Erotic Envisioning: Gooey, Alive and Wet with Wonder

The resistance that comes up when the erotic is mentioned is something many of us can relate to. You’re probably feeling it in your body. Your mind might be saying that’s not true, but resistance has giveaways: a tight chest, shallow breathing, a tingling fuzz in your upper arms. You might even be ready to close this email. You don’t have time for this, after all. And my friend, I get it. You could start by dropping your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

The erotic isn’t inherently sexual. It can be, but not necessarily.  You’re likely more familiar with the pre-packaged, sold - often cheap - consume, discard, repeat fast fashion cycle of the pornographic and its suppression of true feeling. That one we could talk about until the cows come home.

The slow-pulsing spirit of eroticism? We’re not even taught to recognise it, let alone speak of it. I suppose it’s hard to capture and package such unassuming strength. And even if we could, who would be our villains?

If we reinstated the erotic to its rightful place as a source of knowing, creativity, and power, would we lose a whole pantheon of wicked women? Or would we gain some unlikely heroes?

Could we dare remember Jezebel as a woman who protected her people’s heritage, or is she forever destined to be shorthand for the sexually immoral?

I went through a period of feeling creatively and sensually constipated. Food and music had lost their lustre. I had no creative drive. You’d think that working so intimately with the creative and sensual wellbeing of others, I’d be immune to such a drought. But alas — it was that very work that caught me in its mechanics.

So I joined a three-month programme: The Erotic Playground. A space where, with others, we explored, remembered, and redefined our erotic selves. All of this in the safety of strangers without the performance or pressure that comes with sharing such things with partners.

One of the invitations was to reflect on our erotic vision, and sit with whatever sensations arose in our bodies. And honestly? The first time I sat down to do it, I opened my email instead. I had other things to do, don’t we all? 
It felt indulgent. Frivolous. And not the chocolate kind either.

When was the last time you really sat with your erotic self, the feminine, creative, intuitive part of you? The part that has been collectively denigrated and relegated to the recesses of the mind, not even given the dignity of exposure in the bedroom. How can you invite in what you don’t understand, or don’t even know is there?

The difficulty of articulating the erotic lies in its nature, it isn’t linear. It is vast. As mystical and mysterious as it is intimate. Like the oceans of our Earth, we know and understand only a fraction of their depths.

How, pray tell, is one meant to describe something so immense?

I stalled. I felt intimidated. I didn’t have the time. The excuses piled up until it became embarrassing. But a snapshot of a snapshot, that I could manage. I softened into the task. Because in its motion and fecundity, the erotic is wise and expressive.

I created something in the end.

But more than anything, I want to ask you:

Where does the erotic live in your body?
What happens when you ask yourself: What feels pleasurable today?
What if pleasure shaped your decisions,  your morning, your rituals, your pace?
What if you stopped seeing the erotic as extra or indulgent, and instead saw it as essential?

What shifts when you let the erotic thrive?

What might happen if you looked at your entire life through an erotic lens, your work, your relationships, your art, your choices?

Does it make you melt?
Does it make you throb?
Does it make you feel gooey, alive, wet with wonder?

This is not frivolous work.
This is soul work.
This is the life force.

What do you hear when you listen to your erotic self?