Identity Has A Shelf Life

Esalen, Big Sur

I recently took a trip to Esalen in Big Sur. On my first morning there, from one of the communal cliff-side baths, I watched the sunrise and reflected on the previous night in which my partner and I had co-facilitated a Tantric date night in San Francisco for a group of queer men.

And now it was my turn to be pushed outside my comfort zone, to be confronted and pleasantly surprised. I'd already had my coffee, and my heart was full. I was up for it.

An aspect of my identity to which I've stubbornly clung is that my sexuality requires another male body to wholly interest me. That if another man isn't present--bodily or in fantasy--then it doesn't fully count. Which is problematic in that I routinely encourage men to consider the cis-masculine strictures under which they've been fucking. Historically, I've gone on and on about intentional self-pleasure and how setting aside time for it encourages us to learn more deeply about ourselves. To be clear, I do practice this way of eroticism. At the same time, I've often struggled to be fully present with just my own experience--not grasping, not seeking outside myself, not rifling through porn looking for an elusive something...just me...and those goddamn feelings that begin to surface in the absence of real or imagined external validation. I promise I'm not criticizing any of these aforementioned strategies. Trust me, I've done my fair share of popper-bating to a cascade of Twitter clips until my thumb literally hurts from swiping and my flagging hard-on is willing to admit it's bored long before my brain concedes. 

The night before, I'd walked around the Tantric workshop space witnessing men take down their guards, exploring partnered exercises like circular breathing, unwavering eye contact, and pelvic rocking. In their underwear, they'd worked in pairs and clusters, exploring mutual touch and emotional processes. I was so moved by their bravery in front of other men: where experimenting with vulnerability and dropping the rehearsed defenses of manhood is a tall order. I know because I've worked quite hard for many years to embody these same defenses. I'm conscious of my walking gait, the tone of my voice, how I stand, how I dress, which angles and positions make me look more manly during sex...

*Sigh*

On this elucidating morning in the bath, for the first time in my life, I experienced a deeply erotic connection with the ocean. Yes, the ocean. 

As waves moved in and out, I began rocking my hips in unison, syncing my breath with their flow. Instead of staring into the eyes of another man, I stared into the horizon. Instead of hardening my body, I softened like water. Without even touching my cock, I was hard. In that space between me and the ocean, I meditated, and my perceived boundaries of self began to blur. Maybe you've experienced this, too. Or maybe right now you're rolling your eyes. Maybe both. Certainly, there is strong conditioning within each of us to avoid what we cannot see in our deepest waters. Well, it was fucking hot...and disorienting...because for all that I've explored in eroticism with other people--mostly men--to encounter this possibility with the planet has left me continuing to integrate its significance. What it means for me going forward is still in translation. 

Sure, I'm still a cis gay man who's fairly cock obsessed, loves men, and conforms to Western masculine aesthetic standards--yet I know deep down that identity itself has a rapidly diminishing shelf life. I could wait for death to force that expiration. Or I can start now, again, dismantling what keeps me from seeing more deeply into truth.