Radical Ecstasy

by Dossie Easton

  Probably the hardest part for us is the part about taking care of ourselves — it’s sometimes very difficult to remember to be as nice to oneself as one is to everyone else. Here’s a piece Janet wrote about some self-caretaking we’ve had to do while writing this book:

  The Book and the Mirror

  In a fairy tale somewhere, a magic mirror shows you your greatest fear — yourself bitterly old, poverty-stricken, wincingly ugly, riddled with disease-weeping sores.

  Dossie and I are discovering that this book is something like that magic mirror. When I make a minor copy-editing change to something of hers, she instantly decides that I hate what she’s written, and moreover that I hate everything she’s written in the book — and that I probably don’t like her much either, and that I’m probably right to feel that way. When one of her workshop exercises goes better than mine did, I wonder why she even bothers to bring me along on the damn workshops anyway since I’m obviously just getting in the way, and people are just being polite about letting me stumble around after her.

  We’ve both spent an embarrassing amount of time at other folks’ workshops and retreats sitting in corners sobbing because something has triggered our shared childhood trauma about being too much smarter than the other kids, about nobody liking us or wanting to play with us — this in spite of numerous intervening decades having proven to us that plenty of people like us fine, and plenty of people love to play with us, thank you very much.

  Let’s not even talk about how many post-scene emotional crash-and-bums we’ve had since we began playing with the knowledge that most of our scenes were going to get written up for a book about transcendent BDSM…

  So, here’s a friendly tip: if you want to know what you’re most scared of, what you’re most insecure about, what you like least about yourself, all you have to do is decide to write a book about a complicated and evanescent topic with your dearest friend and lover of upwards of a decade. It works perfectly, I assure you.

  All joking aside, I’m writing this almost two years into the process of creating Radical Ecstasy. Most of the bones of the book have been created and we’re now trying to string them together into a functional skeleton. And it’s not getting easier — in fact, it seems to get harder and harder the further we get into the process. What the hell is going on?

  I think I’ve finally come to some understanding of it. The essence of what we’re writing about is skinlessness: letting go of the walls that hold our place in space and time, that make it possible to tell where we end and the rest of the world begins. That sense of — I guess it’s not really a pun to call it “boundless joy” — is the core of the state we’re trying to describe and to achieve in this book.

  But to write about it requires that we our my best to sustain it, during our time with each other, and during the time we spend with the book itself. And that, goddammit, is one fucking scary task.

  Is this a plea for reader pity? Well, yeah, maybe a little bit. But it’s also a call for compassion for yourself, because anytime you’re doing anything that calls for this kind of openness, you may find yourself looking into your own scary mirror and doing some of the same things we’re doing.

  And if you do, please do the same things for yourself that we’ve done for ourselves and each other: Hugs. Reassurances. Treats (I’m particularly fond of chocolate-covered crystallized ginger — chocolate and endorphins all in the same package, yum). Tears, with strategic Kleenex as needed. Drink a lot of water and get a lot of sleep. And then, get up the next day and do it some more, because it’s the hard stuff that’s the most worth doing.

  I’m honored and awed that Dossie and I were given the task of writing this book. Maybe someday, after it’s finished, I’ll even be grateful; but right now it’s still too hard and tedious and frustrating. I suspect I’ve got eight or nine more paranoid attacks, crying jags, sugar binges and long walks to go before I can get there. One thing I know for sure, though: it will have been worth it.

  The joys and the sorrows

  We want you to make yourself a promise. A sacred vow that you will take care of yourself, be kind to yourself and listen to yourself with compassion. Do that now, and then you may continue.

  What, do you suppose, are some of the consequences of this kind of openness? What can you imagine might happen if you opened your heart to joy and trust and giving, if you gave and were given all the sex and love and ecstasy you wanted?

  One of the things we’ve found is that living this way just gives us a different perspective – we see things through a different lens than most people, and it often makes us seem kind of odd. We get used to being called “weird” a lot. We feel out of step, discom-bobulated, sometimes even a little disoriented. It feels like a huge relief to be able to spend time with our immediate circle of friends, who either share our perspective or who understand us well enough that we don’t have to explain ourselves constantly, and who don’t get startled or upset when we speak truths that seem perfectly ordinary to us but that are a little too uncensored for most folks.

  A lot of people are frightened or threatened by openness, whether it’s the emotional kind or the spiritual kind or the sexual kind. It calls into question many of their assumptions about the way they’ve chosen to live their lives. Thus, when they’re confronted by such a person, they react by mocking that person, or running away from them, or taking advantage of them, or even by outright trying to do them harm. Living with the frustrations and terrors of being singled out for persecution for no better reason than that you express your love differently from other people is no fun, and is a reality for many of us reading (and writing) this book.

  Now, being mocked hurts, or doesn’t hurt, in exact proportion to howbalanced we’re feeling at the time – in fact, if you want to know how sane you are at any given moment, just arrange to have someone make fun of you or insult you, and see how much it bothers you; and you’ll have your answer.

  It’s harder if someone you like turns away from you because you’re too open-hearted. It’s human nature to fear rejection; if what’s being rejected is your most vulnerable parts, the parts you expose by being as open and forthright as you can, that can feel very hurtful. And we’re sorry to say that we don’t really have much help for you if this happens to you, except to say that it happens to us too, and it isn’t the end of the world. Sometimes that person gets over their fear and begins to recognize the pleasure of opening their heart too; sometimes they don’t, and you have to take your lumps and move on, trusting that another person will be there for you later. At least you have the advantage of being open enough with your own emotions that you can recognize your own sadness — see above regarding treats and water and Kleenex and long walks and such.

  Ever had a totally ordinary moment – something that happens to you every day — suddenly present itself to you as extraordinary, transcendent, seething with infinite life and meaning? Imagine what it might be like to wash a sinkful of dishes... immediately after surviving a near-fatal auto accident. Imagine being acutely aware that you were almost dead but now you are alive, alive and washing dishes, so that you can completely feel the hot water and slippery suds, and see the glistening bubbles and the gleaming glass, and recognize the cosmic significance of cleaning the surfaces from which you and your family consume the food that sustains your beautiful lives. That’s the kind of moment that openness allows, whether it’s in a sinkful of dishes, or the gradations of color in the petal of a flower, or the texture of a lover’s cheek, or the way the sensation of a cane stroke blooms and fades and blooms again on your ass.

  And here are some of the things that we’ve found have happened to us when we’ve allowed ourselves that kind of openness. The world has showered extraordinary blessings on us. As we’ve moved into and through middle age, we’re still considered interesting, attractive, desirable (to our considerable surprise, frankly). Our friends take care of us in ways that amaze and touch and awe us. We’ve had experiences that have moved us bey
ond all description – we’ve written more than 200 pages trying to describe the beauty of some of the things that have happened to us, and feel like we’ve barely scratched the surface. We’ve shared love and sex and ecstasy with untold numbers of people, both directly and indirectly, which has made our lives incalculably bigger – and which has made it so much easier for us to love ourselves, never all that easy a task for either of us.

  In other words, even when it’s been hard to be open, even when it’s scared us, even when we’ve felt lonely and isolated, we wouldn’t trade it for any other way of being – not for anything. Even if we could. Which we can’t — we suspect that once a spirit breaks out of its old package, it’s pretty tough to squeeze it back in.

  And let’s not forget about sex

  This chapter has been so highflown and philosophical that there hasn’t been nearly enough smut in it; but really, everything we’ve written here goes right back to the idea of sex and fucking and SM. If one day, we heal our society of all the fear and loathing about sex, if we open our society up, sex will still not be ordinary, not something you would take for granted, like eating and shitting. Sex would not lose its mystery, because sex is far more than a hunger or a thirst. Sex is a way to connect to ourselves, to others, to our tribe, to everybody, to nature, to the cosmos. A truly holy communion – open to everything.

  Openness is the theory, but for us, sex is the practice – it’s the infinitely fascinating, infinitely creative, infinitely passionate field of exploration, growth and connection on which we can play out every single one of the abstract ideas we’ve put forth here.

  Fire Dance With Janet

  You said this night would be about pain.

  I dress for dinner, the bias silk you gave me for Christmas, the burnt velvet jacket a serendipitous match: stockings and lace, all clean. The mince pie I made for our dinner pleases you: the rendered goose fat from last year made an exquisitely flaky crust, perfect contrast to the dark rummy sweetness of the mincemeat.

  After dessert and coffee, we focus in, sitting on your bed. You have covered it with layers of sheets, evidently plotting something messy. You stare into my eyes, and as I look into yours I see you change, becoming adamant, inflexible — ruthless.

  As you stare into me, visibly hardening, I feel something move inside me, something familiar, transiting into this other me, the one that fits, the puzzle piece to this other you. You and I, we fit together in many truly amazing ways — as writers, collaborators, teachers, best friends, lovers; and in these roles we play, the ways our shadow personae fit together. The me that responds to you; the you that responds to me. These intimate ways we mirror each other, the paths we walk together.

  Whatever our differences, we always seem to be able to connect our energy to make magic. As you put it, the Light is always there.

  When we went dancing to the Sufi chants, I was prepared for you not to like it. We often don’t like the same things, at least as entertainment. But when I went out trance dancing, you came right along. You found me on the dance floor, your eyes alive and open windows to the soul, forehead to mine, peering like the owl that sees into the night. The ropes of light between our chakras grew palpable as we danced, ecstatic and sexual, grinding pubes together, pulling apart to wave to the snake rhythm, coming back together, chest to chest, to join at the heart. There is some truth in this connection that transcends language and words.

  Now, I’m struggling to find words to describe my journey into myself, demanded by the hardness in your eyes, a part of myself that never yields but loves to get conquered anyway.

  You start to appear male to me as you reach out, touch my face, my thigh — pulling my stocking down to my knee, one at a time, a sharp vulnerable pinch. I jump, you continue colonizing my body, one part at a time.

  In silence you pull off the jacket, feeling my shoulders and arms as if evaluating something, checking for doneness, signs of unwanted tension, strength? Then the bra goes. As you reach around me for the clasp, I can smell you but I know better than to touch. The shoes, then the stockings all the way off, the silk of the skirt on my skin sliding off and carefully put to the side.

  You buckle leather cuffs around me, one wrist, the next — an interesting design, a brief digression into technology until you pass rope, lovely silky bright orange unyielding rope, through the rings and pull me down, fastened tight to the head of your bed.

  I feel vulnerable, belly up — uncovered, exposed. No bra, breasts left to gravity.

  You step away, find something in your bag — ah, the blindfold. Eyes covered, somehow I feel less naked, settling into the darkness. You trail your hand down my leg to my ankle: another cuff, more rope, one foot, two — secured, spread-eagle.

  You recollect what you have colonized, pass your hands over my skin as if to evaluate a new purchase, and satisfy yourself of my responsiveness. I transit, under your hands, from relaxed to restive, entranced and aroused simultaneously. I notice my hips begin to rock. I lift my crotch toward the warmth of your hand — you laugh.

  Another silence of rising tension while you are occupied with some equipment. A match strikes, catches my breath, a whiff of sulfur. And you are over me again, one hand breaking trails on my skin as the other waits, breathless — no, that’s me, holding my breath. You had told me that you had acquired some new and particularly vicious candles from Japan, which hit so hot that they need to be built up to with more forgiving forms of hot wax.

  The warm-up is literal. When the first wax drips, I leap. The heat is intense, hard to adapt to. I have to remember that I can’t look to see if it’s burning, but you are watching, and you are always careful. The candle drips very hot, and seems to get even hotter on the skin for quite some time. I wonder if I should tell you that, but then you grab the outside of my crotch with your free hand, squeezing and pulling. My clit leaps to life, my cunt contracts, right. This is sex. And you have connected these drops of fire to my cunt, my root, and from there the heat flows up through the rest of me, my belly, my heart, my throat.

  I am already writhing, and when it reaches my throat I start growling and hissing. So you up the gain. Fire falls like rain all over me, burning rain on my chest, my belly, my thighs, my breasts. You inch the drops toward my nipples; the sensitivity spikes, and I add fear to my complex of feelings.

  It works, in some strange way, to feel afraid of you. After all, you understand my limits, you have known me for years. I know you won’t actually attack my nipples because you know I would hate it, but the threat is hot to play with. And you do know how to tease me, ride my edge, leave me to wonder if you really really would.

  Fire shoots up into my skull as my vision opens, and I see you outlined in glowing red, myself crowned in fire.

  I don’t remember a lot of detail for a while. I remember twisting away a few times, trying to flee, but tied down I don’t get far and you just keep on raining. I remember wondering about safewording and then forgetting — I know you poured wax on my cunt. I remember screaming.

  A break, you move away, reaching for something. I try to collect myself. In the sudden silence, I feel warmth and burning, a coat of wax like a blanket over me. Then a match strikes again, and you push something cold and hard into my crotch: the vibrator. When you turn it on, my cunt instantly reaches for the sensation, pulling it in as deep as I can. I can feel my womb swelling, my body arches, and blazing hot drops of fire fall on my naked skin. Hot, hot, hot.

  You explore, for a while, this polarizing experience of pleasure and pain: the vibrator, harder and softer, the approach to orgasm, the retreat, all punctuated by exquisite flashes of burning hot wax. Distinct sensations, so different as to seem to tremendously distant from each other, take my consciousness out further and further, as if I were suspended in outer space hanging between orgasm and agony.

  You turn the vibrator up, and empty the second candle into my crotch. We hover on the brink of too much: too much pleasure, too much pain, no room for any other awareness, you
hold me hovering, you

  push the vibrator harder into me, still raining fire, until,

  howling,

  I come.

  In and out of conclusion

  Between us, we have over a century of time on the planet, and well over half a century of experience doing slutty sex and greedy SM and heavenly ecstasy; and that is such a tiny fraction of how much there is to explore that we feel like we could live for a millennium each and not begin to run out of ideas.

  So the field is infinite, and there are really are no conclusions to any of this. Writing, we tend to choose the stories and events that have expressible conclusions: I learned this, I said that, my life changed. It’s harder to write about the episodes of going into the flow and functioning in ecstasy for a while and then... and then... we come back down and go on living our lives: informed, perhaps, or maybe just reminded. We have visited a fountain where the water is always sweet, and it is never the same water.

  We are not the same people that we were two years ago when we began writing this book. Putting these words on these pages has invoked laughter, love, terror, embarrassment – “are we really going to tell them that?” – frustration, humiliation, pride and joy. We have leapt so high we scared ourselves, and fallen so fast we crashed. It has been two years of ecstasy as radical as any either of us has ever known, and we thank you, dear reader, for inspiring us to undertake it.

  After two years, we still have neither definition nor explanation for our spiritual horniness that drives us to seek out pathways to bliss. Yet we go on seeking. We risk hubris to put names to the unnamable, trying to map our journey as our footprints dissolve behind us.

  We returned from these journeys with new insights. The borderlines that we used to define our consciousness have opened briefly, tantalizing us. For a few wonderful moments, minutes, hours, we have lost the distinctions between thoughts and fantasies, perceptions and dreams: fact or fiction, myth or life, role or reality, you or me. The boundaries dissolved and we made new connections, grasped new understandings. Having pulled the puzzle apart, we could put the pieces back together in a new way, to show us a new picture, another part of the eternal puzzle that is never finished because it won’t, can’t, hold still.