Loosening Ego’S Grasp: Walking the Path to Awareness

By Rick Evans

Fred is a forty-two-year-old North American who stumbles into a spiritual process that changes his life. He comes to see that his drive for sex is one of the inner demons he needs to face. Can he find the value, connection, and love hes searching for within himself? Or will he keep looking for those qualities out there? His process takes him on a journey to loosen egos grasp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543464030

Rick Evans

About the Author Rick Evans is a writer and speaker whose topics focus on the expansion of human consciousness. He is adept at presenting complex, paradigm-shifting ideas in a clear, crisp, accessible waywith humor. His writing draws from his personal spiritual path of over thirty years, stimulated most recently by the works of A. H. Almaas, Eckhart Tolle, and David Deida. Mr. Evans is a trained public speaker as well as a writer. He can be reached at (insert website address).

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Animal Soul

As my plane eased down onto the tarmac at Ezeiza International Airport in Buenos Aires, a sense of gratitude washed over me. Finally, I was away from work and entangling relationships; finally, some place to relax and recuperate. Ever since I’d taken over the family business when my father died two years earlier, I struggled to keep things going. I never realized how much he’d done behind the scenes. At age forty-two, I should have known better. And I was still recovering from a painful divorce. Then there was Lisa, the woman I’d been dating the last few months. She was pushing for a commitment. And no way was I ready for that.

I cleared customs, picked up my luggage, and hailed a taxi to the downtown where I’d booked a room at a small hotel for the better part of a week. After that, I’d be off to Santiago, Chile, for a few days before returning home to Seattle.

My taxi moved along slowly through congested freeway traffic. We passed mile after mile of gray suburban apartment buildings, separated now and then by grassy areas worn bare from soccer games of area youth. The adjacent streets and sidewalks were in disrepair due to years of economic hardship. As I looked out the taxi window, my sense of goodwill began to fade. A feeling of foreboding was in the air, a kind of forewarning, as though something big was coming that would change the trajectory of my trip—and maybe my life.

As we approached the downtown central core, however, my attitude brightened. The city took on a Parisian-style charm: tree-lined boulevards, balconies with red, orange, and blue flowers on almost every street. I heard Buenos Aires was called the Paris of South America. Now I knew why.

It was just after nine o’clock in the morning when we pulled up to the Goya Hotel, a small establishment nestled onto a narrow side street in Microcentro. I gathered my bags at the curb and buzzed the desk clerk who welcomed me in with a bienvenido and warm smile. Apparently, hotel staff was used to early arrivals from the North. I signed in and paid the cash discount rate for my stay. I wanted that taken care of early, so I wasn’t wandering the streets of a large foreign city with a lot of money in my pocket.

I unpacked and sat on the bed in my tiny, sparsely decorated room, glad to have a place to decompress after two long flights: Seattle to Miami then overnight to Buenos Aires. Too wired to start catching up on much-needed sleep, I decided to start getting familiar with the area around my hotel. Buenos Aires is a metropolis of over twelve million, so I needed to start slow.

I took the two-person elevator to the planta baja (main floor) and left my key with the concierge as required. Then I stepped out onto the Avenida Suipacha, the two-lane side street in front of the hotel. It was noisy and chaotic: horns blaring, pedestrians competing for narrow sidewalk space, construction workers in blue overalls into various street repairs. It was November, spring in the Southern Hemisphere; so by late morning, it was already hot and humid.

A block to my left, I came to the Avenida Córdoba, a large four-lane street with office buildings, shops, and restaurants. Another left and I was at the Avenida 9 de Julio, a twelve-lane arterial lined with trees and human-scale buildings, tucked into the middle of the downtown. In the distance, a large white marble obelisk marked the city’s center. Street by street, block by block, I began to get familiar with the area around my hotel. A few more blocks, a wider radius, if I didn’t range too far, the city might be manageable. I was feeling good.

After walking for several blocks, I felt tiredness settling in, so I turned and headed back to the Goya for a nap. As I strolled along the Avenida Viamonte, however, I was caught by a small red sign flashing Sex Shop. I passed then stopped to reconsider. Normally, I wouldn’t even think about going inside, but things felt different in that faraway land. My body-energy picked up as I reversed my path to investigate.

A broad concrete stairway led down to a poorly lighted area; beyond that, a long gray hallway. It smelled of musk. Good place to get mugged, I thought. But fear and curiosity joined in a steamy mélange to move me forward.

At the end of the hall was a booth for paid entry. No one was there. I turned to leave. But then a tough-looking, middle-aged man, arms covered with tattoos, came to the window. "Veinte pesos," he muttered under his breath. Four dollars wasn’t much, so I took a bill out of my wallet, paid, and passed through the turnstile.

Video booths lined the walls and filled the middle of the room. A throbbing drumbeat played in the background. Thursday at eleven in the morning, the place was nearly empty. Two heavyset women leaned against an inside wall. One locked eyes with me, smiled and said something in Spanish I didn’t understand. The other scratched her thigh and lifted her short leather skirt ever so slightly as she shifted her hips. A nervous-looking man walked by and gave me an inquisitive look.

The sexual energy of the place was palpable, but it felt really sleazy. It looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. My shoes stuck to the floor as I walked. At the back, a dark area extended beyond my vision. Who knew what might go on there late at night?

One of the women walked toward me and said something in Spanish under her breath. "No comprendo," I stammered. The guy I’d seen before passed by again and headed into a video booth. He looked back, apparently to see if I would follow. It was all way too creepy. Time to leave. I moved slowly toward the exit, and then, with one last over-the-shoulder glance, I pushed out through the door and retraced my steps down the hall, up the stairs, and out into the midday sun. Why had I gone in there? Not a good way to start my trip.

Back at the Goya, I lay on my bed and closed my eyes. Hopefully, a little sleep would help reset my biological clock and give me a chance to start the day anew.

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Two hours later, I woke up groggy and splashed cold water on my face. I decided to find the location of the Spanish class I’d signed up for the next day while continuing to explore the city. I asked directions several times and eventually found the offices of Bridge Linguatec on the Avenida Eduardo Madero in the upscale, redeveloped port area: full of new high-rise offices mixed with older three-story buildings of refurbished red brick. Things were looking up; it would only be a thirty-minute walk from my hotel the next morning.

A few blocks away, I saw the entrance to the Reserva Ecologica, a natural area that the desk clerk had recommended as a nice place to walk out of the hubbub of the central core. I looked at my map and saw that it extended nearly a mile along the bank of the Rio de La Plata where it opened into the Atlantic. The Reserva would be a fun place to explore, but first something to eat.

A restaurant across the street caught my eye, so after working my way through street traffic, I entered with a friendly Hola to the man at the door. It was a small place with a warm Latin feel: painted in soft greens with pale orange highlights, the tables covered with brightly colored cloth. At one thirty, the lunch crowd was just beginning to arrive.

I found a table near the back and settled in. Then it hit me. What should I order and how? Deciphering the menu was one thing. Hopefully, I could at least determine what animal I would be eating if not the body part. In France, years earlier, I had eaten heart, tongue, and brain at the student restaurant in Paris. I wasn’t ready for that again, but I was hungry, so I’d just have to risk it.

The simplest way to proceed would have been to just point to something on the menu, but I wanted to practice my Spanish. Hopefully, I could pronounce things correctly. All too often, though, the way words came out of my mouth didn’t communicate, my North American accent leaving people with blank stares or furrowed brows. And Argentine Spanish had its own unique linguistic twist.

Then I saw her—late twenties, short dark hair, about five-foot-seven. I watched as she moved from table to table, taking orders and bringing food. She had that special Latin something—rich, dark and exotic. The curve of her hips, the roll of her breasts, her mouth—each beckoned. She also fit really well into her low hip-hugger jeans, the ones with that come-fuck-me look. The junkyard dog had bitten and was holding tight. The longer I watched her, the stronger its grip. Her child-bearing hips would surely provide a Shangri-La if I were allowed to visit.

She took my order for the plato del dia then moved on to other tables. When I finished the main course, I asked her about dessert. I wasn’t still hungry. I just wanted another opportunity to see if she would indicate an interest. When she returned with my churros and coffee, I wondered if she was thinking as I was how phallic those long hard doughnuts looked. As I continued to fixate on her, however, another thought hit me. While I was drooling over her in those tight blue jeans, maybe she was thinking something else—something like:

Que pasa, another guy from the States down here looking for a piece of ass. If he tries anything, I’m going to stick one of these sugar-coated doughnuts up his ass. I wonder how he’d like that? But then with guys these days, maybe he would.

My self-confidence shattered, and not getting any clear indication of interest from her, it was time to move on. I thought of Lisa back home and how I’d promised to behave.

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The Reserva Ecologica was only a few blocks away. I crossed the docks at the Puerto Madero and found the entrance right there. A small group of policia watched people come and go. Apparently, that was normal. Buenos Aires seemed to have a lot of policemen on the street.

Inside the Reserva, paths led in several directions, each bordered on both sides by low marshy areas with exotic plants, some with huge red and yellow flowers. In the distance, large crane-like birds nested. On the broad path in front of me, businessmen and women walked by in animated conversation, mothers pushed strollers, lovers held hands on nearby benches. It was an inner city paradise.

I picked a broad trail to the right and walked for nearly an hour along various paths, making a mental note to return for a run another day. Physical exercise helped me relax. Years of track and cross country in high school and college had given way to walking and jogging as ways to ease the stress of a go-go everyday life. Exercise got me out of my head and into my body. Running, long walks, dancing—all helped. Sex, of course, was good for that too.

I came to a remote area along the water’s edge. Other walkers thinned. Soon it was mostly men. They looked around now and then as though searching for something—or someone. A few disappeared in pairs down obscure trails. Clearly, this was some kind of gay hangout. I turned to go. But then with the same curiosity that killed the cat, I decided to stay and watch.

Walking further down the trail, I found a bench and sat. There were more men now—some older, some younger, some good-looking, others not. One guy gave me a hard, hungry look. I diverted my eyes from his steely gaze and got up to leave. But then, not more than twenty yards from me, two men disappeared down an overgrown trail. For no good reason, I decided to follow.

I let them move ahead, then I got up and walked slowly behind, careful not to be seen. After a minute, through the brush, I saw them stop, so I stopped too and waited—statue still. They touched arms and began to kiss. One started undoing the belt and top buttons of the other’s jeans. I shifted to see what might be next. But as I did, a twig snapped under my foot. The two men looked my way, exchanged words, and moved farther down the trail.

Why are you doing this? I asked myself. You’re not gay. If they want to get it on, why should you care? I turned to go. But as I changed direction, I bumped into an attractive young man standing at my side. While I had been watching the other two, he had been watching me and getting close.

I stepped back with a gasp. He smiled and said something in Spanish I didn’t get. I started to sweat as I looked for an easy way around. The young man, however, stood directly in front of me on the narrow path. If I went the opposite direction, I would surely run into the two men I’d been following.

The young man beside me reached out and touched my chest through my now wet T-shirt. I pushed his hand away and again tried to move by. But as I did, our bodies came together, our faces only inches apart. Our eyes met. Then after a momentary pause, he leaned forward and kissed me softly on the lips.

Shit. I pushed him away and moved past his questioning look. Then with long swift strides, I headed out of the foliage, back to the main trail, and out of the park. After several midcourse corrections, I found my way back to the Goya.

I picked up my key from the concierge, went to my room, and sat on my bed. What was going on? I had been distracted by sex since I got off the plane. The sex shop, the waitress, and then the kiss—how could I have gotten into all that? Clearly, I needed to regroup.

CHAPTER 2

Forbidden Fruit

I tossed and turned through the night, unsettled over all that had happened that first day. Finally, at seven in the morning, I rolled out of bed, hoping my Spanish class later that morning would be a good way to refocus. After that, maybe I’d take a group tour of the city or just visit places I’d heard about on my own. There was a lot to see in Buenos Aires: the Teatro Colón, the Calle Florida, museums, and historic churches. The city was enchanting with its European-style architecture and balconies with flowers coming into bloom. The air smelled clean and fresh: Buenos Aires.

After my class, I grabbed a sandwich at a nearby food cart and took an open-air bus tour of the central area. Then I went for coffee at one of the ubiquitous sidewalk cafés. I found an outdoor table out of the midday sun and considered the coffee options I had heard about. Should I have a café americano, a café con leche, an espresso, a coffee served in a tall jarrito cup, or something else? I decided on a café cortado, similar to a cappuccino but different in how and when the milk and coffee were mixed and heated.

I thought back to the