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Vicki Grant. My Social Stories Book. The pyramid is fronted by a reflecting pool, in which it's perfectly mirrored. Birds tweeted from well-groomed tropical plants. There was no sound of honking or barking. No dust. Not a single person in sight. I was excited. Checking into the guest house, I was told that they only had rooms with queen beds, no doubles, so Reza and I would have to share.

I wasn't complaining, flashing on a memory of a particularly great night we spent in Kathmandu during a thunderstorm.

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After a hot shower, I headed back across the street to the registration area, which was now buzzing with activity. It was intake time at the resort and about ten other civilians were filling out paperwork, preparing for the mandatory four-hour orientation, guided by maroon clad "sannyasins," or initiates, who have apparently taken "a quantum leap into the unknown. My wallet was quickly emptied of all its contents. Every last crumpled rupee note in my possession was assigned to deposits, registration fees, a day pass, voucher cards.

The cash generated from the resort and multimedia is managed by an "Inner Circle" appointed by Osho before his death in I am fascinated by this kind of religious power. It seems there are opposing factions within the group who are still contesting Osho's will, in particular the lucrative intellectual property rights, in various courts: Osho Friends Foundation versus Osho International Foundation OIF based in Zurich.

OIF has the upper hand, with five westerners and one Indian in charge of the Pune resort nee ashram. There is a ton of money at stake. I made my way through the registration process as slowly as possible, stalling the Japanese woman who was shadowing me, urging me to finish quickly so I could join orientation. To her annoyance I sat and texted Reza instead.

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I'm here where are you? I began to feel anxious as I was ushered into a black marble room to have my finger pricked for the HIV test. Then they took all of my personal information, and soon they would take away much of my outward appearance. Ankle-length maroon robes are required dress at the resort. No street clothes. Where are you? Fuck you! Turkish Air had rerouted his flight. My mood that had been buoyed solely by the idea of beautiful, sweet Reza walking through the gates now sank.

The prospect of spying on a pseudo-ashram lost all its appeal. The whole point was to have someone to exchange meaningful looks of disbelief—and possibly have sex—with. We texted back and forth furiously. He only had a few minutes left on his Dubai airport WiFi pass. He was still coming, he said. He'd probably be here between 6 and 8 PM. I wanted to step outside to think but the Japanese woman stood in my way with "orientation" flickering in her eyes. About to explode, I told her that I wanted to go back to my room and use the entry pass for tomorrow.

She protested, I stood firm. After bringing in a more senior sannyasin with better people skills, she acquiesced and I slipped through security with one minute remaining on my temporary pass. I lay on the queen bed collecting my wits in the cool darkness.

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The almonds at the bottom of my suitcase helped a little. I began browsing some of the materials they'd handed me. I exchanged one of my vouchers for my new wardrobe at the shop. No street clothes until after 9 PM.

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The robes were comfortable, actually, and the cut wasn't so bad. Using my voucher card, I grabbed some cafeteria food and sat at a picnic table outside near the pyramid. I can do this. A possibly handsome man in the vein of Jim Jones—pallid complexion, acne scars and a neat conventional haircut asked if he could join me. We ate in awkward silence. Finally I asked him where to put the dish and he offered to handle it for me. Was this Osho-speak for "Come to my orgy tonight"? An attractive man at the Osho International Meditation Resort, who is unrelated to this story.

Photo via Flickr user fraboof. Now that I was fed and the sun was beating down, I began to notice a strange overlay of sexuality spread like Olio on every Osho surface. There were maybe 60 people at the picnic area, all in robes. The atmosphere seemed very post-coital. Languid, satisfied, charged up. About 30 of us sat in a circle, everyone in red robes except the teacher, a Germanic blond woman in her 40s wearing a black gown with a white sash. She spoke huskily into a cordless microphone, even though the room was quite small. We got right into it. She instructed the men to move to one side of the room and the women on the other.

She explained that the men would be rescuing us. One big bald guy leapt to his feet and came running, robes flying, and gathered the girl next to me in his arms. The teacher sharply reprimanded him. Feel the hunter, the fighter, the protector in you. They began grunting and hopping up and down. Except one guy, who refused to hop, making the circle lopsided. I felt for him. I would not hop. Then they had to turn and display themselves to us women, show us their growling, manly selves.

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So there we all were, imagining their penises. She was really into it, strutting around. Satisfied with the display of manhood, she told us women to scream as if we were being attacked. I said "ah," quietly, while the other women shrieked. Now the men could come liberate us.