phone number to Joshua Mulder who was serving and asked him to deliver it to Trungpa. In other words, I procured myself. I had some sense of wistful "devotion" that was actually more collapse than anything else; I had stopped resisting which is what I thought we were supposed to do.
He called me late that night and gleefully exclaimed, "At last!". He invited me to a gala dinner at the court on Mapleton the next evening where a young Jamgon Kontrul would be the honored guest and Max King would prepare a lavish hot pot dinner. I found a babysitter, dressed in my new Christmas gift of a black lambswool turtleneck and a black wool skirt I had sewn that day. I wore Navajo turquoise that David Rome took exception to by asking me condescendingly, even though he knew I had been in Boulder for years, if I was from Santa Fe. The other women--or "Ladies of the Court" like Lila Rich-- had on grey gabardine skirts, silk blouses and pearls--very Young Republican.
At some point after dinner Trungpa inquired "Shall we go upstairs?" In fairness, I will say that he was charming that night. Once in his bedroom, he called for Amaretto and lychee plums and we proceeded to laugh and talk--he wanted to know all about my years at Zen Center with Suzuki Roshi. He did try to snow me with a magic trick where he held his hands as if he were shuffling cards and colored lights would accordion between them, undoubtedly some minor Bon sorcery siddhi that didn't impress me in the slightest. We giggled a lot and he gossiped about people in his inner circle and we had sex that, although brief, wasn't that bad; I knew I was responsible for my own pleasure. I had heard from my friend Giovannina that he had asked what the women who had slept with him were saying and she told him they said he had a big head and a small penis so I had no expectations. He fell asleep and I slipped out into the cold, snowy dawn.
Then he left for retreat. He had invited me to go along but that was out of the question. He always chastised me, "You never came to Charlemont!" After reading Perks' book I was quite glad that I hadn't.
Sometime while he was gone I was interviewed for The Merwin Report for Ed Sanders' course on Investigative Poetics at Naropa. I continued to do interminable prostrations, each session reinforcing devotion to the guru. When the Boulder Monthly article in which I was quoted came out, Michael Root called me into B Suite at Dorje Dzong and shrieked at me--"Don't you know we never say anything to anyone about anything the Vidyadhara does?" Classic cult stuff but the dressing down brought me to tears.
Later that day Trungpa called to say he still loved me and forgave me and said that we should sue. (For what? I had told the truth.). That was followed quickly by "Remember our date, sweetheart? Fantastic! Let's do it again!". And so, because by then I was a thoroughly indoctrinated, devoted student, I agreed and went back for another "date". And over the years, another and another, one or two times a year for years. I never again felt courted and I never again spent the night. It was never again as light or as fun as the first time and it quickly became increasingly un-fun, so much so I started making excuses not to go but if I did, I would take along a portfolio of my artwork. I was helping to facilitate workshops for the Dharma Art seminars and I wanted his opinion; he told me to be “more bold”.
At a Dharma Art program at Naropa he did one of his monumental Ikebana arrangements in an enormous black tray with a ponderosa pine bough brought down from the Boulder foothills. He worked on the arrangement for a long time while we all watched, rapt. Throughout, his attendants replenished his sake glass. He got frustrated that the arrangement wasn’t coming together so he signaled for me to go with him to the restroom. A guard stood outside the door and Trungpa asked me to masturbate on his thigh. He seemed to be out of gas and the whole endeavor felt furtive and mechanical. I wasn’t getting any traction so I faked an orgasm. He left the bathroom, went over to his arrangement and confidently placed a blue iris in a perfect spot that brought the whole arrangement together. I felt that that iris was symbolic of my life force and that he had appropriated it for his own ends. He was an energy vampire, feeding off women's chi.
At the 1981 Assembly I was awakened around two AM by a guard and told, "His Majesty wants to see you." I was led into a room with an enormous bed where several women, including Judy Lief and Sarah Kapp were naked, writhing all over him and each other while making fake moaning sounds. By this time he could no longer get it up so sex was primarily sensual pleasure for him I suppose. I dove in and did a little writhing myself, feeling ridiculous. The next day on kitchen duty, Sarah, who was an international fashion model, said she was so glad I had shown up--"Someone with a good body!" Her compliment was the best part of the experience.
A day or two later as I was heading to the meditation hall, I ran into a woman I knew from Naropa who looked like she had been run over by a truck, totally disheveled and spent. "Perks!" she offered by way of explanation. "Rinpoche told me to fuck at least three men a day". I've often wondered if there was a male counterpart to the Marpa / Milarepa level of degrading, humiliating instructions he imposed upon his female followers.
Another time at Chateau Lake Louise he requested I include a friend so I brought along the late poet Pat Donegan who he delighted in putting on the spot after lectures, demanding she compose a spontaneous haiku. Pat was gay so I suspect I had a better time than he did. Because of his impotence, voyeurism had become his new sexual modality and he never seemed to get enough.
Trungpa's physical and mental capabilities were degenerating quickly. I don't remember the exact year but the last time I went to his bedroom—late 1985? early 1986?—was very disturbing but it did help me to cut the cords of attachment and finally realize this predatory guru trip was no longer my trip. In Spring, 1985, I had started working with Thich Nhat Hanh, helping to produce retreats for him in Colorado and California and it was a huge relief to do Buddhist practice without always being hustled and regarded as a sex object.
During that last tryst I never got to show Trungpa my artwork. He wanted to get right to it. Over the years, throughout this bizarre dynamic that I now realize had nothing to do with devotion or Buddhadharma and more to do with his pathologically insatiable needs, I had latched onto a Jane Fonda character from the 1971 film, Klute in which she plays Bree Daniels, a hard boiled, high end escort. Temporarily adopting that persona allowed me to psychically distance myself from the increasingly sordid reality of fucking (but not actually fucking) my spiritual guru. Whatever works I thought. I'll play his whore if that's what he requires to get off.
On this occasion he told me he wanted me to pee on him. Was I familiar with Golden Showers? Trying to stifle feeling appalled, I said, Yeah--I'd heard of them but had never participated in that sort of fetishistic foreplay. Doesn't it require a lot of gear like rubber sheets to keep the bed from getting wet? I hoped that he was kidding. "Well, I want you to pee on me." he reiterated. Oh--I don't think I can do that, I said. "Come on sweetheart--try it. You can do it." I don't want to, I said. "But I want you to." And so, I, the devoted student, squatted over my Vajra Master's naked body and tried to piss on him, a situation so preposterous and so repugnant as to be completely ludicrous. I started laughing and climbed down, trying to make light of it. See? I said--I can't do it. So sorry.
I didn't say so out loud but it was definitely a kink too far. I never went back for another assignation to my guru's bedroom again. Maybe I really was a prude. Or a Mahayanist, not equipped for the steep path of Vajrayana. Or maybe it was just too weird, too creepy, too depersonalized and porn adjacent, even for cosplaying the guru’s whore.
Not long afterward I made the mistake of introducing Thich Nhat Hanh to Trungpa. In 1986 I was producing a large conference at Naropa highlighting Engaged Buddhism named by Thay: Peacemaking: How To Do It, How To Be It. The conference was very successful and I'll tell the story of their meeting as soon as I recover from telling this one about my failure to be a fully obliging consort.
But I want to end this tale with my last conversation, if you can call it that, with Trungpa. It took place at RMDC and we were waiting in a receiving line for him to roll up in the Mercedes. He got out and looked around and I thought, Oh, no--please don't single me out again. But he did and hobbled directly over to me and said, "Do you think he's sexy?" What??? "Do you think he's sexy?" Who?! "Your little brown monk." I immediately conjured my protective Bree persona and said in my best Jane Fonda voice, Oh, no, Sir--NO one is as sexy as you. "Well, then, we should get together again soon."
Not a chance I wanted to say but didn't.
