June 1st, 2000 Truth in Sexualizing| Heather Corinna When we say what we want -- in sexual material, or any material for that matter -- is what is honest, what is sincere, what is real, perhaps we'd be best to really evaluate that. More times than not, what we want is what is honest, but feels good, what is real, but what is reality as we wish to perceive it, and what is sincere, yet without showing us those things we don't want to look at. Of course, that isn't surprising, and perhaps it isn't even a failing: it is the nature of reality, no matter our theosophy or personality construct, that personal reality is indeed what we make it. Though there may be plenty around us which is real, if we refuse to see it, refuse to make it tangible, do not incorporate it into our daily reality, it is of little use to us. I have spent over two days looking for something for this column to avoid writing about myself, which is why it is late. I have scanned news articles and reels, poked around through book reviews that need be done, scanned through volumes of my material suitable for reprint, and all for naught. Of course, because I am trying to avoid writing about something timely and directly relevant to me, I can find nothing else to write about, making it poignantly clear I need to write from my own heart and mind, even if it makes me struggle a little, or doesn't arouse, or touch upon sexuality in the way I think my readers expect. When I used to teach, our mantra going into the classroom was always, "Leave what exists outside of the classroom outside." As a teacher working with young children in a fairly complex method, that was exactly how it needed to be done. I imagine the same is true of most professions. However, as an artist or an author, your office, even if you have a symbolic one, with desks and paper and a ringing phone, truly exists only within the framework of your life experience, in your heart and mind. Without it, there is no originality to the work, no personal sensibility, no mark that makes it yours. As a reader and a writer, an artist and a viewer, I am not interested in work without that human element: it leaves me cold and flat. Without that element, it is neither honest, sincere, nor real. In the genre of erotica and sexuality, it can be particularly difficult to be a creator. Sex writers, in my experience, often burn out faster on their genre than any other writers I know. Many feel a pressure to keep our sex lives interesting, as much for our audience as for ourselves. Many feel they are held up as the top rung of an invisible bell curve, and need be more outrageous, push the envelope more often, set an example as an incarnation of some level of sexual development to which others aspire. More times than not, the only person holding us up to those completely unrealistic -- and potentially damaging -- expectations is ourselves. A good many times, that whole idea is little more than an excuse to avoid seeing things we don't want to see, and as any of us know, whether we be eloquent or illiterate in the language of sex, sex is one of the better distractions out there. Someone asked me in an interview a few weeks ago if I thought it was possible to overanalyze sex. I most certainly do. It is a serious challenge -- one which we have to stay cognizant of constantly if we wish to preserve some semblance of balance -- to be so well versed in something without losing the purity of it. In Zen Buddhism, we strive to keep what we call "Beginner's Mind," that state of being during which we first asked what we were, even long after we begin to have some of the answers; we strive to remain empty, open to everything, even though our minds be full of knowledge and experience. It is a hearty challenge, one far more difficult than learning the things we don't understand, or finding answers to our questions, in this world of so many things, precepts, people and responsibilities, to be able to be rid of it all at any moment. All of us need to be able to do that: it is impossible to see the plain beyond clearly when a mountain stands in our field of vision. More often than not, it is less an issue of something being in our way we cannot bypass, and more an issue of us building that road block because it is often easier not to see. I was trying, earlier this week, to explain to a teenager that I was talking to that sex doesn't get more incredible by the acts we do; that we don't develop sexually by ticking off marks on a worksheet of what things we have done. The general perception is that the more outrageous things we do (many of which are perhaps outside the sphere of typical sexual experience), it is those "things" which bring us to higher levels of sexual, psychological and emotional ecstasy and expertise. That is, of course, absolute fallacy. It is not what we do, but how much of ourselves we bring to what we do, and what our true motivation is in doing them. Right now, my partner and I are very rarely sexually engaged at all, because I am processing some things in myself that make it extremely difficult to bring all of myself to the sex I'd be having. Though not being physically intimate is causing a very serious and difficult strain on both of us, physical intimacy that is halfhearted or on autopilot is a far more serious -- and detrimental -- thing. Using sex as a distraction, or as a means to keep ourselves from truly seeing, or, quite frankly, as a means to get or acquire something we need to truly just ask for on another level is most likely the root of most sexual dysfunction in the world. A fine example of this whole phenomenon, honesty in sex, good or ill, is this: ask most women why they don't like pornography, and one of the first things many will begin to discuss are rape scenes in which the women being attacked appears to be having a good time. Of course, any of us who have had a rape experience, or even those of us with some simply common sense and human compassion know that is not based in reality, and we know it is staged. We don't know for certain that it is staged because of lighting, because of costuming, or because we know cameras were there. We know that it is because normal human emotional response, on our part and the part of those involved, is absent. Nine times out of ten, in my experience, a lot of women will first answer that this kind of imagery is disturbing and damaging because rape is disturbing and damaging. But one may think a little bit more and answer differently: it is disturbing and damaging because the implied or portrayed act does it speak to what is real. Rape scenes appear in a number of excellent films I can think of, in which, cameras and lighting aside, it was very real: Sleepers, Last Exit to Brooklyn, Leaving Las Vegas. In those films, the reality of the situation isn't something we have to guess at: that we are trembling, our hearts quickened, our throats tight and dry is what tells us it rings true. Very few people will complain about these sorts of scenes for that very reason. At the same time, though, we are inclined to separate it from sexuality and eroticism because it is a dark aspect with which few of us -- for good reason -- are very comfortable, and it infringes upon a more sunny, and one-dimensional, view of sex. We all know that sex isn't always pretty, it isn't always erotic or arousing, it isn't always sincere, and it is very, very rarely just about sex. I think very few of us, if we're truly honest with ourselves, really want to see that all the time because it makes us have to analyze ourselves in a realm in which we'd rather avoid thinking; in a realm in which we would prefer to be in beginner's mind -- almost to the point of being childlike, or primitive -- as much as possible. And there is, as Shakespeare said, the rub. We cannot, once past the point of maturity, have that purity without a deep understanding of every aspect, the sides dark and light and gray, and the mountain as well as the plain. No matter what acts we do or do not participate in, no matter how far we push the physical or intellectual envelope, no matter what we see or touch, if we cannot do so truly honestly and with our whole selves engaged, and accept it all -- regardless of whether or not we endorse or practice it all -- we cannot reach the top of that bell curve of development. If we can do that, we can reach it whether we have had hundreds of lovers or one. We can reach that state if we have been twisted like pretzels in every position known to man or favored only a few. We can become sexual avatars no matter what we do or do not do, have or haven't done, if in what we do we come to it empty, yet aware. We cannot see white clearly without perceiving every color in the spectrum. If we cannot do that, no number of acts, no amount of eloquence in expression, and no level of sexual prowess will get us there. When we say we want honesty, realism and sincerity in our sex lives or our sexual material, if we mean it we should be prepared to not only be aroused and excited, but as well, disgusted, hurt, attacked, and perhaps even bored, with ourselves as well as others. When we say we want to be honest, we have to be willing, simply put, to be human. Being human, no matter how exceptional a being we may become, is not always impressive, to us, or to those who perceive us. In other words, we need to be willing to let go of the reality we want to see, and accept the one that is truly there. No one can bring us sexual entertainment or arousal. That is a fact rooted in simple biochemistry, physiology and psychology. Another can inspire those feelings in us, and perhaps initiate them, but it is where we take them, what we do with them, and what we bring to them that arouses, enlightens or entertains. We'd all be better to remember that, whether we are asking it of another, or of ourselves. If we want honesty, sincerity, or simply what is real from others, we must truly expect that in it's entirety, and in turn, ask it as much of ourselves as we ask it of anyone else. © 2000 Heather Corinna. All rights reserved. wenches of yesteryear | home