Many years ago I’m squirming in the iconic Labia Theatre while taking in the controversial art film, 9 Songs. Physically I’m dead-still, as is ‘appropriate’ for a theatre, but that nonchalant exterior was feeling painfully incongruent with the loving making being witnessed on the screen. I was awkwardly aware of the audience in the theatre as a collective group, all simultaneously taking in the sex as a shared experience, and yet everyone was outwardly coldly detached.
It was rising up in me as a feeling of rage – a sense of being disrespectful to the beauty of these beings engaged in and sharing the vulnerable and intimate expression of their exposed forms. My desire – the felt-sense in my own form – was to honour this sharing by being fully present with what it evoked in me, allowing my body to respond and move, releasing the moans of my voice in open vulnerability.
Somehow that felt more truthful, and not. The disconnect was growing bigger, leaving a greater sense of distaste. As an audience we were separate from each other and from the couple making love – separated by the screen as a memory portal to another place and time. In that moment I became dissatisfied with sex through the medium of film and a longing was planted for a more authentic, lived experience.
Some years later I’m with my teacher and colleague, planning for a residential retreat we were to co-facilitate. Part of the teaching was of various practices in preparation for love-making – be that with self, shared with another or with the experience life (yes, making love with live… why the fuck not?).
We were laying down the program, selecting which practices and when to share over the duration of the retreat, and how we were to co-ordinate facilitation between us. Then there was a silent pause, followed by a shy giggle and I heard: “I think we should show them. We should demonstrate what love-making can look like.”. I was stunned and embarrassed – both very normal and reasonable emotional responses to something unheard of (to me anyway) at the time.
When I had opened up the neural pathway for being physically present and witness to the intimate act of sexual intercourse between humans I had not anticipated being one of them. Just being in a room watching, with the consent and knowledge of all, was already poking into the dark corners of my discomfort and stretching beyond the boundaries of accepted normality.
In another sense though, it was perfect. A reoccurring pattern of mine for self-avoidance/safety is being very good at being a witness, but seldom being a conscious and active participant in my own experience. I’d been notably called-out previously to stop standing on the side-line of my life. Here was an opportunity being presented to show up more fully in my authenticity because, if I was to honestly look beneath the surface of the awkward discomfort and fear, there was buried a spark of aliveness.
So we did. It was offered one evening, after the official program for the day was complete, as an invitation for those who wished to be a part of that experience. Most did – despite all the expected, very normal and reasonable emotional responses to the invitation. The space was created and held with awareness, and it felt honouring.
Still feel this witnessing or being witnessed as a little ‘out there’? Consider this… for anyone who has ever fantasised about, or would like to participate in, a threesome (a prevalent fantasy) it’s pretty much inevitable if this becomes an experience of your lived reality. Held consciously it can be very beautiful and insightful, especially if the humans you are witnessing or being witnessed by are people you love and care for (another post).