It’s curious how normal it is to hear people talk of discomfort, aches, and pains: headaches and sore backs, stiff necks and tired feet, but so much more rare for us to share pleasurable sensations. We talk about feeling relaxed or comfortable, but these descriptions are not as visceral as the way we often describe the less pleasant – shooting, stabbing, dull, burning.
On a very basic level perhaps focusing on pain was important to our survival, but the emphasis we place on much of the discomfort we feel is disproportionate to its lasting effect. It could be that noticing unpleasant sensations more keenly has been vital to our survival as a species, but we also have the capacity to become aware of this and train ourselves to notice pleasure as well.
How different would our experiences be if we were tuned into pleasure more? And if sharing pleasurable sensation, in any context, was more common?
To be able to find out requires us to be able to feel pleasure in the first place – often harder than it sounds when we are out of touch with our bodies (unless they’re in pain). Shame especially can be a particularly large obstacle in the way of allowing us to feel and recognise pleasurable sensation.
Another challenge might be overcoming the vulnerability of joy: the fear of acknowledging that something feels great, that we feel great, in case it doesn’t last.
Obstacles worth overcoming, surely. Perhaps we’d be able to enjoy and appreciate our bodies more, and feel less inclined to try and change them. Maybe we wouldn’t crave external things as often to make us feel good. And sex would be all about enjoying how much pleasure we could feel, instead of focusing on a particular goal.
Certainly we’d be able to enjoy all the tingling, vibrating, bubbly, rippling, fizzing, tickly, gooey goodness.
Sex is often such a shame-filled place, whether we realise it or not, that the easiest expression can be the least authentic one. When we feel a need to compete with others, try to imitate media or porn, or simply hide what we really want, our sexuality is not yet our own.
At best this can leave us frustrated and unfulfilled; at worst, not being in touch with our real desires can leave us vulnerable to having our boundaries broken or compromised.
Questioning some of our patterns of behaviour can be a good place to start. Are these things we’re doing because they are really things we enjoy, that really satisfy us, or because we’re following someone else’s script? In those moments, what’s keeping us from expressing ourselves more authentically?
We don’t need to give away our power by taking anything outside of ourselves as any kind of standard or ideal. In meeting ourselves with compassion and honesty, we can begin to learn that our pleasure and happiness must ultimately come from ourselves, and our sexuality can be our own.
It can be so easy to minimise what we want, think, or need. “I just feel that…” or “I think I’d like to…” instead of “I think” or “I want.” Not wanting to admit or commit means our words come out fuzzy, and we have a get-out clause; we were never that bothered anyway, we weren’t completely sure.
We fail to find the confidence to say what’s really going on, to be direct in saying what’s really true in a way that shows we also know ourselves.
This lack of confidence shows up in other forms too.
“This always happens,” or “I never do that” seem like the opposite on the surface, an over-confident sureness in our conclusion. But this is coming from a similar place: wanting to find a way out, an excuse or reason not to be who we truly are. Not to be occasionally wrong or inconsistent.
In both cases we’re lazily using language to hide behind, as way to cover our tracks and avoid being caught out. Either by never fully committing to a position in the first place, or by preventing us from seeing alternatives: only ever allowing one possibility, in case different outcomes mean failure or change.
Noticing both of these habits – and especially if they’re habits – can be a first step towards finding the places where we don’t feel confident in showing ourselves.
Beginning to change these language patterns can have a real impact on our thoughts and perceptions, and allow us to communicate with more confidence – both in our convictions and our fallibility.
Polyamory is the sometimes challenging, often liberating, and almost always unpredictable practice of having multiple simultaneous intimate, sexual relationships with different people. It’s becoming more popular. New dating apps cater specifically to non-monogamists, and more mainstream apps are beginning to include features for those seeking a polyamorous relationship. There are meetups and munches, conferences and communities.
Types of Polyamorous Relationships
On a practical level, different people do polyamory in different ways. Many of them have their own subcategories. Solo poly folks enjoy relationships without any expectation of merging their lives in many of the ‘traditional’ ways such as living together or combining finances. Kitchen table polyamory denotes constellations where everyone involved – partners, lovers, metamours – is able to sit down at the same table and enjoy each others’ company. Relationship Anarchists prefer to eschew all unnecessary hierarchy among their partners, whereas others will name a primary partner who always has priority among other lovers, or describe themselves as “monogamish”.
The common factor among all of these ways of approaching relationships is the belief that romantic love, sexuality, and partnership don’t have to be confined to only one other. And why should they? We don’t treat any other form of love this way – we love friends, family members, and pets without any fear that loving more than one will cheapen the love we have for others. We understand in this context that love is not a finite resource.
A (Brief) History of Polyamory
According to Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality by Christopher Ryan (well worth a read), the ‘traditional’ approach of only having one partner at a time only came into being around 10,000 years ago – quite recently, in relative terms. Before this we were nomadic hunter-gatherers, living in tribes, enjoying promiscuous sex and not worrying about which children belonged to whom. Sexual intimacy was enjoyed playfully and openly, as a shared resource, strengthening bonds within the group.
The advent of agriculture brought a huge cultural shift, and with it came an incentive to know who our children were so that we could be sure they inherited the land and wealth we had begun to accumulate. And so we began to marry.
The “default settings” we’ve mostly been living ever since – the narrative of dating, then agreeing some form of exclusivity, moving in, and finally marrying – is a reassuring script to be able to fall back on. Engaging in polyamorous relationships forces me to eschew this progression and really feel into what I want, both in my life generally and with each new person I meet. Do I want hierarchy, or as little of it as possible? How much energy do I want and need to spend with the people closest to me? How much intimacy do I want with each person? This process is both liberating and occasionally exhausting.
What Does Polyamorous Mean?
There are clearly other things that define polyamory, besides simply the practice of having multiple relationships at once. For me it signifies a throwing out of this script: I no longer have to go along with the main narrative I’ve been exposed to my whole life about what relationships “should” look like. I can take each relationship on its own terms and define it however I like, and I get to create something new with every new person.
Perhaps this means only seeing them once a month or so with limited contact in-between, or perhaps they become a close friend who I catch up with often and can rely on. Maybe they’re in another country and we enjoy intimacy when we’re occasionally sharing physical space, or maybe we move in the same social circles and share many mutual friends and lovers.
How Polyamory Works
A polyamorous relationship is therefore built on an awful lot of honest communication, and a willingness for everyone involved to process their own desires and fears. I need to be truthful not only with myself about what I really want in my relationships, but I must be able to communicate this to those I’m in relationship with, too – even if they are casual lovers, even if what I need to say might end the relationship.
Fear, too, needs to be recognised and welcomed. So many of us grew up learning that we must jealously guard our partner, that any attraction to third parties threatens – and may necessarily end – our relationship. We learn to find safety and security in monogamy, but this is false.
Monogamous relationships can still end for all sorts of reasons, and remaining exclusive to each other doesn’t really protect against any of the things we fear. The only difference with polyamory is that we make these fears explicit.
As Willow Smith said recently:
“That insecurity and fear is something that we need to overcome and something that we need to evolve out of and transmute that into something new and different that can actually be helpful and make us love more and more freely… Monogamy, I feel, actually inhibits you from learning those skills of evolving past those feelings of insecurity and jealousy.”Willow Smith
Polyamorous relationships, when done successfully, force us to confront the things we’re scared of in a much more immediate way than monogamous commitments. Perhaps I feel anxious if I know that my partner is on a date with another person, scared that I will be abandoned – even if there is no evidence to support this. Bringing this up when we’re next together, naming it and acknowdging it as part of my experience can help to remove its power. Perhaps there’s something my partner is willing to do to help, even if it’s as simple as offering reassurance.
Relating in this way also encourages me to become more self-reliant, which seems a little counter-intuitive in the context of having multiple intimate partners.
One of the first arguments many people make in favour of polyamory is how great it is not to have to rely on one person for all of their needs (and likewise not have them rely on us for everything either). The tricky side of this is that my partners are not always available to me in a way which I enjoyed in monogamous relationships. If a partner is spending a weekend with another lover, then they are unavailable to me for a couple of days. I have to know that I have a solid network of friends (platonic, romantic, or otherwise) in case I need company or emotional support. And in the worst-case scenario that no-one is around, I know will be ok on my own for a little while.
As someone who has a history of losing myself in another at the expense of investing time in friendships, this has been a helpful lesson to learn. It’s nudged me forcibly in the direction of finding and building my own communities.
Relating openly, practicing polyamory, means being able to own all of our jealousy, fear, and anxiety and discuss it with those we love, trusting that it won’t necessarily end our relationship. It means being able to grow through these challenges and learn how to really understand what we want and how to care for ourselves. And finally, of course, it means being able also to express the love and affection we have for all of the people we’re close to, in the ways it feels most authentic for us to do so.
There’s a certain bitter irony in noticing that the times when life is most full and chaotic are probably the times when keeping up with a daily meditation practice would be most beneficial. I spent much of last Winter hibernating: the first two hours of each day I’d spend on a long routine which included movement, touch, seated meditation, and breathwork. I’d go to bed early in the evenings, after another meditation if I felt like it (I often did), and rinse and repeat the next day.
The problem is that this wasn’t very conducive to doing, well, anything much else with my life. It was wonderful while it lasted; at times it felt like I was on my own solitary retreat, save for the hours I spent in the office. But the days began to get longer and warmer, and new projects started, and I missed having a social life.
The challenge in recent months has been finding balance. I don’t have the luxury of many hours each day to meditate any more (as, I suspect, very few of us do). It’s been easy to fall into thinking that not having all this time means that I can’t do anything at all. My daily meditation practice was so structured for that period that anything less, or different, can easily feel like a waste.
This, I remind myself, is a little daft, because all the wisdom I have read and heard so far agrees that a small effort every day is far more beneficial than occasional longer sessions. A familiar lesson I first learned in the gym: consistency always wins (all the best advice is really very dull, as it turns out).
Of course, as with the gym, or any other positive habit you want to include into an already full life, discipline is key. The habit or practice you’re wanting to build is only half of the equation; the other half is the practice of practicing.
I have gone from having almost all the time in the world to meditate, to planning a move to a different city and preparing for temporary couchsurfing, figuring out which days I can sleep where, organising to send as many of my belongings into storage as possible, and all while holding down the last few weeks of a full-time job (and maintaining a social life). It’s as good a time to practice as any.
Here are some things that help me:
1. Give Yourself Options for Daily Meditation Practices
Days when I feel less motivation are characterised by a sense of either, “I just don’t feel like it” or “I don’t have time.” Usually when I feel this way I’m imagining a 20 minute sit and noticing how little my body wants to be that still for that long.
Over the years I’ve explored a few different practices. What my favourites all have in common is that they all allow me to bring my focus back to my body, help me to learn to feel more, and give me the space to slow down. Many of them don’t involve sitting on a cushion, which means I have options. If I feel I need some movement, I can spend some time with a movement or pleasure practice. If sitting feels tiring, I can do some breathwork lying down. And if I am up for a seated meditation then I have a few of those to choose from, too, depending on where I feel I need to focus.
I find it challenging to not get hung up on what I should be doing (because it’s been my routine in the past, or because I feel one practice is “better” than another), but the truth is that any of these practices serve my intentions and being able to choose from a few options means that I’m far more likely to practice every day, whatever my circumstance or mood.
My top three different, five-minutes-no-excuses practices when time is short and energy is low:
- Five minutes of moving my body however it wants to move. No music, just listening to what I feel.
- Five minutes of box breathing, either lying down or sitting.
- Five minutes of seated somatic meditation, focusing on where I feel the breath in my body and what sensations I notice there.
2. Focus on What You Enjoy
I have the advantage now of having seen the benefits of a regular practice, and that often serves as a motivation for me when I need it. It’s trickier if you’re just starting out, though. It can be helpful to remember why you want this habit in your life in the first place, or what it is about meditating that you do enjoy. Perhaps your body feels grateful for the attention, or perhaps you love the alone time.
Find your reason for doing what you want to do, and use that as a motivation.
3. Make Daily Meditation Work With Your Existing Routine
Are there moments during your day where you could already practice some breathwork, or focusing your attention inwards? A daily commute, while you’re doing the washing up, while you’re walking the dog… Meditation doesn’t have to happen while you’re sitting on the cushion, and turning the mundane stuff into a conscious daily practice is valuable too.
Even using some breathwork or meditation as a short routine right before sleep can be a wonderful way help wind down and relax.
4. Just Phone It In
This is a very useful and valid strategy. Make a commitment to do something every day, even if it’s as simple as watching your breath for five minutes. Some days you’ll feel more motivated than others, and that’s fine; the point is that you’re building the habit by making that small effort every day, no matter how half-arsed.
Practice compassion for yourself, and avoid judging your efforts, no matter how small they are. Doing a little bit every day is still enormously worthwhile.
I recently had a conversation with a friend about how ironically lonely it could be to have polyamorous relationships. Or, perhaps more specifically, even to be part of the polyamorous community. Not to mention how hard coping with that loneliness could be.
They agreed, and offered the observation that being on the edge of something can be lonelier than not being involved at all. It strikes me that if those of us who can theoretically have as many relationships as we want struggle with loneliness, it must be a function of something deeper than our connections with others.
I can see echoes of this all over my personal life: how much harder it is when most of my poly friends have relationships and I don’t; how I’d much rather know quite a bit about my lovers’ or partners’ other connections than letting my mind fill in the blanks; how much I struggle with the grey areas of being on the edges of relationship.
The thing is, it’s so easy to not be alone. Or rather, it’s so easy to take small actions that will temporarily quench the loneliness we feel, but that don’t have the depth or the connection or the commitment or presence to really feel satisfying. I am talking, of course, about posting on Instagram, swiping on Tinder, snooping on Fetlife… Whatever our particular preference for non-committal, at-arms-length connection.
I should be clear that it’s not necessarily the medium here that’s the problem. These channels can be extremely useful when used mindfully. But their ubiquitousness, their lack of friction, and the deliberate way they demand our attention create a situation where we can find it incredibly hard to get our needs really met, while believing we have over and over again.
I have one person in my life who is definitely not a texter. At first, I was a little disappointed at how uneasy I felt not to be in as frequent contact with him as I am with other people I’m close to. I could feel stories starting to play out in my mind about how it’s only me that they don’t text, and that there was something wrong with me. Because I didn’t want this to build to resentment, I decided to knock this on the head and bring it up with him.
After much hand-wringing over the best way to word it I blurted out,
“You’re a bad texter!”
Not my most eloquent moment. But it did start a conversation about our different communication styles, and for me it raised an issue that has bubbled away for a little while in my mind, about how I can tend to seek validation through less-committal forms of communication like texting and social media engagement. I’ve had friendships and relationships that have involved texting every day, and I remember noticing how obligatory this communication sometimes felt, how much more we had to actually talk about after giving ourselves, occasionally, some space from one another.
My bad-texting friend, on the other hand, prefers to call. This means that, every so often, we will commit to being present with each other throughout a conversation, the unspoken agreement being that we will say goodbye and end the exchange explicitly when either of us would prefer to be doing something else. I’m down for more of this style of talking.
I can remember when texting and MySpace were novelties. When most of my socialising happened in person or on a landline. I wonder whether I still had the same need for validation and reassurance then; I suspect it’s a need that has grown with these new communication styles, and the unwitting voyeurism that Facebook and Instagram coaxes out of us.
It would be easy for me to talk about turning your phone off more often, or deleting apps, or all the other methods for combatting this that so many people have said better than me before. While useful for interrupting habitual behaviour perhaps, these solutions feel like they are only treating symptoms.
How do we learn to be satisfied with ourselves, confident that we are enough, and able to feel secure without needing to seek validation through constant contact with others?
So How Do We Learn to Cope with Loneliness?
Roan Coughtry recently wrote about how we can find this sense of security in ourselves by being unapologetically ourselves: overcoming a fear of abandonment by never abandoning our own needs and wants. Allowing ourselves to be seen and heard. I certainly know that this is something I would like to be better at, and I wonder whether developing my capacity for being with the discomfort of asking for what I want might help me to feel more secure.
I’m also aware that it’s a fear of abandonment and loneliness that often prevents me from speaking my wants in the first place. It seems to me that the only way to break such a pattern is by changing my behaviour, and the only behaviour in this instance that it would be helpful to change would be to be more honest with others in speaking up.
There’s another piece to this too, though. A deeper questioning of what it is that we are asking others to do for us in our loneliness: to distract us? To reassure us? To hear our insecurities?
I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with requesting these things, as long as we understand what we’re doing and speak about them honestly. A process of noticing what it is we want to be distracted from, what we need reassuring about, which insecurities we need to speak. Otherwise, our loneliness can overwhelm us and leave us chasing after something that never quite helps – such as more frequent and superficial contact with someone – because we’re unwilling to look at the real fears underneath it.
There are two things I’ve discovered while learning how to be vulnerable recently: it’s really fucking hard, and really fucking worth it.
I could never have known how to be vulnerable through most of my twenties; I’m not sure I really knew what vulnerability was. Or perhaps I did, I just didn’t realise that sharing my softest parts could lead to more depth in my relationships.
The thing with allowing yourself to be vulnerable is that it allows the most scared, fragile, and young parts of you to be seen, and this process of showing all of ourselves to those we love is what creates the most real intimacy.
With hindsight, I can see now that resisting allowing my vulnerability to be seen only lead to more anxiety: not talking about what I need in a relationship in order to feel safe meant that my needs were not met out of fear of losing the other person. Failing to honour those needs resulted in relationships where I could never grow, ultimately ending in a feeling of stagnation and resentment.
Here are some of the ways I am learning to become friends with showing my vulnerabilities (it’s a work in progress).
How To Be Vulnerable… Slowly & Gently
You can start small. Perhaps a new romantic relationship isn’t the best playground to start exploring your vulnerability right away if it’s not something you’re used to doing; start with friendships that feel secure, and topics that feel only a little edgy.
What things would you not want your friend to know about you? Is there anything you’re ashamed of, scared of, or anxious about that you could consider talking with your friend about, as an exercise in sharing something vulnerable with them?
It can be interesting to notice how you feel in the friendship after trying this. In my experience, sharing something difficult and being seen and heard in that way brings me closer to that person, and leaves me with gratitude for our connection. Usually for me, fear of speaking my vulnerability comes from a fear that the person will disappear if I do. Practicing doing this with someone trusted, and with topics that are unlikely to compromise the friendship, allows me to start understanding that vulnerability doesn’t have to lead to abandonment or rejection.
Speak Your Vulnerability
Once you’re feeling a a little more comfortable with consciously sharing vulnerabilities with people you already feel secure with, you can bring those practices a little more ‘into the wild’. Stumbling into a feeling of vulnerability with someone who matters to us, unintentionally, can be scary and triggering. There are tools we can use to use these situations to create deeper intimacy, instead of feeling that we need to run away, freeze up, or fight.
This can be as simple as saying, “I feel really vulnerable right now.” Sometimes this is all that is needed to begin to pull us out of an unhelpful place and into somewhere where we have more opportunity to vocalise what’s going on for us. Being able to voice the impact of the situation – that we’re feeling scared, or anxious – can give us a little space to decide whether we want to explore this further, or whether we need to take care of ourselves by moving away, if possible.
In my experience, telling someone close to us that we’re feeling vulnerable engenders more trust and honesty from their side, and a desire to understand and help if possible. Ultimately, if we want it to, this can lead to more productive and intimate conversations.
Use a Reality Check
It’s always possible to ask yourself, no matter how anxious or scared you’re feeling, “am I safe right now?”
Noticing that the answer is “yes” can be a necessarily calming thing when feeling particularly vulnerable, especially when practicing sharing things that we feel anxious about.
Often the things I’m feeling most scared over are fairly irrational, if not almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, and so reminding myself that I am ultimately safe is a helpful reminder of perspective.
Develop a Support Network
It’s much easier to be vulnerable if we know that we have supportive folks around us. The (often irrational) feeling that we’re risking one relationship by showing our darkest sides can seem less scary if we know we have others with whom we can be fully ourselves.
This doesn’t happen overnight, of course. But beginning to foster friendships built on allowing vulnerability, and a community where the tough stuff is just as welcome as the joy, is a really valuable thing. For me it means that there are always people – whether I’ve known them for years or only a couple of months – who welcome my vulnerability, anger, fear, or grief, and with whom I can practice speaking it, sharing it, and processing it if I need to.
Know Why You Want to be Vulnerable
The reason I put so much energy into identifying my vulnerabilities and sharing them with those I love is that it allows for deeper connection. It’s a sign of trust, of self-knowledge, and of how much I value the relationship: so highly, that I want this person to see every part of me.
This isn’t only relevant for people you’re already close to, though. Meeting strangers with the vulnerability of admitting, “I’m new and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” or, “I’m lost, can you help?” or, “I’m feeling really nervous right now” can instantly create a much more honest connection, and invite the other person to share deeper parts of themselves, too.
Be Clear On Your Boundaries
This is perhaps the most important thing of all. Being able to identify and communicate boundaries allows us to open up with others, because we can feel safe in knowing where our limits are.
For me, one of my most vulnerable places is in anger. Sharing anger with those I care about, when that anger is directed at them, feels particularly edgy because this is where I am most fearful they would walk away from our relationship. And yet anger is such an important feeling, often necessary for setting and upholding boundaries. One of my biggest challenges recently has involved learning to allow this anger, and the vulnerability I feel in expressing the boundaries it signifies for me, trusting that those I love won’t disappear as a result (so far, so good).
Being over-vigilant with boundaries keeps people out; we never allow ourselves to be vulnerable out of fear or shame. Conversely, if we don’t hold our boundaries at all then we put ourselves at risk of being compromised. The balance is in knowing our needs – how much of ourselves we can give, how much capacity we have, how we need others to treat us – and feeling confident in communicating this to others.
The confidence in knowing that we can look after ourselves, without relying on others to care for us, frees us up to share our vulnerable, fearful sides. This is because we’re doing so from a baseline of self-responsibility. We can seek deeper intimacy through sharing our challenges, knowing that we are already enough.
Whether you’re into floggers and rope or vanilla as it gets, there’s a lot to be learned about communication, boundaries, and consent from those in the BDSM community. Although these may not be the first things many people think about when asked what makes for the most memorable encounters, they can make sex so much better if we get good at them.
So why is that?
One thing I’ve learned during my own explorations is that relaxation is everything when it comes to pleasure. And in order to relax, we need to feel safe.
If there’s one thing experienced BDSM enthusiasts know about, it’s safety. Knowing how to ensure everyone is as safe as possible is absolutely vital when experimenting with bondage, intense sensation, and other activities which could cause real physical (and emotional) harm.
Here are a handful of ways those in the BDSM scene ensure safety – and therefore also relaxation, and ultimately pleasure.
Talk About What You Want
Responsible BDSM players will only engage with others who are able to clearly speak their wants, needs, boundaries, and limits before they begin a scene. When people’s physical and emotional safety is at hand, it’s vital to be able to know that your partner knows their limits and has communicated them clearly with you.
Even when you’re not tying each other up or playing with extreme sensation, being able to voice your needs is so valuable. It can feel vulnerable and tough to admit to what you want, especially with those whose opinion matters most. But being able to do this can only make sex better; it’s unfair to assume that our lovers can read our minds and know what we want, or what our limits are.
Being able to be vulnerable and intimate in this way, and showing all of our desires, encourages our lovers to open up to us, too. This is how intimacy begins: by allowing all of ourselves to be seen by those we trust, our desires as well as our limits.
Talk About What you Need
Alongside being able to discuss your wants, you can also think about what you need to feel safe, to be able to relax and enjoy. If you’re negotiating a BDSM scene you might be asked by your partner about what aftercare you may need once it’s over. Do you need contact, cuddles, a particular food or drink? What about a check-in the next day?
This doesn’t only have to apply to experiences that include extreme sensation and power play. Perhaps we would like to request a text from the person the following day, or lots of cuddling afterwards. Maybe you need them to spend the night afterwards.
Being able to identify what you need, and ask for it, helps to remove anxieties over whether our needs will be met. And discussing these in advance also helps to filter out people who cannot meet our needs.
Establish Safe Words
It can be so easy to ‘tolerate’ touch; to allow our lovers to do what they’re doing without correcting them or asking for something different, out of fear of rejection, abandonment, or shame over our true desires.
Sometimes in the moment it’s far too much to specifically ask for something else. Being in this place of noticing you’re not enjoying what’s happening but feeling frozen or stuck and unable to ask for something else can be unpleasant and triggering.
In these moments it can be helpful to have a safe word. Many people who indulge in BDSM use a traffic light system, with red meaning stop and orange meaning a check-in is needed, and that can be helpful here. Or, to make it a little more gentle, I like to adopt the word ‘pause’ (thanks to Rachael Maddox for that one). I explain to my lovers that when I say pause, it means just that: we pause what we’re doing, we cuddle, we give me some space to feel in to what’s not working and figure out what I’d like instead. This might be a massage or a cup of tea.
Safe words are so helpful because they allow us to interrupt whatever pattern is currently playing out. Instead of getting caught up in the stories of what may happen if we ask to stop or ask for something different, we can use a different word to communicate that something needs to change, even if we’re not quite sure what yet.
Sex Can Mean Different Things
In the vanilla, hetero-normative world of sex, the definition of what ‘counts’ is often fairly limited. And if those few activities don’t work for you then it’s easy to feel like the sex you have isn’t valid or good enough.
We can learn from the creativity of the BDSM community. As a well-used saying goes, “Your kink isn’t my kink (but your kink is ok).” People come up with all kinds of ways to enjoy each other’s bodies and minds outside of the conventional narratives, and in doing so liberate themselves and their partners to enjoy sex on their own terms.
If the sex you’re having isn’t working for you, maybe it’s time to question whether you’re only engaging in particular activities because you feel it’s what sex ‘should’ look like. You get to decide what works for you (and it doesn’t have to involve kink).
Learn New Skills
If you want to be able to tie someone up Japanese rope bondage style, and do it safely, then you’re going to have to ask someone to teach you. Likewise, there are countless workshops teaching all kinds of skills in playing with extreme sensation and power dynamics. Within BDSM there are always new ways to learn new skills if that’s what you’re into.
Why should vanilla sex be any different? What skills could help us to make sex better with our lovers? And how could this attitude of wanting to learn help us?
Firstly, a keenness to learn about our partners’ bodies is a great place to start – without going with a fixed script or approaching the exercise with judgement. There are all sorts of other communities too who teach techniques you can use to help develop intimacy with yourself and the other, and relax into feeling more pleasure. Explorations into Taoist methods and neo-tantra can help us to feel more into our sexual energy, for example, and bring us more in tune with both ours and our partner’s needs.
Ultimately, all of these practices we can learn from the BDSM community are in place to keep everyone involved safe. And when we’re feeling safe, we feel more able to relax and open more of ourselves, which is key to deepening intimacy and more fulfilling sex.
Last year I was asked the question over and over again, “what do you want?”
The truest answer I gave was, “to learn to feel more deeply.”
I’ve had an on-and-off meditation practice for over ten years, and while I appreciated learning to focus my awareness and develop compassion, it never felt very connected to my immediate experience. I was never taught to go into my body and feel what was there, as an embodied practice.
For me, being unable to feel into myself cuts me off from many things. It makes it hard to make the best decisions for myself, because I think through everything instead of understanding my needs from a deeper place. Thinking through things instead of feeling into them leaves me susceptible to getting caught up in stories around what I ‘should’ want.
Disconnection from my body also makes it harder to notice pleasure, or for pleasure to be reduced to a very narrow type of sexual pleasure: a type that relies primarily on tension and urgency. Becoming more aware of how my body feels from the inside not only enhances more relaxed, expanded forms of sexual pleasure, but also opens me up to noticing many other pleasurable sensations that aren’t necessarily related to sex. And the more I notice, the more there is.
Learning to feel more deeply means turning up the dial on the rough as well as the smooth, though. For me, this meant allowing myself to go deep into the panic and really feel it from the inside, and allow myself to grieve. It hurt, and it felt lonely. There was anger and frustration there that I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before, and I could feel it now. For a long time, whenever I meditated, I felt a tight, dense knot in the centre of my chest. Every time I noticed it I pushed it away, not wanting to allow that discomfort, not wanting to admit to contraction and tightness.
Eventually I began to understand that feeling anything there at all was a sign that I was indeed learning to feel more deeply, and I began to accept it as part of the process. As soon as I approached it in this way instead it began to loosen. The memory of that moment reminds me to accept discomfort now in my practice.
So how can we learn to feel more, and develop a more embodied awareness of ourselves?
1. Practice Compassion
First of all, we must be in a place where we can accept everything we feel, or might feel, without trying to suppress it or judge ourselves for it. We must understand that learning to feel ourselves will mean allowing for the anger and grief as well as the pleasure and joy, and feeling challenging emotions or sensations can be taken as a sign that we are making progress. It’s a way of practicing intimacy with ourselves; allowing all of our experience to be seen, acknowledging it, and meeting it with kindness.
There are many ways to go about this, but my favourite is through an acknowledgment that the ‘negative’ feelings are there for a reason. We feel anger to keep us safe. Feeling grief is proof that we are capable of forming deep, emotional attachments, and it also teaches us about what’s important to us. Viewing difficult feelings in this way can help us to accept and welcome them.
2. Notice Background Pleasure
This is a simple practice that Michaela Boehm talks about often in her podcast. Throughout the day, whenever you remember, and no matter what you’re doing, feel for some pleasure. Even if you’re uncomfortable or a little too cold, or your foot’s gone to sleep, find some place in your body that feels good, and focus your attention there for a moment.
Making this a daily habit helps to keep our attention more in our whole bodies, as well as tuning us in to the pleasure we can feel.
3. Practice Embodied, Active Listening
Noticing how our bodies respond while we’re in conversation can be a really helpful way to connect with others more deeply, as well as ourselves, in a more embodied way. We’re being given so much information, all the time, by what we can feel – even if it’s numbness.
Next time you have a conversation see if you can feel any sensations while you’re listening. Is your body echoing emotions that the other person is displaying? Or are you getting a more felt sense of your own attitudes towards the person? Perhaps you’re able to pick up on what the other person is feeling before they’ve even made it explicit.
Practice noticing this experience that your whole body has in the presence of another person, without judging or attaching stories to feelings that come up.
4. Discover Your Somatic Markers
It’s called a ‘gut feeling’ for a reason. Our body can give us so much information about our needs if we pay attention, but it can take a little time to tune in to this wisdom if we’re not used to listening to it.
We can develop this sense through practice. One way I like to do this is to start with fairly inconsequential things: what kind of tea would I like to drink right now? There’s always a story attached (I never drink peppermint tea in the morning… I’m trying to drink less caffeine… last time I drank camomile tea I was too sleepy afterwards…) so it becomes a practice of gently moving my attention away from these thoughts and towards how my body feels. Does anything light up inside when I think about each option? Do I feel any closing or opening? Do these senses conflict with the stories my mind is playing through?
A helpful way to use this for me recently has involved decisions around how I spend my time; whether I really want to go out and be sociable, or whether I’m feeling obligated and actually I’d much rather stay home. Often I’ll know I’d rather take some me time when the thought of running a bath leads to a feeling of openness and relaxation in my belly.
Conversely, for me, agreeing to do something with someone who my body knows will drain too much of my energy right now is often indicated by a subtle tightness in my chest, a sensation of wanting to pull away, or a dropping sensation in my belly. I can notice these feelings in other situations too, and recognise them as a sign that I may not be doing the best thing for myself.
This is very much an ongoing journey for me, and sometimes it’s not possible or appropriate to do as my body says in this way. But developing and maintaining this sense is extremely helpful for when it is needed, and opens me up to being more present with my body and its needs.
I read a quote recently which really stuck with me:
“People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them and their response is ‘you’re safe with me’ – that’s intimacy.”Taylor Jenkins Reid
Before I’d really given it much further thought, I suppose I would have said that ‘intimacy’ between two people meant a kind of sexual closeness; intimate massage, intimate relationship, intimate touch. ‘Intimacy’ becomes one of many euphemisms for sexuality without us having to think twice about whether it’s actually separate, and whether we can seek out one without the other in our relationships.
I’m certain I’m not alone in having proven many times how easy it is to engage in sex without intimacy. Which makes it all the more curious to me that it’s one of the words so often used to refer to types of bodywork that involve genital touch, or relationships that include sexual contact, regardless of any of the other dynamics between those involved.
What Is Intimacy, If It’s Not Sex?
Modern usage of the words intimate and intimacy date back to the late 19th Century, when newspapers used the word euphemistically to refer to sex (and women’s underwear). But it comes originally from Latin intimare meaning, “to make known, announce, impress,” which in turn came from intimus meaning “inmost, deepest.” Its roots are much more closely aligned with Taylor Jenkins Reid’s sense than today’s conflation with genitalia and sex.
Or are these two things – allowing ourselves to be known, and speaking about sexuality – really so separate after all? Our sexuality is so often the place where we hold the most shame, fear, and vulnerability. Wounds run deep here, and take time to heal, if we are able to even become conscious of them in the first place. Allowing ourselves to engage sexually with another, even to be naked in front of them, can require a huge amount of trust that we will be seen, along with all our anxieties, and feel safe.
There is an alternative to this of course, which is to never show all of ourselves to avoid the risk of rejection or abandonment, but sacrificing any chance of intimacy along the way. The conflation of sex with intimacy can lead to lots of very unfulfilling encounters, desperately wanting to be seen but being held back by fear, all the while substituting physical closeness for something that feels deeper.
Just as shame over sex caused newspapers 100 years ago to use ‘intimacy’ as a euphemism, our shame today causes us to confuse the two, seeking out sex when what we’re really craving is the intimacy of being seen.
Could we explore decoupling intimacy from sex, and learn how to feel safe while allowing ourselves to be seen first, before we engage sexually? Practice speaking our vulnerabilities before we introduce tangling limbs and sweaty requests for water?
Could we practice more intimacy in our non-sexual relationships, and notice what happens if we speak our immediate truth, with all the awkwardness and vulnerability of admitting that we’re frightened, or hurt, or excited?
Perhaps. But how do we go about this? How do we begin to understand what intimacy really is, and create more of it?
The first thing to know is that it starts with ourselves. We can’t just ask for more honesty and truth from another; we have to open ourselves up first. And before we can do that, we need to know ourselves. We have to practice intimacy with ourselves before we can ever hope to create something with someone else. What are you most scared of? What are you avoiding, and how? What are your most unhelpful patterns and habits?
Becoming better acquainted with all the gnarly, difficult stuff – and meeting it with compassion – means that we are able to bring all of this to our relationships in a conscious way. Instead of reacting out of fear without understanding why, we can speak about our vulnerabilities with those we feel closest to. In allowing these darker parts of ourselves to be seen, we can experience the kind of intimacy that comes from allowing another to see all of us while knowing we are still safe.