by Jessi Klein
At first I was embarrassed for him; and then, when I realized I could neither unfreeze the computer nor put it back into sleep mode, I was way more embarrassed for me. There was nothing to do when he came back from the bathroom but to explain that I had not meant to snoop, and yet here I was staring at fifty gaping buttholes. I wasn’t mad, which was good, seeing as he wasn’t anything more than slightly sheepish. He was primarily ashamed of the fact that his masturbation habits had brought a rather expensive Dell desktop to its knees. He ended up needing to buy a new computer.
The one thing to which he did confess was that he’d been watching maybe a bit too much porn in the last year, and now he felt he needed to stop.
“I think it’s affecting the way I have sex” was what he said.
I wanted to say, “Yeah, it’s funny, I was thinking the same thing right when you ejaculated into my eye the other night,” but I felt that might be impolite.
I didn’t want to be the kind of person who looked down on anyone for using porn, and intellectually, I wasn’t. And yet—I was distrustful of it. I can’t emphasize enough how badly semen stings in your eye. It’s worse than shampoo. If there was a Johnson & Johnson’s “No more tears” version of semen, I might have felt differently. But the whole episode put a strain on my and porn’s already thin relationship.
Which brings us to my current situation.
A few years ago, I was dating a man I liked very much. I was always worried about whether he felt the same way, and as a result, I was often jealous. I wish I could say I went on his computer to check my email but that would be a big fat lie because the truth is I wanted to dig through his Internet history. I had to click past oodles of ESPN.com and sneaker site visits, but with enough scrolling I eventually dug up what I was looking for, which is to say, anything that would annoy me and make me feel terrible about myself. A pile of sites with x’s followed by backslashes followed by various adjectives of different female body types rose from the bottom of the screen. And maybe because I was so jealous, and was so worried about being what he wanted, I felt compelled to look at what he was looking at, to see if it in any way matched up with what I am. (Because obviously that is why men turn to porn. To find women who look like the women they’re with.) Like an idiot, I was holding out hope of finding a site filled with videos of pale, bespectacled Jewish girls with their hair up in sloppy buns.
Spoiler alert: That’s not what he was looking at.
The truth is, what he was looking at wasn’t that bad. I was actually relieved to see that it was all middle-of-the-road sex stuff (relatively speaking). For the sake of this story, what matters is that for the first time in my life, I found myself looking at a porn site and feeling—could it be?—genuine curiosity.
I didn’t know anything about Internet porn, and it took me a while to find my way, like having to learn the geography of the new mall in your town. It takes a while to know where the good stuff is. (Where’s the J.Crew? The Sephora?) The site I’d found was an aggregator, with hundreds of videos to look at, organized into a long list of alphabetical categories on the left side of the screen. These categories range from basics like “amateur” to something called “real amateur” (which makes me wonder what all those people going to the fake amateur category are thinking); there are job categories, like “doctor” and “nurse,” if you are turned on by watching someone who makes a good income and can find work anywhere have sex; there are classic hard-core things like “anal” and “deep throat”; and then there are links for weirder, more specific fetishes like “pregnant,” which I have never clicked on, but even just knowing it exists makes me feel a sad lonely feeling in the deepest part of my heart. It might be because as I am writing this chapter I am pregnant (surprise!)2 and I am annoyed at tying my shoes, so I can’t even fathom having to pretend I am LOVING some rando’s dick.
But I wasn’t pregnant when I started looking at this site, and even then, the gestalt of the thing overwhelmed me. If you try to click on one of the tamer categories, like “massage” (which usually starts with light foot rubs but often ends in sexual gore), and you forget to enlarge your video to full screen, you are forced to simultaneously watch GIF banner ads all over the rest of the window, which always feature comically grotesque imagery of ladies definitely, how shall I say, not being made love to.
There are so many things on there I don’t want to see (all of which I’ve now seen):
Women sobbing while having sex.
Women being choked while having sex.
Anyone sobbing or being choked while having sex.
A live-action person having sex with an animated alien.
A female little person being doggy-styled by a normal-size person.
But still. I’m still human. The part of me that stood behind curtains as a tweenager with an old pair of binoculars, hoping against hope to see someone’s knees peeking out from under a towel, still was excited to see naked people. Except I didn’t want to see the Hieronymus Bosch version of sex. Ironically, after decades of porn being something you had to pry out of secret drawers and basements and forests, I now had to dig through an endlessly available, 24/7 porn delivery service to excavate videos of people, who seem to at least be on an amicable acquaintance basis, having regular, plain old sex.3
The first time I employed porn for an assist in pleasuring myself, I felt tremendous guilt. Not because I’d “sinned” looking at porn, but more because I felt guilty that I was no longer a member of the analog masturbation world. I’d gone digital. It was similar to the feeling I had when I gave up my old-school flip Samsung cell and bought an iPhone. Now I was like everyone else, kind of. Why couldn’t I just use my imagination anymore? What was happening to me? Why didn’t I still have a record player? And besides, wasn’t I a girl? Wasn’t I not supposed to like any porn at all?
But I do. I like the kind of porn that I like. It’s so much more than what I needed to titillate me as a kid, but now, apparently, compared with everyone else in the world, much less. I do not know how many other women look at porn, or under what circumstances. I know that as of this writing, as I am seven months pregnant, it has been incredibly helpful, since my panda-like stomach has made sex with my husband difficult to impossible. Even watching the very simple porn that I scrabble around to find is an air supply to an erotic life I often worry will evaporate as I become a mother, a sweet Proustian madeleine to remembering what it was like to be an object of new desire; to have a body that belonged only to me and whoever I deigned to share it with. I know those days are numbered.
The other night Mike was out of town and I was enjoying a quiet hour in bed before going to sleep. I was working on my baby registry, adding the last few items my son will need, among which is (apparently?) a humidifier. With my laptop leaning against my knees and belly, I went on Amazon and scrolled through a surprisingly long list of options. Some had animal-like features (there was one that was shaped like an elephant with an elephant trunk that spewed mist), and others were more clinical. Which would he like better? I started reading user reviews, comments from other parents about which ones are easy to clean, which make the room too humid…which…which…which…and I got bored.
It had been a while.
I opened another tab, and typed in the x’s. I found a video. A man is kissing a woman’s neck, and then he takes off her bra. They seem to like each other well enough. No one sobs or chokes.
They finish. I finish. I close out of the window with the x’s and by default I am back on my last webpage, face-to-face with the elephant humidifier. At first it feels like the proximity of these two tabs is a bit profane—these things shouldn’t have been so close to each other. But then I think, Well, isn’t all this part of life. Birth and sex and porn. Exciting and horrible and great and disgusting and joyful.
1 The answers, in order—1. Porn. 2. Don’t care. 3. Yes because of porn. 4. Porn.
2 That’s how long it takes to write a book. The writing of this book has spanned being ba
rren, then conceiving, and then growing a human. The majority of this book was written by a not-pregnant person.
3 Don’t get me wrong—I want the people to be better looking than me. But I want them to look like mammals who breathe air and bear their young, not implanted reptiles or furious velociraptors.
Leap of Faith
In 2007, Oprah Winfrey and her best friend Gayle went to Miraval Spa, a wellness facility in Tucson, Arizona, to do what was then known as the “Leap of Faith.” The “Leap of Faith” involves climbing to the top of a twenty-five-foot wooden pole, somehow transitioning from the pole to the shaky disk perched at its top, declaring an intention about what in your life you want to leave behind, and then jumping off, at which point you are gently belayed down by a facilitator as well as your new friends, the six other women in your group who are also doing the Leap of Faith.
At the time, my friend Becky and I were both around thirty and serious Oprah obsessives. We watched the episode intently from our separate homes, and then got on the phone to discuss. Oprah, who even back then had already had about a billion “aha” moments, was having her mind blown at the top of this tricked-out telephone pole. The Leap of Faith had burned into our souls. We spoke of one day making the pilgrimage to this sacred place and performing this magical act.
Eight years later, I am taking a Delta flight from NYC to Tucson (with one stop in Atlanta). Becky is flying from Philadelphia and we will meet there. In the time that has passed between watching Oprah on TV and packing our bags, Becky and I have been through many boyfriends and many more breakups, one of which is fresh for Becky. She is also turning forty. I am engaged and getting married in three months, a source of joy but also extreme terror. With everything that’s happened to us, we now have a clearer understanding of what Miraval is. Which is to say, it’s a place for women like us. A place where women who are scared, angry, or going through a divorce or some other painful life transition flock to figure their shit out. Although it’s coed, very, very few men go there, because men don’t feel the need to leap off a pole to understand their lives.
A few days before leaving, Becky and I compared notes on the activities that we (and her mom, who is tagging along) would be booking during our stay. Miraval’s website offers a truly staggering number of things you can have someone do to you. Guided Photography Walks, Tibetan Chakra Cleansing, Aerial Yoga classes, acupuncture, and “Soul Journeys,” just to name a few. If a Soul Journey sounds too overwhelming, you can also take a more modest “Pedicure Journey.” To help you assess what might interest you, the site offers a questionnaire, which will determine your “color” and “shape,” signifiers in their symbolic emotional grid. After answering a series of questions about whether I am bold and adventurous or anxious and shitty, I discovered I am an “Orange Diamond,” meaning I am an optimistic explorer. This was a shock, because when I filled out the questionnaire I tried very hard to accurately communicate my anxious shittiness. I’d been certain I’d end up a Blue Circle or perhaps a Mauve Star of David. The Miraval algorithm produced about fifteen suggested activities appropriate for an Orange Diamond, including a private lesson called “Riding the Wave.”
Becky and I were both particularly intrigued by a woman on the site named “Tejpal.” One name, like Madonna or Cher. She was billed as a Brennan Healing Practitioner, which meant nothing to me even after I looked it up, but mainly I was fascinated by her photo. She looked like a sort of beautiful 1970s woodland creature, with a wily short gray haircut, tan skin, angled features, and a big smile. She looked like a line drawing from the original edition of The Joy of Sex, and had the sinewy build of someone subsisting solely on carob.
With my insanely generous number of “girls’ getaway package” resort credits, I booked a different kind of massage for every day I was there: an ayurvedic massage, a Swedish massage, and something called “Tranquil Nights,” which promised that the conclusion of the treatment would involve me getting “rocked to sleep.” I wondered whether this was a euphemism for a happy ending and decided I was fine with being surprised.
Becky arrived at Miraval two days before I did, and I think she’d maybe been there two hours when she texted me, “Word on the street is Tejpal’s amazing.”
Day One
On my flight to Tucson, I sat next to a well-attired woman in her mid-sixties who had a beautiful Louis Vuitton suitcase tucked under the seat in front of her. Though she read throughout most of the trip, she tapped me about thirty minutes before we landed. “You might want to take a peek at some of this scenery.” I looked out the window at the majestic rust-colored mountains, and we started chatting. She’d lived outside Tucson for fifty years, although her job as a Bible textbook writer took her around the world.
As she politely pointed out the landmarks we were passing over, I couldn’t help but think, Even though we are totally from different worlds, most people are basically decent. We can all get along. I was feeling proud of the connections I was already making on my trip to the Southwest when she tapped me again.
“Now you can see we’re entering ranch territory. Arizona has a lot of cattle.”
“Oh right, yes I’ve heard that,” I said.1
She continued, “The only problem is that the Mexicans often come around and kill ’em. That’s why we have to build that fence.”
“So what kind of house do you live in?” I inquired, as I began the more familiar process of disliking this hateful stranger.
I arrived at Miraval in the early afternoon, where Becky was eagerly waiting for me in the lobby. “Tejpal is talking in forty-five minutes.” I raced to put my bag down in my room, where there was a series of stacked shelves labeled COURAGE, CONFIDENCE, CLARITY, BALANCE.
Although the grounds of Miraval were stunning, the meeting rooms were smaller and more corporate looking than I had expected. One thing I noticed immediately, as we walked down the hall on our way to Tejpal Ground Zero, was the presence of tissue boxes. Tissue boxes were in every room, perched quietly on every extra surface. One room we passed had a circle of seven chairs, and within that circle, on the floor, a circle of seven Kleenex boxes. I shuddered at the idea of a gathering where the certainty of every attendee having a nervous breakdown was so concrete.
We walked into the Tejpal conference room, where a group of about fifteen women was assembling. The demographic in this room would be representative of the people I met over the next few days: women ranging from their late thirties to early fifties, usually still in the Lululemon pants and tops they had worn to hike or lounge about the property. These women were mostly tan and, although of varying weight, all physically fit. Everyone kind of looked like Elizabeth Gilbert. Kind-faced, interesting, and interested.
But the last woman who walked in the room was different from the rest. Although I guessed she was in her midforties, she looked older, not younger, than her age. She had dyed-black hair, Dracula eyeliner, and an unhealthy pallor. Clothing-wise, she was more Real Housewife (of Long Island) than SELF magazine.
Tejpal began by telling us that the goal of being alive was to live with vitality. Projected on a screen was a PowerPoint presentation illustrating the onion-like layers of our being, going from “physical” at the outer layer to “spiritual” at the core. Though Tejpal looked just like her picture but with longer hair, I was shocked to discover that (1) she was French, and (2) her speaking voice was almost identical to Elmo’s. She had a way of phrasing ideas where she would say something extremely profound, followed by a whimsically contradictory dismissal of what had just been said. So it was like, “The most eemportant theeng to remember about your life iz to fully commit to every theeng you do. But also, who can care about evereething, life iz crazy, who cares?”
What gets in the way of living with vitality? Tejpal asked.
Everything, I thought to myself.
Wounds, Tejpal said.
She talked about the importance of forgiveness, and how the most important step in forgiveness is to allow yourself to
feel the pain of the hurt you received. Only then would the pain begin to heal.
Suddenly, Dracula leaned forward and spoke up, even though this wasn’t really a situation where you were supposed to speak without being called on. “That’s not true,” she blurted out angrily, her Long Island accent pulling all her vowels downward. “There are some things people do that hurt you forever. And they cause scars that will never heal. Just because you think about them doesn’t mean they’re goin’ away.” All the women in the room turned around to stare at this angry person. This was supposed to be a touchy-feely self-discovery happy place where Tejpal was in charge. You were not supposed to attack Tejpal.
I sensed that people thought she was crazy, and normally I would find her as annoying for not getting it as everyone else was, but instead I felt a wave of deep compassion. It was the first time during my visit to Miraval that I felt attuned to how deeply, painfully exposed people can allow themselves to be when there’s even a sliver of permission to be honest.
Tejpal simply said, “That iz your beleef system, not mine.”
I felt my heart breaking for Dracula.
That night, after dinner, I went for my Tranquil Nights Massage. I’d been up since five thirty a.m. and I was exhausted. A nice blond mouse of a woman led me to the outdoor hut where I’d receive the service. I remember choosing a scent (Relax by Clarins) and getting on the table, and I remember her switching off the overhead light for string lights, and I remember the whole place feeling like an enchanted Bedouin tent. But the moment she touched me I started to doze, and then I was dreaming soft wellness spa dreams. I had never fallen asleep during a massage before, because normally I cannot even fall asleep in my own bed without 5 mg of Ambien.2 But here I was, snoozing away. I discovered that sleeping during a massage is a mixed experience, because on the one hand you are completely relaxed, but on the other hand you wake up to a total stranger kneading your glutes.