In my writing classes for women, I teach one week entirely devoted to Eroticism and Sexuality. This is usually one of the most fun, freeing, and enjoyed classes. Women who had previously been quiet and seemed demure, bust out with racy tales of excitement, experimentation, and adventure. They light up and come alive in the telling of these stories that they’ve never told before, laughing with delight in the permission they’ve been given to express this usually suppressed part of their lives.
One of the reasons I feel that it is important to integrate this subject into my class is because it is usually so avoided in daily life, and has such a negative and shameful stigma attached to it. At a reading series I used to attend, week after week the men would write about sex, filling their pieces with sexual themes, and freely flinging about profanity, sometimes to the extreme where it seemed ungrounded, and just there for shock value.
Conversely, the women would barely even touch upon any sexual topics, and if they did, they would quietly tip-toe around them, as if to say that they were not in any part sexual beings, nor did they in any way have sexual desires. Week after week, I grew increasingly more frustrated – I wanted the women to be bolder and more courageous, to take a risk and fess up to what people, especially women, rarely talk about in polite company. I wanted them to explore sexual themes and make it alright for women to talk, think, and write about sex. I wanted them to stop rigorously avoiding it and instead, look at it, examine it, and bring their femininity, vulnerability, emotion, and even raw desire if they wished to bear on this difficult, uncomfortable, and taboo subject. I was frustrated that what was so easy and natural for the men seemed impossible for the women.
During this time, a guy dumped me because I wasn’t “sexual enough” for him. I immediately bought a black lace push-up bra to feel better about myself, but I still felt pretty bad. A few weeks later I discovered the book The Erotica Project by Lillian Ann Slugocki and Erin Cressida Wilson, and I had this feeling of recognition, like I had finally found my mentors. I had been incorporating sexuality into my writing for a few years, but up until then, I didn't see any other women who were doing it in a way that mixed emotion, vulnerability, fear, uncertainty, insecurities, and total honesty. I also felt shy and embarrassed about some of the things I had written.
I wanted permission to put my writing out there, and a place where it would fit in—a sense of community, a tribe. I wanted to know and be reassured that other women were expressing themselves in this way. There, in this book, I found women who were blazing the way and making it alright for me to explore sexuality in my writing. I devoured the book, and I loved the way they wrote about sex—with intelligence and sensitivity; sometimes quiet, demure, and innocent, and at other times raw, animalistic, and out-of-control. It was so liberating and energizing to read their stories, and I found myself, after having felt “not sexual enough,” reconnecting with that part of myself, and that power, my power, through their words.
In our society, there is something really scary about women’s sexuality and desire. It is interesting to note how few places it is acceptable for a woman to be a sexual being—basically, just when she is having sex. In all other situations we have to close these thoughts and feelings down and cut this part of ourselves off. Even in sexual situations, women can feel embarrassed and ashamed. Men, regardless of what kind of physical shape they are in, often feel comfortable and at ease walking around naked, whereas women, even when we are in outstanding shape, will wrap ourselves in a sheet and a blanket and a towel, and then throw on a bathrobe and turn off the lights if we want to get up out of bed to get a glass of water.
I remember being eight-years-old, hearing adults talk about Vanessa Williams’ nude photos during the 1984 Miss America controversy, and seeing on the news how she then resigned from her position. Twenty-three years later, not much has changed in the way people and the media pay attention to nude or provocative photos and create a scandal, as was recently demonstrated in the case of American Idol contestant Antonella Barba’s sexually suggestive photos that were posted online, or in an even more parallel example, when Miss USA contestant Katie Rees was replaced after nude photos of her appeared online. Women who are the subject of racy or erotic pictures—especially when these women are in the public eye for their (clothed) accomplishments and are trying to achieve a dream—have been and still are consistently called out, shamed, ridiculed, insulted, and punished. Why are men conditioned to feel so right about their sexuality, their bodies, and by extension, themselves, while women feel so wrong?
Author and teacher Regena Thomashauer says that, as women, we are essentially conditioned to negate our own existence and give away all of our power early on by the way we are taught to relate to our genitalia. In her book Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts she writes:
“During each class, I ask…what ‘theirs’ was called when they were growing up and learning to name their world. Usually, more than half the class says nothing. They say it was just referred to as ‘down there.’ But what is not named does not exist. The language we use to identify our body parts (or not) is part of how we learn to respect, accept, and celebrate ourselves. Of course, I have students whose parents did give them names for their body parts. Some are too embarrassed to share the name. Others find the name hilarious. We have had Mrs. Va-Jay-Jay, Knish, Kootchie, Princess Pee Pee, Stinky, Potty, Box, Sassy, Snorker, Hole, Mary, Puppick, Patootie, Jamido, Ya-Ya, and V-Zsa-Zsa. I would laugh, too, if it wasn’t so sad. We call a penis ‘penis.’ Can you see the roots of a woman’s internal chaos when she has nothing but these poor word choices to name the most beautiful and powerful part of her body?” (Thomashauer, pp. 72-73)
Further to this point, I recently read an article about a production of the play The Vagina Monologues at a theatre in Florida. After receiving a complaint that the play’s title was offensive, it was changed to The Hoohah Monologues. The original title has since been restored, but the message that this incident sends is that “vagina” is a bad word, so bad in fact, that it is not suitable to be out in public.
It all starts with the words available to us—how much power they hold, the deeper meaning that using or not using certain words conveys, and the implicit conditioning for women to be ashamed of and suppress less or un-acceptable parts of ourselves, which can include our sexuality.
I still remember a teaching from a yoga class I took several years ago, when the instructor spoke about the definition of the word “yoga” as union, and how this is the goal—to be one, united, whole person, instead of fragmented bits and pieces that change and adjust to every environment. For instance, you have one self for work, one for home, one for your friends, a different one when you are alone with your partner, and are constantly self-monitoring, creating limits, and keeping yourself in check as you move from one situation to another. In our culture, it is nearly impossible to completely remedy this fragmentation, as there are still strict codes about what is and is not appropriate to wear, discuss, and act like in various situations, and this can benefit us in many ways—feeling comfortable in the workplace, for instance. However, systematically denying or being ashamed of our own sexuality leaves women fragmented, and feeling diminished. Writing about sexuality is an extremely courageous, powerful, and even rebellious act, and by doing so we can start to tap into that hidden place, awaken and allow it, and move towards making ourselves whole.
Personally, it is very scary for me to write about sex and sexuality, and to admit and further acknowledge that I think about and even have sex. I am afraid of what others will think of me, of being judged, or of disappointing people who thought I was a certain kind of person, and now finding out that I have these other, possibly surprising thoughts, feelings, and experiences that simply don’t fit into their image of me. I’m also afraid of inadvertently misrepresenting myself as appearing overly interested in or focused on sex.
The truth is, I am very shy about discussing sex, and would find it difficult to actually say many of the things that I have no problem writing about. Writing gives me a place to explore parts of myself that I don’t feel comfortable sharing in my day-to-day interactions. And writing about sex doesn’t make it all of who I am all the time. It simply clears the way for it to be a part of who I am, just like it is a part of who everyone is. I continue to write about sex, love and relationships because this is what moves me; these are often the experiences in my life that are the most charged and that I am the most awake to; when I feel the most free or confused or nervous or alive—whatever the emotion may be, there is always intensity there.
In my everyday life, I censor myself, worry, and sometimes find myself, despite my best efforts, trying to adjust to be what I think others want of me—to be more likeable, to make myself ever more acceptable in this world. So I try really hard not to do this in my writing, and in not doing so, to hopefully create a space where others feel that they have permission to do the same.
If you want to begin or continue to embrace this part of yourself – your erotic and sexual nature – in your writing, how and where do you start? While some women enjoy writing full-out-brazen-in-your-face eroticism, this may not be right for everyone. Some prefer quieter, more subtle variations on this theme. In her book Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg suggests simply starting where you are. In the chapter “A Big Topic: Eroticism” she writes:
“Always begin with yourself and let that carry you. Eroticism is a big word. If you are nervous, look around the room. Begin with something small and concrete—your tea cup in its saucer, the thin slice of an apple, an Oreo cookie crumb on your red lips. Sometimes you have to begin far away from the answer and then down-spiral back to it. Writing is the act of discovery. You want to discover your relationship with a topic, not the dictionary definition.” (Goldberg, p. 105)
Writing about eroticism needn’t be filled with panting and pornography; it can be simple and sweet, and just as powerful. I suggest beginning with that feeling right before your first kiss with someone new, or remembering back to the first kiss with your current someone. It is so specific and everyone knows this feeling well; it is filled with hope and possibility, and desire, but at the same time, innocence. One of my favorite pieces from The Erotica Project addresses that exact moment:
“I pulled the belt loops of his painter’s pants toward me, and we hovered our mouths over each other’s for seconds, minutes—then hours—as we wanted to make the moment before the first kiss last all night long. He’d asked me to come over to play Scrabble with him. We made big words, flirted, and drank tall boys on his bed in the West Village.” (Cressida Wilson, p. 23)
Integrating sexuality and eroticism in your writing can be incredibly scary, and it can feel vulnerable and even dangerous to tap into and unleash that part of yourself, especially when that part has been suppressed for a long time. But the payoff is that it’s a wonderful way to dive into and feel your own power, vitality, freedom and wholeness; to release shame and feel right about yourself, your entire self. For me, I write about sex for the same reasons I write about deep sadness or fiery rage—they’re all the parts of ourselves that are deemed “unacceptable,” “impolite” or “inappropriate,” that we feel ashamed of and then suppress as we move through our lives. It is about being truthful to my entire self, and not judging, censoring, avoiding, or leaving anything out. And finally, in the larger perspective, it is a part of practicing what may be the most difficult skill of all—total, radical, and unapologetic self-acceptance.
Jennifer Garam is the founder of Writeous Chicks and teaches writing workshops for women.
Copyright © 2007 by Jennifer Garam