Last summer, my friend Nicolas and I could not tear ourselves away from a terrible TV show called, Tell Me You Love Me. The show followed four couples through their various relationship troubles, and even invited us into the intimate space of their therapy sessions.
Oh, and into their bedrooms, too, where they had truly awfully portrayed sex – weirdly too explicit and so totally lacking in eroticism and joy that I almost thought I was watching porn. Jane Campion – of "The Piano" fame – was one of the producers of the show. I can't explain that. It was so badly written, so badly directed, so badly acted and, as I said, had the worst sex scenes I’ve ever witnessed (through my fingers, horror-movie style) that I can only think Jane was offered a stupid soul-selling sum of money to write and produce it. Please, god, put a cap in my ass if I ever produce something so lack lustre.
But amidst the horror and boredom (who knew you could have both simultaneously, but this show proved you can), there was one scene between a prudish mother and sexually budding daughter that touched me so deeply I cried. The daughter – twelve – is troubled by her masturbatory activity. Since no one ever talks about anything in her shut-down family, much less something as shame-inducing as masturbation, she thinks something must be wrong with her. Thankfully, the mother notices the daughter’s suffering and coaxes her to open up. When the daughter finally spills, the mother gives the most tender speech about masturbation I’ve ever heard. She says that the daughter’s body is hers to cherish and love and own. And that the pleasure it brings is hers, and worthy, just as she is worthy. What a gift.
For a few weeks now, I’ve been thinking about a discussion I had with some of my journalist friends over brunch. My blog came up, specifically an old post in which I made mention of my vibrator. The journalists expressed concern about me having written about something so personal on such a public site (Coz my readers are legion, dontcha know!)
I assured them I was OK with that kind of self exposure (which feels pretty safe when everyone and their dog masturbates). But that was not the issue for them. They were more worried about my post costing me a job in the future. “What if a prospective employer reads the post?” I tried to imagine an employer deciding not to hire me because I masturbate and, worse, because I use a vibrator! Then I imagined all the hands prospective employers have already shaken, and will shake in the future, that have also masturbated, including the employer’s own. By comparison, the hand that holds my vibrator seems pretty “clean”! But the journalists pressed on. What if my children read the post?! That I don't have children I guess was academic to them. I had no response. Why not ask, what if my children find out I drink coffee?! Or, that I wear pajamas when I make professional phone calls from my home office?!
As far as I'm concerned, masturbation, like coffee and pajamas, is firmly in the category of basic human right. I assume my imaginary children will masturbate in the way I assume they will breathe (and maybe even work in their pajamas one day). I hope that if I ever do have children, they will never feel any shame around something so natural, and that maybe they will even feel proud that their mother did not bend to senseless shaming. One thing my mother taught me well was to value my physical pleasure, to treat it as precious, whether sharing it with someone else, or just myself. She always used the word “beautiful" to describe sexual joy. I love her for that.
What really struck me most about this conversation, however, was the source. I mean, these are journalists, for god's sake! People who write about things that put them in far, far more vulnerable positions than I put myself with this blog. They are the ones who tackle hot political topics, often having to write about, or report on, situations/ideas/events they themselves may fundamentally disagree with, or, even tougher, have to put their own political views on the line and then defend them IN THE NEWS. For instance, one of the journalists got fired from her job because her stories were seen as too Zionist and not objective enough. I admire her fearlessness in standing by her political views and deeply held values, and the courage it took to not pretend she felt otherwise. To me, that’s scarier than writing about masturbation. Despite the shame that has traditionally shrouded masturbation in many cultures (sadly, clearly alive and well amongst even my most sophisticated and intrepid peers), I suspect that most people do it and enjoy it. Writing about such a happy topic, for me, requires no courage whatsoever.
I sat on this post for a while to see if my initial response to the conversation – a mixture of gratitude for their concern and surprise that masturbation is still such a touchy topic – would abate. The intensity of my feelings did fade, but the desire to become a masturbation advocate (journalist?) lingered and strengthened. The beauty and power of journalism lies in its intention to provide a democracy of voices. In that spirit, I don’t expect everyone to like what I have to say, to agree with it, or even to care. I certainly don’t expect them read about masturbation and vibrators if they find the topic distasteful.
Oh, wait, too late!
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