Auto(erotic)ethnography

* * *

This auto(erotic)ethnography attempts to tease out academic and aesthetic representations of the erotic by engaging with “sexual stories” or narratives of intimate life (Plummer, 1995). It is my desire to share my joyful, erotic experiences with you as a means to position myself within larger debates surrounding autoethnography as a method/practice/process/genre, by considering its potential for exploring embodied, pleasurable, sensual, and erotic stories. Like Lorde (1997), I see the “erotic” as a source of power, often left “unexpressed” or “unrecognized.” As such:

The erotic functions for me in several ways, and the first is in providing the power which comes from sharing deeply any pursuit with another person. The sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual, forms a bridge between the sharers which can be a basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference. (Lorde, 1997: 280)

By reflecting on the intersections between autoethnography and its role in sexual storytelling, specifically, the act of masturbation, I hope to create connections between these two modes of embodied learning, knowing, and doing as a way to “flesh out” what auto(erotic)ethnography could be. Utilizing a layered account, ¹ I employ asterisks to denote shifts between my poetic and academic voices (Pelias, 2004; Rambo, 2007a, 2007b; Ronai, 1992, 1995). In doing so, I hope to challenge these divisions by engaging with tantric writing-doing, my aim being to create space for both erotic stimulation and relaxation. I write erotically about writing to bring masturbation into autoethnography and to autoethnographically show and tell about masturbation. Instead of focusing on being “turned on” and then “turned off” due to the layering of shifting voice, I encourage you to consider this layered account as playing with the possibilities of heightened sensual energy as a tool to cultivate a continuous state of arousal (Désilets, 2006; Saraswati and Avinasha, 2002; Woods, 1981). With breath, one can bring forth arousal, stopping short of orgasm, thereby surrendering to both rising and falling waves of embodied sensation and intensity.

I also worry about finding the balance between the sensual and sexual, erotic and profane, subtle and explicit. Will my story be too messy? Not messy enough? Further, what arouses me might be insufficiently stimulating to you. In reflecting on my position, I realize that I am attracted to subtle, spiritual modes of erotic bodily being. If I expose too much, I run the risk of alienating you if you do not share my desires. Instead, I choose to show less so that I can invite you to fill in the details of our encounter with words, images, sensations, and movements that arouse you.

* * *

Admitting that I masturbate places me in troublesome territory: I run the risk of judgment, harassment, embarrassment, or stigmatization. I open myself up to hostility, scrutiny, laughter, whispers, and assumptions. I may even be labeled as a pervert, nymphomaniac, slut, or freak. Additionally, talking about masturbation might mean that I will be passed over for employment opportunities or denied avenues to present or publish my writing. Perhaps my research will be declared as “not research,” “illegitimate,” “self-indulgent,” or maybe even masturbatory.

* * *

Some months ago, when I started this project, a seasoned autoethnographer questioned me,

“Are you sure you want your academic career to be associated with a topic like masturbation?” ²

“Well, why not?” I responded. “The majority of people masturbate or at least have masturbated at some point in their lives. If they say otherwise, I might suspect they are lying. Plus, there are far worse topics with which one could be associated, right?”

* * *

* * *

By exposing myself – my meanings, multiple subject positions, and practices – I attempt to break taboos and stigmas surrounding self-pleasuring, further recognizing, as Bell (2005), Braun (1999), and McNair (1997) have previously stated, that talking about sex, specifically the researchers’ personal practices, may have consequences, so aptly articulated by McNair (1997: viii) when he states, “Writing about sex is not only difficult, it is dangerous, in a way that few other subjects are.” Ellis (2009b: 331) argues that autoethnography is dangerous not only in the self-questioning it demands but also the “response and judgments the work itself generates, regardless of the life it describes.” Coupled together, writing about sex autoethnographically could be considered extremely dangerous.

One of the most dangerous and difficult parts of researching sexuality then may be coping with people’s reactions to one’s research (Adams, 2009; Corey and Nakayama, 1997; Israel, 2002). Because there are social and cultural codes that dictate talk about genitals and what we do with them, I seek to challenge previously held stigmas, shame, guilt, and secrecy surrounding masturbation by making private practices both public and political through autoethnography. By telling my story, my (re)search, which “challenges derogatory or damaging images and ideas, and offers ‘positive’ alternatives, or even enables talk, is an important step towards this” (Braun, 1999: 370). Nelson (1998: 2) echoes this discussion when she states, “the intersection of eros and ethnography has remained taboo in many academic fields.” She continues:

I would like to point out that writing about our intimate experiences raises our own personal stakes in our claims to knowledge. Our texts take personal risks, and at their best blur the boundaries between public and private, self and Other, mind and body, knowledge and desire – boundaries that are currently under siege as troublesome barriers in Western academic thought. (1998: 6)

Lindlof and Taylor (2002: 290) speak to the difficulty of pursuing sexual topics within the academy by stating:

A final lesson is that academics – at least in Communication – seem most likely to tolerate sexuality in their journals if its depiction is muted, heteronormative, and moralized (e.g., with clearly identified villains and victims). Narratives that vex this code by celebrating bodily pleasure, by exposing the complicity of participants in sexualized encounters risk provoking controversy.

Writing about one’s personal sex life puts you “out there” with only a small number of scholars willing to bear the burden of opening up dialogue about what goes on in their bedrooms. Bell (2005: 208) asserts:

While these authors and editors are courageously breaking taboos, disclosing sexual secrets, exploring formative and transformative sexual experiences, the public/private construction remains in place. Their brave explorations mark them as sexual dissidents, while social and political arbitrators of sex remain untouched, still holding the moral highroad.

Encouraging me to be more “carnal” in my showing and telling about masturbation, one reviewer states, “The author should be applauded for the courage to write this. She’s either courageous or insane – or perhaps both.” Which brings me to another reviewer who questioned why some writers may feel more empowered to write about sex autoethnographically than others. Reflecting on these comments, I cannot help but hear Allison’s (1994: 90) words, “If writing was dangerous, lying was deadly, and only through writing things out would I discover where my real fears were, my layered network of careful lies and secrets. Whether I published or not was unimportant. What mattered was the act of self-discovery, self-revelation.” In like manner, I write to make sense of my world – to understand my passions, desires, insecurities, and doubts. This does not mean that I do not recognize my privilege in the making of this story. I weave these words together because I feel like what I have to lose does not outweigh what I can gain from facing my fear. Even though I am concerned about how you will read me, I want to join Allison (1994), Sprinkle (Sprinkle and Cody, 2001), Laqueur (2003), Dodson (2004), Frueh (2003), Chávez (2008) and others who dare to speak openly and positively about masturbation, while still being mindful of the risks, rewards, and silences that talking (or not talking) about controversial topics may invoke.

* * *

In this essay, I am leaning on you. Even in leaning, I am hesitant and wondering: Will you support me? Am I imposing? I feel teased by the attention you show me, yet I do not fully trust our connection. My lips stick (together) because I cannot quite say what I need to say, what I want to say. I am stuck, hesitating, and longing to be vulnerable, words hanging from my body ready to be received. However, my body (and words) cannot collapse into you because words divide us. Will we miss each other’s intentions, desires, and needs? I am overwhelmed by silence, a silence that is extremely painful and pervasive – anxiety-inducing. I want to let go of the desire (obsession) to embrace you even though I cannot. Seeking surrender, I actively attempt to read, write, and word with you. I daydream our relationship – what it feels like – how your words would fill me. Can you feel my heart pounding – my breath quickening?

My desire is complicated by my longing, – my need to protect myself. What if you misread my intentions? What if you do not want (need) me the way I want (need) you? I want to be taken – worded – to let go – surrender completely. I long to know that this is mutual, yet you offer only silence. It is clear that I cannot truly lean on/into you without exposing myself further, but we are not leaning or supporting each other equally. As I speak to you, as you read my words, our boundaries collapse into this intersubjective moment. Together we are entangled, implicated in this interaction.

* * *

These words roll off the tongue easily, tickling one’s oh-so-sensitive taste buds to form erotic thoughts and sounds. Are you as aroused by this topic as I? Throughout history, masturbation has been loved, hated, regulated, exposed, imposed, and feared. The simple act of stimulating (caressing, embracing, massaging) one’s genitals (cock, cunt, pussy, vagina) manually (fingering, touching), or with the aid of tools or toys (vibrators, dildos, food), may be one of humanity’s most accessible, primary forms of sexual expression. For many, masturbation is an individual’s first exploration into sexual practice or activity, thereby serving as one of our most creative means to learn about our body’s ability for sexual response and self-pleasure and may, for these individuals, offer a significant source of orgasmic pleasure not found in partnered sexual activity. But wait …

Can’t masturbation cause blindness? Insanity? Infertility? Hairy palms?

I’ve heard that masturbation can stunt your growth. Shrink or change your genitals.

Only adolescents masturbate, right?

Only men masturbate; women do not!

Isn’t too much masturbation bad for your health?

A whole host of myths surrounding masturbation have entered the public ethos. Which myths are your favorites? Yet, people continue to masturbate without becoming blind, infertile, or insane. Amazing, is it not? What can masturbation do for me – you? It is suggested masturbation can improve sleep, release tension, create body awareness, enhance one’s ability to orgasm, treat sexual dysfunction, relieve cramps, and enhance sexual pleasure both in partnered and non-partnered sexual contexts (Dodson, 1996). What does playing with yourself become for you? Does it cure headaches? Does it give you energy? Does it take you outside of or beyond yourself?

* * *

I have no early memories of you, yet you were likely always there with me, for me, of me. I remember no talk of you, yet I feel the fond memories of touching my young, delicate skin and knowing the pleasure of you. Tools became you. Remember that back massager that once applied “there” made my skin tingle and itch? It felt good but it did not belong down there, right? I sought you out, though, and the water of the bathtub faucet stimulated all that you could be but were not yet. Not yet.

Then you came to me through a flash of explosive energy. I screamed out in pleasure only to realize that I already knew you. Tenderly exploring my 15-year-old self, I thought I could only find pleasure through another, and then there I was lying on the bed, glowing from what I had just created from within me. You inspired me to take someone into myself. To go deeper. Further. But then later I lost you.

I lost touch with myself.

I forgot about you.

Yet, you came back and found me wanting. Needing.

I let you touch me again.

I did not need someone to find me anymore.

Moving beyond the skin, we collapsed boundaries.

We altered consciousness together.

Journeying through now, we dance, present and mindful,

Cycling in and out of arousing moments in life.

(With your help) I have moved into myself.

You bridge my mindful body to be embodied mindfully.

You release me from myself, yet connect me to myself at the same time.

We are pleasure-in-progress.

Focusing on my breath, I surrender to you (to me).

My mind is no-mind. My breath and body – are – fully honoring the moment …

You be(come) me.

* * *

In contemplating this topic, I realize that for me, the writing process is similar to masturbation. At the beginning stages of an essay, I fantasize about the direction of the project, playing with ideas, theories, stories, or methods to help shape my idea. Writing is a process that shapes and expresses who I am, what I enjoy, and how I present myself to others. Both writing and masturbation, at first glance, appear to be solo endeavors; however, both construct, embody, and perform in relational arenas. I learn from both explorations through both process and product, both creating joy, sorrow, anger, frustration, arousal, empathy, and disgust. The orgasmic potential of each is infinite.

In searching through the piles of masturbation literature stretched across my dining room floor, I came to realize I could not find myself within these scholarly discussions. Through my gendered, middle-class, 30-something, white (actually, more bisque-colored), Midwestern-American positioning, I longed to be able to dive more deeply into this mystery, to talk about masturbation openly, to understand why this practice has been silenced, especially for women.

Growing up, masturbation was not a word or a practice with which I identified but an unnamed, unknowable silence. It was not talked about and I have few memories of it as a young person. As a teenager, masturbation was referenced more in television, books, and among friends, yet I still had no ambition to explore myself in this way. I knew that touching one’s genitals could be pleasurable, but I always framed sexual exploration relationally. My understandings at that age focused on masturbation as something boys did, but not girls. At 15, when I experienced my first orgasm, as a result of masturbation, it was in that moment that I realized I had orgasmed unknowingly before in partnered situations, a shocking discovery coupled with the wonderment that I did not need a partner to orgasm: this was a major turning point in exploring myself sexually.

When I moved into partnered sexual practices, I found that I could not orgasm so one afternoon I began to explore stimulating myself. I was able to control what felt pleasurable to me, which was extremely liberating. I no longer felt bound to partner-based pleasure. I had my first real orgasm that day, and after that, I was easily able to orgasm with a partner because I knew what felt pleasurable to me. I realized that it had to come from me for me – no pun intended.

Masturbation did not hold much significance for me between the ages of 16 and 22. It was not until I was in my mid-20s that masturbation really re-entered my life. I was in several long-term partnerships prior to that and masturbation just faded into non-existence. Then I happened upon a partner that I really cared for, but for some reason, sexually, I just could not orgasm with him. Even though this was a very sexually stimulating time, I found that using a vibrator opened up whole new worlds of orgasmic potential. I was really able to explore myself and what was pleasurable to me. I used the vibrator both by myself and with my partner, which was both new and exciting.

* * *

Looking backwards to the 1970s, the feminist movement championed masturbation as an act of self-love as well as a political act, situated within the women’s liberation movement. Hite (1976: 4) suggests that, “Sharing our hidden sexuality by telling how we masturbate is a first step toward bringing our sexuality out into the world and toward redefining sex and physical relations as we know them.” Now nearly 37 years later, we are still having trouble talking about (and liberating) this topic, as Dodson (1974) so aptly captures in her book title, Liberating Masturbation, and I applaud those today who continue to pursue communication about topics such as masturbation, ³ whether one is performing about masturbation (Holter, 2007; Sprinkle and Cody, 2001) or encouraging creativity in erotic expression (Bright; 1999; Dodson, 2004).

Let’s medibate on this further: ⁴

Close your eyes, relax, lie back, take a deep breath.

Feel your muscles letting go of

any tension you are carrying.

Where are you? What are you wearing?

How does your body feel in this moment?

Relaxed? In pain? Aroused?

Create space to explore yourself.

What are your desires – your fantasies?

How does the texture of your skin feel?

Is it soft; is it warm?

Do what feels pleasurable to you, in this moment.

Explore or learn what strokes, touch, or teased sensations

take you into and out of yourself.

Breathe.

* * *

Exploring my body has been central to telling this story. “Such flesh to flesh scholarship motivates the labor of critical self-reflexivity and invigorates the concept and process(ing) of knowledge. With all of our theorizing about the body, we seldom theorize body to body, a flesh to flesh theorizing” (Spry, 2001: 726). Through autoethnography, I re-embody my writing as an extension of myself, but also as an entity in itself, a chance to connect with others beyond the limits of my physical reach. Autoethnography or “auto meaning self; ethno meaning culture(s) or people(s); and graphy meaning a representation, description, or showing (Bochner and Ellis, 2006: 112) is a process and product, text and method (Ellis, 2004; Reed-Danahay, 1997). Positioned as “boundary-crossers” (Reed-Danahay, 1997), autoethnographers seek both to show and tell by collapsing the lines that separate theories and stories, personal and political, objective and subjective, self and other.

Defining autoethnography poses a huge challenge as the term cannot be collapsed into a single style, method, or practice because texts and practices that fall under this umbrella term are varied, not always labeled, and often contested (Anderson, 2006a, 2006b; Denzin, 2006, 2010; Ellis and Bochner, 2006; Holman Jones, 2005; Holman Jones and Adams, 2010). Ultimately, in the spirit of Crawford (1996: 158), I position all types of ethnography as intrinsically bound to autoethnography in that all ethnography “becomes autoethnographic because the ethnographer is unavoidably in the ethnography one way or another, manifest in the text, [and I would add embodied interactions] however subtly or obviously.” Like Crawford (1996: 169), who is describing autoethnography in the following statement, I argue that auto(erotic)ethnography, “then, could conceivably be a kind of guerilla action and subversive discourse that productively challenges and changes the traditional and, in my judgment, transparently flawed ways of experiencing, portraying, and acknowledging ethnography.”

* * *

Masturbation as a form of sexual expression can be traced throughout humanity’s existence in art and literature, and it can be conjectured that, “attitudes toward masturbation is a key to understanding changing development in attitudes toward human sexuality” (Bullough, 2003: 17). Derived from the Latin word manus (suggesting hand), combined with strupo (defile) or turbo (agitate or disturb), the term masturbation as a concept remains mired in controversy – historically, medically, and culturally. Birthed in negativity as a term, masturbation has long been framed as a solitary vice akin to “the secret addiction” or the “crack cocaine of sexuality” (Laqueur, 2003). Conceptualized as both dangerous and pleasurable, masturbation has been ignored, controlled, hidden, and sometimes exposed to reveal its inner workings. While much academic work has considered masturbation within a historical context (Bullough, 2003; Laqueur, 2003), in presenting how masturbation has been maligned, Bullough states:

If we can bring people to recognize that past ‘western’ knowledge about masturbation was not only erroneous but worse, one that raised tremendous guilt feelings and insecurities about all sexual activity, they might be more willing to look at sexuality as part of the normal makeup of human beings, something that many still have difficulty in accepting. (Bullough, 2003: 32)

These words were spoken by the first African-American US Surgeon General, Joycelyn Elders, removed from her post in 1994, for promoting masturbation as a “safe-sex” alternative:

Masturbation, practiced consciously or unconsciously, cultivates in us a humble elegance – an awareness that we are part of a larger natural system, the passions and rhythms of which live on in us. Sexuality is part of creation, part of our common inheritance, and it reminds us that we are neither inherently better nor worse than our sisters and brothers. Far from evil, masturbation just may render heavenly contentment in those who dare. (Elders and Kilgore, 1997)

By continuing to locate masturbation as shameful or problematic within dominant American sexual discourse, we deny ourselves the opportunity to reframe pleasure and deprive ourselves from having a sexual relationship by, for, or with ourselves and, as a result, others.

Attwood (2005: 399–400) suggests that women’s masturbation can be considered a form of self-fashioning, in that, “Rather than performing for a male gaze, self-fashioning may provide women with a culturally approved way of producing themselves for themselves.” Masturbation as self-fashioning situates self-pleasuring as a form of pampering, recreational pleasure, and sexual commodification. Tuck (2009:78) suggests that within mainstream consumer culture, an “autoerotic mode of consumption dominates” and that individuals are increasingly required to self-stimulate within a society that is generally framed as being “self-pleasure seeking.” He also argues that though masturbation has received limited scholarly attention in how it is linked to sexual identity, the practice itself is becoming more visible as society becomes more imbued with sexual imagery. As a result, Tuck (2009) contends that many people experience both ambivalence and anxiety about masturbation because it is both encouraged and condemned at the same time.

Instead of focusing on masturbation as a form of self-fashioning or form of consumption linked to “appropriate” forms of sexual identity, I contend we must consider masturbation as a form of embodied, sexual becoming that speaks to our sensorial, spatial, ontological selves. How we participate in the creation of masturbatory meaning is crucial to how we interact and experience our body and others’ bodies. How we imagine ourselves and others, by seeing and being seen, in addition to what we learn in interaction with the surrounding world, does impact what we “do” and how we “become.” We are constantly changing and engaging. We are diverse and complicated in how masturbation is practiced and creates meaning within our lives. To this end, I seek a more inclusive vocabulary of sexuality(ies) from which to situate masturbation relationally. Tuck (2009: 91) speaks to this by stating:

Rather than isolating us, an acknowledgement of the masturbatory aspect of our sex lives would encourage a championing of our shared sexual capacity for autonomous pleasure, a pleasure not based on gender, reproduction, exploitation, scarcity or market logic.

* * *

Orgasm, for me, is not the goal of my journey with masturbation, nor is it a goal during partnered sex. It is a part of my process, a process of learning about my energy, my partners, and myself. I seek to make the entire process orgasmic. I am not a commodity; my body doesn’t produce orgasm – I experience pleasure that is orgasmic, however. I have tried to cultivate mindful masturbation – innercourse – as a way to be fully present with the world and myself as I think masturbation is and can be mindful. I do not seek fantasy or distraction in this practice. I focus on sensation, on breath. I recognize thoughts as they come and let them go. In my everyday life, I am bombarded with sensorial information. Finding space – bodyspace-mindspace-selfspace – to feel pleasure(d) reminds me of all that is beautiful and “feels good” in the world. By connecting with myself in a loving way, I extend my boundaries to connect with others. Masturbation is meaningful because I am learning about myself, finding creativity through exploration, further manifesting mindfulness and presence with myself/for myself – and by extension – others.

* * *

I argue that autoethnography is the perfect vehicle to come to know and write our sexual stories so that we can create auto(erotic)ethnographies that challenge mainstream narratives of sexuality, create evocative and erotic stories, get “in touch” and connect with others, as well as celebrate bodies in pleasure. Even Ellis (2004), who is one of the leading proponents of autoethnography, discusses the inherent risks involved in writing some sexual stories when she responds to the question, “Do you think there are some autoethnographic stories that shouldn’t be written?” Her response:

I’ve noticed lately that some students who have discovered autoethnography want to tell all about their relationships, their intimate sex lives, and problems. I’m not always sure of the purpose of the telling. Sometimes I want to advise them to hold back, be more subtle, or at least figure out why they’re telling what they are telling. I know this seems strange coming from me. But I’m not sure so much should be revealed so quickly. I worry it makes autoethnography look like talk shows or reality TV, where people put their own lives in the spotlight and make spectacles of themselves. (Ellis, 2004: 319)

Ellis herself, however, takes this position in regard to sexual storytelling as she has explored her intimate relationships in multiple essays (Ellis, 1995; Ellis, 2009b; Ellis and Bochner, 1992). For me, this suggests that the inherent danger in sexual stories is not that they are told, but instead, which stories should be told, for whom, and for what purpose? In other words, who decides which stories are worth telling and why?

It is my belief that stories that seek to reframe sexuality as embodied, pleasurable, desirous, and erotic often fall victim to being labeled as “sexual tell-alls,” “pornography,” “romance stories,” or in Ellis’ statement, considered as similar to “talk shows or reality TV.” I am left questioning what experiences should be grounds for exploration within autoethnographic writing. I worry that this contradictory position, regarding which sexual stories should be told, folds back on itself, creating the same types of arguments leveled against autoethnography as a genre in and of itself.

* * *

Autoethnography is a genre of the heart, an attempt at collaborative, reflexive storytelling that engages the poetic, performative, and pedagogical aspects of everyday life by blurring the boundaries between self and other, personal and social, and the creative and analytic realms of embodied knowing, experiencing, writing, and representing.

I believe that autoethnography creates space for sexual connection, exploration, and storytelling, in that:

When we live outside ourselves, and by that I mean on external directives only rather than from our internal knowledge and needs, when we live away from those erotic guides from within ourselves, then our lives are limited by external and alien forms, and we conform to the needs of a structure that is not based on human need, let alone an individual’s. But when we begin to live from within outward, in touch with the power of the erotic within ourselves, and allowing that power to inform and illuminate our actions upon the world around us, then we begin to be responsible to ourselves in the deepest sense. (Lorde, 1997: 281)

Lorde’s statement captures for me what I believe is the power of auto(erotic)ethnography. Through my writing, I seek to explore how autoethnography can create space for embodied stories – erotic subjects – to create an auto(erotic)ethnography of intimate experiences. With Plummer (2003b), I argue that not only does the body need to be brought back into sexuality studies as he suggests, but the erotic must also be brought into autoethnographic practice.

* * *

Once the masturbation floodgates opened, I found a completely new comfort level with myself and with my partners. I was more easily receptive to being creative. I tried to cultivate intimacy in new, interesting ways. I also became interested in energetic methods of becoming and being sexual. I wanted my experience in all its variations to move beyond the physical, to collapse boundaries, and to alter consciousness. Masturbation really was the impetus, allowing me to go into this phase of knowing myself sexually. It created a “new” sexual me, no longer tied to others’ needs, desires, pains, pleasures. My pagan leanings made it an easy transition because I already valued the body as a site of pleasure. Though I felt culturally restricted by American puritanical leanings, I allowed myself to become enraptured with the sensorial, spatial, embodied sex about which I had read. Masturbation, thus, became and has become a regular part of my life, also opening myself to masturbating in front of a partner and with a partner.

* * *

Like autoethnography, masturbation is not a solitary act but an act in which cultural meanings are always shifting and dancing dynamically in varied relational contexts, locations, and histories. Masturbation is pervasive, a practice that many people share, but it is often left unexplored or absent in everyday conversation. In talk surrounding masturbation, the personal, experiential, and embodied practices are often hidden. Conversely, in autoethnographic writing, the personal is vulnerable, open, and present for public consumption. Both practices are similar, however, in that they are subject to a whole host of criticisms.

An Anti-Ode to Autoethnography

When I look at you – all I see is

A theoretical,

Narcissistic,

Navel gazing,

Self-absorbed,

Self-indulgent,

Therapeutic,

Poorly written,

Unscientific,

Non-research

What do you see when you look at me?

Masturbation, like autoethnography, has been framed negatively as a form of navel gazing, self-absorption or self-indulgence, narcissism, in addition to being constructed as a product of the increased sexualization and pornographication of “mainstream” culture. Laqueur (2003: 210) suggests that masturbation has been highly problematic because it was constructed as “unnatural,” in that: “the object of desire was not real but rather a product of the imagination; masturbation was not socially engaged, unlike penetrative sex that was done with another; and the desire and ability to masturbate was potentially endless.” Within an increasingly consumer-oriented culture, masturbation has additionally been characterized throughout history as the following theorists suggest: shameful or sinful (Bennett and Rosario, 1995; Hogarth and Ingham, 2009; Kontula and Haavio-Mannila, 2003; Singy, 2003); a disease (Singy, 2004); a cause and symptom of mental illness (Rodriguez, 2007); a result of uncleanliness (Bullough, 2003; Rodriguez, 2007); or a solitary vice (Laqueur, 2003).

Similarly, some critics believe autoethnography that does not “properly” balance the relationship between self and other and inward and outward representation runs the risk of becoming perverse, masturbatory, and/or self-indulgent. I believe autoethnographers as “boundary-crossers” are equipped with an endless source of personal stories, professional projects, and dual identities from which to draw inspiration, which threatens “traditional” research endeavors, thereby rendering the practice susceptible to being identified as suspect, as lacking rigor, or as non-research. Like masturbation, aesthetic, poetic, performative autoethnographic texts emerge from our creative, imaginative selves and often engage elements of fact or fiction and fantasy or reality.

* * *

In touch with the erotic, I become less willing to accept powerlessness, or those other supplied states of being which are not native to me, such as resignation, despair, self-effacement, depression, self-denial. (Lorde, 1997: 281)

* * *

As a masturbator – sexual storyteller, I seek to explore my intimate citizenship. ⁵ Plummer (2003a: 14) states:

intimate citizenship looks at the decisions people have to make over the control (or not) over one’s body, feelings, relationships; access (or not) to representations, relationships, public spaces etc.; and socially grounded choices (or not) about identities, gender experiences, erotic experiences. It does not apply to one model, one pattern or one way.

How we “do” intimacies, by bridging the public and private realms through our everyday bodily experience, action, and interaction, is grounded within the social and cultural spaces we occupy, and, as such, can result in a web of contested intimacies and practices regarding gender, identity, and the body – masturbation – research, writing, and the academy – autoethnography.

* * *

Silence.

nothing exists beyond this moment

Sighing

remembering the touch of everything

I explore the texture of my skin

the double sensation soothes and arouses

I move to where it all begins

Breathing deeply

my heart races with anticipation

surrounded by silence

I am all that this moment needs

and needing begins as I need myself

all that I am

all that I have been

all that I hope to become

Moaning

come, coming, (gone)

feelings escalate as my being be(come)s

my body-self collides

enmeshed

we dance

flesh and feeling create all that can be

Now

breath quickens

my fingers dance

penetrated boundaries between my world and me

invagination

Am I we?

No

I am …

exploding with color

nothing exists beyond this moment

moist, hot, sweat

I twist and turn

skin swells

I double back on myself

my heart pounds

I am released

the moment moves beyond me

go, going, (came)

nothing exists but

Silence.

* * *

While masturbation is only one avenue to explore and express sexuality, it is an integral part of many people’s sexual identity and practice. Planned Parenthood of America suggests that seven out of ten American men masturbate and five out of ten American women masturbate as a means to achieve sexual pleasure individually and relationally. ⁶ Masturbation as practice or act can be said to play “a practical role in the creative development of the self, including the self’s essential bodiliness” (Young, 2005: 58). As we both have and are bodies, we are in constant interaction and negotiation with others, and in being so, “We differentiate ourselves by learning to touch ourselves as others do. We let ourselves appear for ourselves” (Young, 2005: 72).

If, in keeping with Elaine Scarry’s (1985) notion that pain has the ability to “unmake” the world of its sufferers, then can it not be postulated that pleasure might have the capacity to “make” or “remake” our world? “Of all sexual behaviors, masturbation seems most clearly motivated by pleasure, or at least, release of tension” (Rye and Meaney, 2007: 33). While pleasure-seeking activity and experience is contextual, the idea that masturbation serves as a sort of poiesis or “the revealing of self and world” through making or creation of one’s self (Young, 2005: 73) is intriguing. Young (2005: 74) suggests that

masturbation, properly reconceptualized as poiesis, can be more fruitful developmentally than many of the technophilic and superficial distractions of everyday life in late modernity – slow, attentive, experientially-rich masturbation might be a much better evening’s work than watching television or cataloguing the day’s corporate banalities.

Because it has the ability both to complement partnered sexual practice, create self-pleasure and body awareness, and compensate for lack of partnered activity or experience, masturbation positions itself as one of the safest forms of sexual pleasure. Masturbation as a sex act ⁷ can be positioned as by us – for us; however, masturbation is also a relational act that does not exist in isolation from the various relationships and contexts of which we are a part. Masturbation is outercourse, ⁸ but I propose that it is also a form of innercourse, as personal sexual exploration through masturbation has the ability to aid intimacy, promote self-understanding, and increase sexual health and well-being.

Masturbation exists in boundaries beyond procreation or the performance of partnered sex acts, yet it is still deeply embedded within them. Through masturbating, we can learn about, become comfortable with, and appreciate our bodies (Shulman and Horne, 2003: 263). Masturbation as a form of innercourse brings awareness to one’s embodied, sexual learning experience and practice through experimentation, meaning-making, and the construction of sexual identity(ies). In proposing innercourse as a concept-practice, I do not intend to create a hierarchy of “good” and “bad” or “meaningful” and “meaningless” masturbation processes; rather, I present my own learning-doing with the hope that you will find an embodied resonance with my experiences. Even so, it is quite clear to me that,

People fuck differently, feel differently when they do it (or don’t) and want sex differently when they feel passion. We live out our class, race, and sex preferences within our desire and map out our unique passions through our varied histories. These are the differences that move the skin, that explode the need inside a cunt and make sex possible. (Hollibaugh, 1984:404)

* * *

It is my hope that by blurring the boundaries between autoethnography and masturbation, I can create a small enough crack in the cement that there is space for auto(erotic)ethnography to bloom. Both masturbation and autoethnography offer opportunities for one to grow individually and relationally. I argue that both acts create space for experimentation, creativity, and learning (from oneself and others) and that both practices have the ability to unite the body-heart-mind, create dialogue, foster connection, inspire journeys (real or imagined), and change the world.

This process has been rewarding, unnerving, and frustrating at times. My role as an auto(erotic)ethnographer has been to make sense of my experience but also to expose the danger, messiness, and creative process that this journey has generated. Returning to Braun (1999: 371), I contend that we must find fissures that allow us to celebrate our sexuality because I agree with her that, “if we cannot talk about it, cannot argue for it, cannot be proud of it, who can, and who will?” Telling our stories invites others into our experiences and hopefully inspires them to reflect on their own stories because ultimately, “the meaning of a story depends on the other stories it will generate” (Ellis, 2009b: 232). By exploring, learning, and writing about our experiences as stories, we engage in a process of self-creation or poiesis. Considering masturbation as a form of innercourse, I recognize that we have sexual histories (stories) that we constantly remake so that we can move forward in our sexual lives.

Writing erotic, sexual stories that are personal, embodied, and relational provides one with an opportunity to revisit, re-story, and self-create one’s journey by reflecting, asking questions, seeking critique, and creating dialogue with others. “I know experience cannot be captured fully; once it happens, it can only be interpreted from limited and partial perspectives. Nevertheless, it is important to be able to story ourselves, to have a story to tell, and to tell it as well as we can” (Ellis, 2009b: 15). Through auto(erotic)ethnography, we can create work that is creative, analytic, personal, scholarly, theoretical, evocative, rebellious, messy, as well as pleasurable. While various criteria exist for considering, critiquing, or evaluating autoethnography (Ellis, 2009a; Ellis and Bochner in Lindlof and Taylor, 2002; Holman Jones, 2005; Richardson, 2000), my feeling is that,

One simple answer is that we judge for ourselves on the standard of whether the work communicates or ‘says’ something to us – that is, does it connect with our reality? Does it provide us with insights that help to organize our own observations? Does it resonate with our image of the world? Or does it provide such a powerful incursion on the latter that we feel compelled to reexamine what we have long supposed to be true about our life world? (Vidich and Lyman, 2003: 58)

Likewise, I am drawn to asking similar questions about the role masturbation plays within one’s life: Does it offer you pleasure? Does masturbating extend your repertoire of orgasmic possibilities? Does it enhance your partnered sexual experiences? Does it teach you about your body, desires, or fantasies? Does it create space for you to escape both into and out of yourself? If so, why must masturbation continue to be framed as taboo, hidden or secretive, off-limits, perverse, or self-indulgent? Further, I/we might ask ourselves what autoethnography does for us as well. Does it create pleasure for you in the writing, showing, and/or telling? Does it help you make sense of or write through your experiences? Does it offer potential for you to re-story your identity, body, emotions, relationships, or life?

I believe we must judge for ourselves and create our own criteria for how we experience, write, or resonate with autoethnography, masturbation, and sexual storytelling or auto(erotic)ethnography. Whether one prefers a more traditional stance, as opposed to more experimental writing or experiencing, or somewhere in between, surely there is room in our world for multiple perspectives, but perhaps the really simple answer is: If you do not like doing it (masturbation or autoethnography), do not do it. Alternatively, if you do not like reading it (auto(erotic)ethnography), do not read it. This way, we can avoid the messiness involved in labeling our stories – and sexual acts – as “good” or “bad,” “research” or “not research,” “private” or “public,” or “creative” or “analytic,” focusing more on what we learn from our stories (and others’ stories), joining with them or finding resonance, while embracing the opportunities that exist in creating new stories and extending conversations.

* * *

Yawning and stretching: My body aches from writing. Silence supports me. I am alone but connected. I am ready, penetrated, and aroused to continue this conversation with you, but first, I must take a break to medibate.

Sunlight casts soft shadows on brown walls. Small drops of water trace my lines, folds, and scars – streaming down my stomach – lush with possibility. The cotton cover tickles my skin as my body relaxes into my newly made bed. I crawl to the center playfully, stretching and rolling around until the covers embrace me. Breathing deeply, I close my eyes, remembering and imagining the warm caress of the shower.

Water falls. Our lips connect. I bite you softly and pull you closer. The moist hot air surrounds us. Co-mingling tongues and breath extend the boundaries of our skin. Our bodies are sculpted together like clay. My back arches as my hands surrender to this wetness. Muscles clenched, I moan quietly.

You circle my nipples with your tongue as your hand squeezes my breast, pinching my nipple as you release. My fingers curl lightly, scratching lines on your back. Circling my hips, I return to my body-mind-self. Your image fades as I focus on my breath.

Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in. ⁹

Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.

My fingers mirror my hips, circling my clit. I sigh, still concentrating on my breath as I slowly slide my fingers inward.

In, Out. In, Out.

I pause, holding this energy. My tensed body relaxes and the sensation of my breath fills my body.

Deep, Slow.

Breathing in makes me calm. Breathing out brings me ease.

Deeply, slowly, calmly, and with ease, I breathe my fingers into myself again. My legs pull together and I moan, softly at first, but now, louder. My breath quickens as my body dances to the beat of my heart.

With the in-breath, I smile. With the out-breath, I …

Waves of energy rise within me and spiral around my body. I feel the movement travel from my curled toes to the top my head. I arch and shake as I …

Smile. Release.

Breathing in, there is only the present moment.

Breathing out, it is a wonderful moment.