Emotional Masochism & the Paradox of Eroticism
“Eroticism can best be understood as the multifaceted process through which our innate capacity for arousal is shaped, focused, suppressed, and expressed… the erotic is intricately connected with our hopes expectations, struggles, and anxieties — everything that makes us human. Whereas sex can be simple, by its very nature eroticism is complex… Eros is energized by the entire human drama, including the unruly impulses, and painful lessons that no one — except those that retreat from life — can possibly avoid. No wonder the erotic mind conjures up images of debauchery as well as delight.”
~ Jack Morin, The Erotic Mind
I view eroticism as the soulful/spiritual undercurrent that enlivens sexual experiences and flows beyond them, a stream running through all aspects of life, riding the tension between desire and satiation. We are fed so many messages about how to have thriving, healthy sex lives that are all about the moves and maneuvers, the sex acts, the toys, foods and supplements to increase libido, etc. Sexual issues are addressed in a prescriptive way and sexual satisfaction is measured in quantities and frequencies of sex. We are often advised to do more, try more extreme or different forms of play, etc. If only it were this simple. While it’s wonderful to talk openly about the nuts and bolts of sex, and no doubt the access to and awareness of more and varied forms of play is something to be celebrated, this has never felt like the crux of sexual fulfillment for me. I want to know why sex is so compelling, so central; why it can be the portal to some of the most transcendent and profound moments in this life and these bodies, or the source of so much pain and disappointment. And moreover, what’s really at the root of these peak experiences in sexual play? Can we draw from this source, harness it, access it — regardless of the sex we are currently having or not having? Many of us have internalized these prescriptive ideas and feel that if we are not having all of the wild sex, and lots of it, than we are not sexually actualized or liberated. What happens when we shift the focus to this energetic undercurrent — to the erotic, instead of just physical sex?
Morin writes about what he calls a “paradoxical perspective” when it comes to eroticism, which excited me as paradox is something I’m always talking and writing about. He writes “that eroticism is intertwined with the untidy struggles of being human and is therefore inherently complex and unpredictable…This new paradigm acknowledges and embraces the contradictory, dual-edged nature of erotic life. It recognizes that anything that inhibits arousal — including anxiety and guilt — can, under different circumstances, amplify it.”
I’m thinking about the tension between wanting and getting, or wanting and not getting. Embracing the complexity of eroticism allows room for me to get curious about experiences that otherwise would be pushed aside or viewed with much confusion and even shame. One example is the experience of compersion and jealousy, two feelings that often happen simultaneously for me.
In my explorations with polyamory, I’ve been confronted with feelings of envy, insecurity and anger when my partners connected sexually with someone else. Interestingly, in the instances when these intense or difficult emotions arose, they were also paired with feelings of arousal, excitement and vicarious joy for my partners. I’ve heard it repeated in poly circles that compersion is the antithesis of jealousy, and that they almost have a cancelling out effect — suggesting that when we learn to experience compersion, feelings of jealousy are dispelled.
But in my experience they actually co-arise, entwined. This is an example of what I might jokingly call “emotional masochism.” The thought or sight of my lover kissing, touching, or fucking another person can be both deeply uncomfortable/painful and arousing/intoxicating at the same time. I love being teased and not getting what I want, at least not right away — and this is the ultimate mind fuck version of that. And of course, the brain is the biggest erogenous zone — meaning, arousal is primarily psychological.
Experiencing “I want that” when I can’t have it or when it isn’t about me, or even feeling excluded or forgotten, can all become highly erotic experiences. Part of it is the tease. Part of it is getting a window into someone else’s pleasure. My unmet desire becomes a strained longing and is strangely satisfied in the viewing or imagining of the act in which I am not taking part.
Hidden in my submission to this agony is a surprise; there are lessons just out of sight that turn out to be far more rewarding than if my pain were soothed by easily acquiring the object of my desire.
The pain of my insignificance (at least to those lovers lost in each other, where I do not enter) reveals a freedom in knowing that the world doesn’t revolve around me. There is a deeper need that drives me to lean into the discomfort. I want to experience the reality that I can never live in another persons skin (for me one of the biggest tragedies and lessons of this lifetime); a visceral understanding of that universal separateness that cannot be bridged. I want to be confronted about my feelings of ownership or superiority. I want to release this false sense of control over others and to see myself as a small wave in a large, undulating sea, no more important than the rest and utterly useless on my own.
There is pleasure in submitting to these universal laws and to acknowledging limits — I am bound to them. Limits are hard and sensuous lessons, and they create the container in which we can deepen. The paradox here is one of freedom in restraint; pleasure in parameters. I want the tips of my desire licked, but not soothed. Tension is highly erotic to me, and arguably even more delicious than when I actually get the thing I want. Tension requires a gap between things, a drawing out, the space to feel.
Also, sometimes feelings of anger and frustration can feel similar to arousal in the body — heat, racing heart, a sense of getting swept up in the moment. Some of the most maddening experiences for me have happened while waiting on someone. The lack of control, feeling my time and presence is disrespected, and having to bend to someone else’s timeline can be incredibly frustrating. And yet when it comes to my erotic life, so much of the juiciness is felt in the waiting. Is it problematic or unhealthy to want what I don’t have, or to be turned on by not getting — in effect, to want what’s not available? Maybe. Yes in some circumstances. But not inherently. I do know that it’s incredibly common; most people I speak to experience this pattern to varying degrees. I’m imagining the classic reverse psychology trick where you get a child to eat their dinner by taking it away from them. It seems to me this is a universal human experience.
Either way, I think the lesson is about straddling the paradox. It is active in me, regardless of how it’s understood or pathologized. And, in the irony of paradox — the more I acknowledge and openly explore this tendency and its roots, the less it rules my important decision making, or gets in the way of claiming my agency and creating healthy relationships. There is some kind of unexpected healing balm in allowing the experiences that bring me the most pain to be erotic.
And there’s something beautiful about riding the waves of anger, shame, insecurity, arousal, excitement, and passion all at once — to not thwart my zestful explorations at the onset of any uncomfortable feelings. In this, I begin to intentionally lean in and create the conditions in which these longings can be intensified and played with in an environment of emotional maturity and safety. When we become curious observers and are no longer held captive by our complex patterning and neuroses, we can make a play of them, deciding when and how we want to be held, captive or not.
