Pleasure
When I write the word pleasure, the immediate association that unabashedly rises is sex. What else delivers such a concentrated burst of physical-sensorial crescendo? Most times, the act of energetic arousal, intensification, and climax leads to the curling smoke of bliss. Sex stirs the senses with a satisfaction that surpasses even smores around the campfire. Sure, there’s the pleasure of crossing the finish line of a challenging task, the devouring of a well-crafted novel, or the orchestrating of a sumptuous meal. By comparison, though, sex outstrips all those good deeds and does so with saucy delight.
I don’t know which divine committee convened and tackled the biological compulsion to propagate. But whoever embedded pleasure into the circuitry of propagating deserves at least one long foot massage. What an ingenious act - to wrap reproduction in layers of chemical rapture, emotional intoxication, and glaze it off with chocolate-flavoured ecstasy. When I cross over into whatever celestial debrief room awaits the soul, I intend to seek out that holy research team and bow to them in deep gratitude. If they are hiring, I will happily bring along my earthly resume.
Of course, no conversation about sexual pleasure would be complete without inviting in the shady entourage of relatives - the ones who like to slink in when the lights are low. There's Uncle Addiction with his sweaty palms and charming stories. (Always the last to leave). There’s Cousin Objectification who sees only flesh but not the soul. Stepbrother Exploitation lurks in the shadows waiting to make a deal. Then there’s that adopted one, who never engages, and only answers to Self-Absorption. They all love a good party especially with the promise of oysters, Barry White music, and mist sprays of lavender.
Maybe goldfish live innocent lives and don’t have to contend with sub-personalities. But, ever since my teenage discovery of the slippery wonders of masturbation, I’ve had to get acquainted with the weird (and sometimes wonderful) mob in the sex family. The kinkier ones can be fascinating to entertain, but only in short conversations. They’re great with opening lines, hooky teasers like, “Hey, have you ever wondered what it might feel like to…” Before you know it, they’re offering you catalogs laced with latex, leather, and loneliness. “Sorry,” I say. “Gotta go. Auntie Tantra just arrived and no one’s paying her any reverence. Bye. Maybe try the cheese balls.”
Aging, for me, has tempered my life-long relationship with sexual pleasure. On my best days, pleasure hangs out with prayer. In a Rumi-esque synthesis, they blur into one another. The Beloved shimmers and shines with sensuality, sexuality, and spirituality. After all, wasn’t that the deeper invitation of the Kama Sutra? That ancient Hindu text wasn’t just a manual of positions. It was a sensual scripture for exploring intimacy, desire, and reverent eroticism. The intention was to remind us that pleasure, in its highest form, widens the heart as well as the hips.