Why I Avoid Sex: A Love Letter

Silence by Odilon Redon

To all my lovers, from this life and the many previous…

Dear Lover,

Thank you for taking the time to read this message. I understand it’s been difficult between us. I know you are wanting more of me and believe me, there is nothing more I’d love than to be able to offer you (and me!) the incredible sex you want anytime you want.

But I simply can’t.

Believe me, I try. Every time you reach for me, all I can hear is:

“Why you can’t a be a goddamned normal human being who fucks when she wants, cums when she wants and goes about her merry way?”

This I lament as you watch me collapse into a puddle of tears and snot once again—our sex hijacked by the alien demon baby that lives in my vagina.

OK. Maybe I’m being a little overdramatic.

That could be part of the problem.

I know the answers lie wrapped up, charred up, scarred up beneath the calcified strata of my orgasm; but as I listen closer, each layer has its own story to tell…

LAYER ONE: CONFUSION

If you asked me what I wanted from sex, I wouldn’t know where to begin. My people-pleasing reflex leaves me disconnected from the hunger in my heart.

Because really, who am I if I’m not making you happy? I don’t even exist. Cosmo says so.

Clinging to an identity wrapped in the dogma of “good little girls who only eat one scoop of ice cream,” I suffer in silence as I yield my voice, again and again, until silence becomes the norm.

Lost in a barrage of choices, I abdicate my power to another in the hopes of escaping the freedom-binding fear of making a decision.

What is sex? What is desire? How does my body work? Is it OK to feel these things? To want so much?

Maybe porn can teach me something? I remember the magazines hidden under the sink when I was 12. Later came fervent moans through green and red squiggles on late night TV. Now I can’t even check my email without getting spammed by a site promising me “lonely, horny girls who are looking just for me.” The porn world has left me feeling incompetent in every way. I will never be a) novel, b) a fantasy and c) ready to be fucked at the drop of a hat.

Which brings me to…

LAYER TWO: ANGER

Fuck you.

Fuck you for not wanting ME, but some trumped up, dolled up, cummed up, fucked up version of an automated sexbot.

Stop trying to prove your worth by conquering my pussy.

When did sex become finding the “10 Ways to Light Him On Fire” or the “15 Moves That Will Turn Her Pussy Into Jizz Pudding”? (Gross)

I avoid sex because penetration is so goddammed boring. I need more. So much more. More than I could possibly understand and yet I need you to figure it out and take me there. To more. To the heights of my mind. Fuck my mind and we could fuck forever.

I have discovered (to my polite, feminine chagrin) that I’m angry. Fucking angry. At the way the erotic has been reduced to this two-minute, frictioned frenzy factory.

But because of my confusion (see Layer One), it’s easier to just stay angry at you for not remembering to do that thing that I asked you to do two weeks ago (you remember the one—I shouldn’t have to remind you).

So no. I won’t fuck you. I won’t give you the satisfaction of my pleasure.

If I give an inch, you take my pride.

You’ll see me crumble and break, my vanity at stake, as each thrust, twang, tickle and tuck strips me of my beautiful hide and renders me defenseless to the

weight

of

my

own

desire.

And in that vulnerability I find myself deepening into…

LAYER THREE: TERROR

I have a not-so-secret fear: I am afraid of being thought of as frigid.

Ironic for a woman who spends her days writing, thinking and exploring the edges of her sexuality.

Or not. After all, the best disguise for insecurity is to dress it up in the robes of expertise.

But I have an even greater terror—that of not being frigid.

Who is this fierce feminine beast?

A woman so ravenous for life that she knows not how to hold all the conflicting and socially unacceptable pieces that are her. The whore tearing through her master’s flesh while wearing the virgin’s smile.

So grab the noose and tie it to the rafters: I would rather be dead inside than unleash the potency of my orgasm—I dare not face this uncaged warrior.

Avoiding sex is the same as avoiding life. It’s why I avoid going onstage. It’s why I pack my feelings into a dark corner. It's why I starved myself for seven years. It’s why it took me three fucking months to write these 1000 words.

Sex requires that we are vulnerable. We cannot hide from ourselves anymore and we cannot shirk our responsibility to this life in a comfortable wash of feigned ignorance.

As I resensestize my pussy, all my receptors come online and to feel everything, the beauty and the pain, is enough to make you want to die.

And yet, here I am again. Terrified. Of death. Of life. Of who I am. Of never knowing who I am.

So it isn’t that the magic is gone, my love—it’s that the potency of our combined forces is too frightening to imagine. So we hide. We play pretend. We get tired. We fall asleep until we forget that we were even hungry in the first place.

And I feel your resistance as much as I feel mine. In fact, I welcome it. It gives me an excuse to stay sleepy under the covers.

But please, dear lover, for the sake of your life and mine, don’t ever stop trying. Fight for our surrender. Know that under my creeping and crawling and cat-cat-caterwauling there is a woman who so painfully wants to escape—who is scratching, layer after layer, for her freedom—

 

And for the chance to re-remember that she is…

LAYER FOUR: LOVE

Love,

c

PS: I think we're on the right track.

If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent human being in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all of the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine. ~ Anaïs Nin

On a Sultry, Southern Sunday

I’m a Southern girl.

That means I always send thank you notes, order white gravy with my biscuits and often depend on the kindness of strangers.

Oh, and I never touch myself (as Anastasia Steele would call it) “down there.”

OK…maybe that last one is a bit of lie.

You see, in the South, that kind of thing was never talked about—especially with girls. Good girls simply didn’t have those urges. It was sort-of “damning by omission.”

Now boys on the other hand: according to the church, they needed to control themselves.

So imagine my confusion at age 12 when I…well…needed to learn to “control myself.” I felt sort-of like a freak. Why I was afflicted with this “boy issue.” And honestly, why was it such a bad thing?

Years later in college I finally realized the truth about female sexuality. The late night chats about what kind of porn girls liked, TV shows with vibrator jokes and the official angsty college-girl icon, Tori Amos, lifted the veil from an otherwise obscured understanding of my own body and sexual tastes.

But the shame was cemented inside of me.

I was, as many would say, a late bloomer. I was 19 when I gave my first blowjob and 21 when I first had genital intercourse. There was no tangible reason for why I chose to refrain from sexual exploration during my teen years other than to say, “I had better things to do.”

But I think some part of me had tamped down my desire as a pre-teen in order to save myself the secrecy and embarrassment I often felt before, during and after I touched myself.

Now, several years later, as I share pieces of my erotic journey through fiction and poetry in my new book, I am reminded of how very innocent pleasure is and how the archetype of the Virgin is a sovereign being, her body belonging to no one but herself.

Below is the Virgin’s poem, based on my own experiences of erotic awakening, my adolescent faith in Jesus (for whom I still feel deep reverence) and the conflict that often arose between the two.

On A Sultry Southern Sunday

On a sultry southern Sunday
Hazy honeysuckle in the heat
Christians soldiers fan themselves
With folded programs for relief

The preacher, collar stained with sweat,
Says, “Turn to Psalm 23.”
Daddy glances towards the acolytes
But I’m not where I should be

I’m lyin’ down in greener pastures
Inviting a quickening breath
Restoring a sad, scarred soul through
My valley of the shadow of death

Bring those quiet waters
To a rolling, raging boil
Let my fingers do the prayin’
Anoint my head with palm oil

Break your rod, keep your staff
Hungry hands need to feed
And your wafer-scrap holy bite
Leaves me writhing in hollow need

And after the shepherd’s spoken
The flock, freshly blessed,
Head to brunch to gorge their guilt
In feasts of righteousness

They’re born and bled to hide behind
The good book of the past
Tissue thin leaves won’t cut their skin
When they turn the pages too fast

But on a sultry southern Sunday
When I’m upstairs all alone
It ain’t no low-swung chariot
Comin’ for to carry me home

VIEW THIS ARTICLE ON ELEPHANT JOURNAL 

Excerpt from The Nun's Story in My Upcoming Book "From to 6 to 9 and Beyond"

Photo by Sequoia Emmanuelle

PRE-ORDER OR DONATE TO MY BOOK PROJECT, 

FROM 6 TO 9 AND BEYOND: WIDENING THE LENS OF FEMININE EROTICISM

“Help me!” she cried, grief rattling through her. “Help me please.“

Her prayer gave way to jangled sobbing. She placed her hands on her heart, trying to keep her rib cage from shattering. Her heart hammered relentlessly in her chest. 

Suddenly she realized that what she was feeling was not grief, but unbearable love. Heart-shattering love. Blind devotion love. The kind of love that rests on the tip of the tongue, but remains indescribable. The kind of love that clangs and bangs within the restrictive confinement of flesh, pulsing at the edges of fingertips, yet can never be fully expressed.

It is the kind of love that only God understands and most humans tragically spend eternities trying to purchase from others. 

READ MORE HERE

Woman: Opening Poem from "From 6 to 9 and Beyond"

Photo by Sequoia Emmanuelle

What does it mean to be Woman with a capital W?

What is it like to pass through the ritual of childhood and squirm down the birth canal, both birthing and being birthed into an expression of mature femininity? What is it like to release our mothers and become our own parents/gurus/mentors/teachers/midwives? How do all these aspects reveal themselves through our own erotic awakening? How do their shadows show up and unconsciously hijack our lives if we are unwilling to visit the basements of our souls?

These questions circle around me as I put on the finishing touches on the first draft of my book, From 6 to 9 and Beyond: Widening the Lens of Feminine Eroticism. In the book, I share the erotic awakening of six feminine archetypes. And while the stories are fictional, many of the events within them are based on my own journey into Womanhood—a journey that is still unfolding.

The process of writing itself is teaching me more than any workshop I could take. My own life has become a crucible for honest self-reflection and growth. These archetypes grab me by the pussy and demand that if I am going to tell their stories, I better damn well love and integrate them into my own life.

And while six archetypes (virgin, whore, warrior, queen, nun, grandmother) is not enough to capture the magnitude of Woman, it is a step towards widening our perspective on how Womanhood, female sexuality and feminine eroticism can express themselves in our world.

Below is the opening poem from the book. This piece emerged recently as I sat in deep meditation with these women.

Whether you identify as predominately masculine, feminine or gender-neutral (for we have all of it within ourselves), I invite you to investigate this question as you read the piece: Who are you as Woman and how does that show up in your own life?

For when She is loved and accepted, all parts of ourselves have space to heal and shine.

Woman

I looked into the mirror today,

Focused on the mystery

Waiting patiently behind the ocular aperture;

Quieted the voices that told me

I should have a smaller waist

And a smoother face.

I asked the question,

“Who is Woman?”

And awaited the ineffable reply.

She first came to me as a dragon’s eye.

“Beware the lower depths,”

She counseled.

I flashed a bravado smile

And asked again,

“Who is Woman?”

Then came the hummingbird,

Flapping her wings

At my arrogant back,

And cautioned,

“Those who ask this question

Must be willing to die.”

Steeling my jaw,

I did not heed her warning,

But demanded once more,

“Who.

Is.

Woman.”

A silent scream ripped though my ears

As her thick-bitter tea joined

My lips in holy prayer.

A face, too beautiful to bear,

Delicate features contrasting my own,

Slashed my vision.

Crumbling to my knees, I cried,

“No! Please! Spare my life!

I will give you anything.”

Hoisting me to my feet, She growled,

“Wake up, Girl. Do not bow to me.

Remember: True Service is not Sycophancy.”

The black blood, pooling between my thighs,

Now rose above my chest,

Flooding my frozen throat.

She whispered, “Your hard heart

Is still learning to let the love in.

Drown the Child and your freedom begins.

The men, they are calling,

Aching to suckle

Your milky breasts.

And when they are grown, they will call,

Aching for you to suckle

Their milky heads.

You can not blame them.

You can only love them.

As I love you.

Surrender.

Surrender.

It is the easiest thing in the world.

It.

Is.

Woman.”

The balm of healing seared,

Ice cold, through my heart,

And panicked blindness gave way to simple sight.

The Virgin appeared before me,

Her innocent gaze teaching me how

To see with fresh eyes.

Next the Whore,

Celebrating her body,

A vessel for divine inspiration.

Then the Warrior,

Bloody blade at her side,

Dripping with uncompromising truth.

Followed by the Queen,

Glittering in gold,

Her power unapologetically adorning her throne.

Afterwards, the Nun,

Prostrated, her twisted fingers

Spelling out her memoir of devotion.

Finally, Abuelita herself,

The Grandmother, wise and wizened,

Birthing and destroying all of creation.

As the riddle unfolded and the veil lifted,

My choked voice gave way to breath

As I inhaled her final words:

“Only trust the bearers of light

Who have also fallen in love

With the dark.”

Salty-sweet tears of recognition

Slid down my mottled cheeks,

Cleansing my bitter soul,

Until I was met,

Once more,

With my own solemn reflection.

I looked into the mirror today,

Focused on the mystery

Waiting patiently behind the ocular aperture;

Quieted the voices that told me

I should have a smaller waist

And a smoother face.

I asked the question,

“Who am I?”

And what I saw was simple:

I am Woman and She is Me.

You are Woman and She is You.

We are Woman and She is We.

First Page of "The Queen"

It's been a while since I've posted on this blog, mainly because the past few months I have been devoting my time to writing my book, From 6 to 9 and Beyond: Widening the Lens of Feminine Eroticism, and focusing less on articles. If you click on the link the title, you will also find an "Updates" page where I have blogging about the writing process. So be sure to head over there and check out all the good stuff I've been up to :)

However, I didn't want to neglect this page, so I am posting the first page from my story about "The Queen" archetype. You can find more on the book's website. Enjoy!

Photo by Sequoia Emmanuelle

Rani Jhadav placed the edge of the chilled glass against her warm lips, tipped back her head and slightly parted her mouth. Bright bubbles tickled the back of her throat, while the dry, cherry flavor of the 2005 Cristal Rosé Brut washed over her tongue. She closed her eyes. After the champagne had sufficiently slaked her thirst, she set the flute back down on the cream and gold-colored cocktail napkin. She glanced down at her Richard Mille 007 Rose Gold Watch, given to her exactly one year ago for her 38^th birthday.

“Twelve twenty-eight,” she noted to herself, the hands pointing towards two small diamonds representing the clock face’s twelve and the six.

She remembered the e-mail verbatim:

Alley

Sit at the bar

12:30 SHARP

Wear a skirt

Xo, Ms. V

Rani recrossed her legs, the smooth cushion of the suede barstool brushing against her bare, mocha thighs. She hooked the left heel of her Louboutin black-and-crystal pump on the bottom rung of her seat.

           “Twelve twenty-nine.”

           Admiring the artist’s penmanship, she softly fingered the paper “Reserved” sign that sat three inches behind her glass. The R snaked under the word “reserved” in thick calligraphy. A similar, yet scripturally unique, sign sat nine inches to her left, saving the empty space next to her.

           “Good thing Ms. V had the foresight to reserve us a spot,” thought Rani, as she glanced around the packed restaurant. Ever since the Gramercy Park bistro opened a little over a year and a half ago, it had been the hot spot for New York City’s wealthy and elite. It was a particular favorite of Rani’s since she could count on it to “wow” her potential investors and business contacts. And it was only two blocks from her Flatiron office.

Plus, she simply adored the care and attention put into every detail of the place—the décor, the cuisine, the wines, the gold-plated napkin rings and handwritten menus—all of it represented simple, yet elegant tastes, while simultaneously fostering an air of familiarity. Even now as she sat in plain sight, sliding her long fingers up and down the stem of her flute, Rani couldn’t help but step inside the intimacy of her experience. Nothing existed but supple flesh on firm glass.

           No sooner had she drifted off than she was startled back to the present by the appearance of a stranger in the seat beside her. She quickly looked at her watch.

          “Twelve-thirty? That was a minute?!” she thought, surprised at how quickly she had lost her sense of temporal perception.

         “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “this seat’s reserved.”

         “I know,” he silkily replied, an impish smile curling around his mouth.

Erotic Lessons from The Nun

Photo by Sequoia Emmanuelle

“I believe in loyalty. We should respect our Church, but never believe that the Church has the last word. The Church is saying “this”, but I believe that sooner or later “this” will change. “This” is not the mind of our Lord. God is all love. It’s a delicate balancing thing. The Church has changed its position over the years, and because the spirit is with the Church, in the end the Church will always get it right. But in the end. The spirit of the Church is the meaning of love, which hasn’t yet, perhaps, been fully understood,”

~ Sister Wendy Beckett on the subject of gay marriage

Most of us rarely hear the words “erotic” and “nun” in the same sentence.

That is, unless, you had a Catholic-school crush that permeated into the current kinks of your daily life.

However, whether you believe in God or not, we all have some form of the erotic nun archetype within ourselves. And while it’s true that nuns do not have sex, that does not mean that they do not have an erotic life.

To the contrary. I believe that many nuns have a rich and powerful connection to their own erotic energy. They’re married to Jesus Christ, for…well…Chrissakes!

First, let me define erotic. Its root word, eros, is Greek in origin and one of its meanings is “love as a fundamental creative impulse.” So while sexuality can be erotic, not everything erotic has to be sexual.

Eroticism is simply an experience of the  world that is alive, vital, flowing, present and deeply connected to the powerful creative energy always surrounding us.

Some people may call that energy orgasm. Other people may call that energy source. Still others may refer to is as kundalini. Nuns call this energy The Holy Spirit. And to devote your life and your creative force in service of this divine energy is truly erotic indeed.

The nun archetype experiences the erotic as God revealing his/her self in every ecstatic moment. In every face. In every sunrise. In every routine chore.

When I think of the embodied erotic nun archetype, I look no further than Sister Wendy Beckett. She’s a South African-born nun who currently resides in England and is best known for her PBS specials where she shares with the audience the history and technical analysis of various paintings and sculptures.

What is evident in her voice is how much awe, reverence and passion she has for art. She speaks with pleasureand delight as she describes the sensual curves of the sky, the fruit, the women and all manner of subjects that the artists choose to express through their work.

“He’s not interested in the static, but in the moment, when things are moving and happening,” says Beckett, almost defining eroticism in her description of Bernini’s sculptures.

In fact, every word that comes out of her mouth seems to be a gourmet delight that she can not wait to share with her viewers. She does not balk in shame or disapproval when sharing the sexual ardor of the nude characters depicted in the paintings.

And the seemingly limitless well of wonder from which she draws is unconditional love for all God’s creatures.

We are, of course, familiar with the unintegrated, shadow aspects of the nun: spiritual narcissism, delusions of grandeur, disgust for things of the “earthly” realm, etc. And though we may be used to associating those aspects with women wearing the habit, they can often show up in our everyday lives: anorexics, sanctimonious “enlightened” gurus and even many “seekers” who can barely take care of their everyday needs all deny themselves pleasure in the pursuit of “purity” and condemn anyone who does not walk their perception of “the right way.”

Our work is to neither reject the nun nor uphold her as the sole source of guidance in our lives; but to listen to her, love her and honor her wisdom with balanced ears.

So let us learn a thing or two from the erotic essence of the nun, such as awe and passion for the greater powers that surround us, no matter how mundane or trivial they may seem.

Let us bow our heads in reverence to the mysteries that influence and guide us every day. Let our work be a prayer for more compassion and an act of service in honor of the divine. And may we all heed her invitation to dance with each other in the name of universal love.

PLAY ON

The Nun’s Poem from the book “From 6 to 9 and Beyond: Widening the Lens of Feminine Eroticism.”

Play on, God.

Play on, Mother Mary.

Play upon the instrument of my rich and fertile body,

So Ripe and Pluck-able.

Play until I sing your praises

In cries of terror and ecstasy,

Forgetting myself

In the remembrance of all that I am,

All that I was,

And all that I will ever be:

Your Divine Grace.

69 Vlogs. 69 Days #62: In The Garden (Poem From My Book)

In the Garden (Poem from my Book) #69vlogs69days

69 Vlogs. 69 Days. #15: The Queen Archetype

A true queen rules through the power of surrender, not through tyranny.

69 Vlogs. 69 Days. #13: The Warrior Archetype

Even though we think of a Warrior as a masculine archetype, women definitely carry the Warrior in them. The Warrior allows us to set boundaries, to mercilessly cut relationships and ways of being that no longer serve us and to use our erotic energy in the focused pursuit of our divine mission.

69 Vlogs. 69 Days. #12: The Grand-Mother Archetype

The Grand-Mother uses her erotic power to create life as well as destroy anything that stands in the way of life flourishing.

69 Vlogs. 69 Days #11: The Nun Archetype

The Nun may not seem like an obvious archetype for a book on eroticism. However, when she uses her prayer to channel the grace of humanity through her body, that can be quite an erotic experience.

69 Vlogs. 69 Days. #10: The Whore Archetype

The Whore Archetype is so much more than simply a desperate "woman for hire." In her full radiance, she represents creative inspiration, generosity and confidence.

69 Vlogs. 69 Days. #9: The Virgin Archetype

Aspects of the virgin archetype as well as a taste from the short story from my book based on her.