This far, the closest I have ever come to experiencing full awe in my passion for sadomasochism and esoteric eroticism has been in the rituals I have created. You will read more about them at the end of this book. However, the thing with such elaborate rituals is their scarcity – they are few and far between. You’ll likely only participate in a handful before death finds you. Therefore, instead of counting too much on rare, paradigm-shifting events, it’s worthwhile to commit yourself to a specific, everyday practice and make sacrifices in the present to benefit your future self. As we’ve discussed before, this can be also done on a symbolic level. The symbols presented in sadomasochistic play are to be valued as meaningful gifts.
How dedication expresses itself varries immensely between different rituals and it’s often hard to predict. One time, friends and I created a grand ritual along the theme of meeting places. We transformed an old theatre into various realistic scenes, such as a park bench under a street light, a dirty and broken toilet, a Freudian clinic, and a banker’s office displaying a massive painting of the old man. Strict rules were enforced, including a ban on physical interaction off-stage. The mood was abstract, dream-like, and hesitant, with a sincere commitment to play. One of the live musicians suggested that they were in a church the moon, and their dedication became delicate and serene.
At the next ritual, the theme was repetition, and the architecture of the same theatre reflected this by representing the cyclical structure of time rather than the division of space. Periodically, the room would fade to black, and the music would transform into noise, symbolising death. All visitors would then return to their original, fixed position in the venue, becoming one giant statue of human bodies frozen in time, waiting to be reborn. With new lighting and music, there was another opportunity to dedicate oneself again, perhaps in the same way, or entirely differently. The repetition created a sense of safety, allowing participants to explore deeper each time, eventually leading to physical intimacy and carnal love-making.
Together we created what could basically be termed an orgy. It’s the best word I can come up with to describe it. The same musicians who were there described it as a sinful, lust-filled Hieronymous Bosch-like landscape of the kind of hell your church pastor might warn you about. It was damp and decadent compared to the bright, spacious moon. But what made it special to me, was the inclusion of mystery, creativity and vulnerability. Those ingredients that simply put me in awe.
I must admit here that plain sex bores me
Maybe it’s because one of the biggest taboos people explore in rituals is the public display of sexuality. Usually, in these rituals, participants don’t go ‘all the way’. In a swingers party, however, there is usually no mystery, no creativity, no vulnerability. Or I never found it awe inspiring when I performed rope bondage to entertain high society swingers. These parties might be disguised as sadomasochistic but the goal is still just plain old fucking.
Most consider fucking to be the ultimate intimacy, that magical end goal of the ‘fourth base’, the home run. Whether intercourse is the kind of top-level experience or not rather depends on what ‘skills’ one brings to it. How fully they can express themselves as a beautiful part of the creation called life. This could be simple hip mechanics, but also gifts one learns and absorbs from various touch, presence and movement-based practices (such as the improv, constellation and storytelling traditions). Or from esoteric erotic practices or contact and ecstatic dancing. When people are lacking in such skills, they seem to revert back to a default fucking mode, or – even worse – to talking. Don’t get me wrong, sex is a great-feeling ending to intimate contact, but only one among many. The problem with an fucking-focused orgy is that it burns out quickly. Then people get tired and start to think about going home, fearing they are no longer ‘fun’ enough for the ritual. I think this is a mistake.
Years ago, I studied theatre and danced contact improvisation with a small group almost weekly. I remember this one evening when I was so mentally exhausted after rehearsing a scene for hours. Lying on the cold, hard floor, I was totally disassociated from my body, and my head kept spinning with dialogue from the play. I stayed there for hours, slowing down and reconnecting with my feelings. Allowing miniature curvings of my spine back and forth, vertebra by vertebra, while watching a light show behind my eyelids from nerve endings sparkling to life and reconnecting with temporarily forgotten muscles. From time to time, some other dancers made contact with me. My fingertips moved with their fingertips for a short period. The skin cells of my fingertip danced with the skin cells of their fingertips. Tiny, tiny dances. To onlookers, it may have not looked as if I was having a great time, but that evening was of tremendous importance to me because I allowed it to be slow. At one point, I stood up to visit the bathroom; the walk there was as I would imagine the first few floating steps on the moon. Once I sat down on the toilet rim, I could feel every drop of fluid slowly pouring from the bladder, through the intricate piping and out of me to rejoin the great ocean beneath. Then I feared the flush. That it would overwhelm me, pull me down into the depths. To my surprise it was orgasmic, vibrating between the awesome and awful.
I wish all people visiting my rituals could be happy with an experience that outwardly does not look ‘fun’ (again, we are so hooked on ‘doing’ and tend to see ‘being’ as boring), as well as honour other people’s experiences when it might look like not much is happening.
I have a nightmarish memory from a ritual at the old theatre. A man half-jumping around while preparing to leave, with one leg in his trousers while trying to say thank you and exchanging numbers with the other visitors. Of course, the others wanted to be ‘nice’ and stopped their play. Pulled from mysterious, intimate depths into a logical recollection of telephone numbers. This was flagrantly selfish behaviour. By acting this way, he wasn’t only breaking the rules of the ritual but also stating that the party was ending for everyone because he was on his way home. When he said thank you to me, I wanted to ask him never to come back again. I tried telling myself that he simply lacked the skills to participate in such an event. These skills should be taught in schools! It can take a long time to gain the maturity to learn how to stay present and focused while hormones and fantasies run wild. This man had obviously not yet found his dedication.
