In Praise of Slow

by Carl Honore

  The modern world has little patience for anyone who fails to keep up with the sexual pace. Many women—40%, according to some surveys—suffer from lack of sexual desire or pleasure. True to our quick-fix culture, the pharmaceutical industry insists that a Viagra-style pill can put things right. But genital blood flow may be a red herring. Maybe the real problem is speed. A woman needs more time to warm up, taking on average twenty minutes to reach full sexual arousal, compared with ten minutes or under for a man. Most women, like the Pointer Sisters, prefer a lover with a slow hand.

  Let’s not get carried away, though. Speed has its place between the sheets. Sometimes a swift roll in the hay is all you want or need. Long live the quickie. But sex can be so much more than a sprint to orgasm. Making love slowly can be a profound experience. It can also deliver fantastic orgasms.

  That is why the Slow philosophy is now making inroads into bedrooms across the world. Even lads’ magazines have started urging readers to seduce their partners with long, laidback erotic encounters, complete with candles, music, wine and massage. Over twelve straight weeks in 2002, Weekly Gendai, Japan’s leading men’s title, filled its pages with articles on lovemaking in the twenty-first century. The tone was serious, even a little didactic, because the aim was to teach readers the art of intimacy, sensuality and slowness. “A lot of Japanese men have the idea that the best sex you can have is fast, macho, American-style sex,” says Kazuo Takahashi, a senior editor at the magazine. “We wanted to show that there is another way to have a physical relationship.” One article in the series hailed the tradition of “slow sex” in Polynesia. The author explained how Polynesian lovers spend ages stroking and exploring each other’s bodies. When it comes to orgasm, quality takes precedence over quantity.

  The sex series was a big hit in Japan. Weekly Gendai’s circulation shot up by 20%, and letters from grateful readers flooded in. One thanked the magazine for giving him the courage to talk openly to his wife about sex. He was shocked to learn that vigorous, energetic lovemaking did not always ring her bell, and that she would prefer to take things at a more Polynesian pace. He gave it a try, and now their marriage and sex life are better than ever.

  Around the same time as commuters on the Tokyo subway were reading about the joys of erotic deceleration, an official Slow Sex movement sprang to life in Italy. Its founder is Alberto Vitale, a Web marketing consultant based in Bra, the home of Slow Food. In a textbook example of the cross-fertilization within the Slow movement, Vitale decided that the Petrini principle—taking time leads to greater sensual pleasure—could be transplanted from the dinner table to the bedroom. In 2002, he founded Slow Sex to rescue lovemaking from “the breakneck speed of our crazy and vulgar world.” Membership quickly hit three figures, with an even gender split, and is still rising.

  After a long day of interviewing Slow Food activists, I meet Vitale at a sidewalk café in Bra. He is a slim, owlish thirty-one-year-old. As soon as the drinks are ordered, he begins telling me why his days as a Latin Lothario are over. “In our consumer culture, the aim is to sleep with someone quickly and then move on to the next conquest,” he says. “Listen to men talking—it’s all about the number of women, the number of times, the number of positions. It’s all about numbers. You go to bed with a checklist of things you have to get through. You’re too impatient, too self-centred, to really enjoy the sex.”

  Vitale crusades against the culture of the quick shag. He gives talks on the joys of Slow sex to social clubs around Piedmont. He has plans to convert his website (www.slowsex.it) into a forum for discussing all aspects of erotic deceleration. Slowing down has done wonders for his own sex life. Instead of racing through his favourite positions, Vitale now takes time to indulge in extended foreplay, to whisper to his partner, to look into her eyes. “If you look around the world, there is a growing desire to slow down,” he says. “In my opinion, the best place to start is in bed.”

  Nothing highlights the yearning for slower sex more than the worldwide Tantra boom. During the sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s, a few pioneers dabbled in Tantric techniques. Now others are catching up. Every day, twelve thousand people navigate through the blizzard of Internet porn to visit Tantra.com. Undeterred by the ridicule heaped on Sting, couples of all ages are flocking to Tantric sex workshops.

  So what exactly is Tantra? The word itself comes from Sanskrit, and means “to extend, expand or weave.” Invented five thousand years ago in India, and later embraced by Buddhists in Tibet and China, Tantra is a spiritual discipline that treats the body as an instrument of prayer. Just as the Christian mystics reached out to God through self-flagellation, the Tantrikas used slow, mindful sexual union as the path to enlightenment. In other words, Tantric sex, in its purest form, is not just normal sex slowed down. It is about using sexual energy to forge a perfect spiritual union with your partner, and with the universe.

  Tantric philosophy teaches that the human body circulates energy through the seven chakras that run up and down the spine, from the genitals to the crown of the head. With a mixture of meditation, yogic exercises, controlled breathing and unhurried foreplay, couples learn to contain and channel their sexual energy. During intercourse, the man prolongs his erection through slow, measured thrusting. Men also learn to have an orgasm without ejaculating. With its stress on sharing, intimacy and slowness, Tantra is very female-friendly. Indeed, the man is meant to treat the woman as a goddess, gently stoking her arousal without seeking to take it over or impose his own pace. In the end, however, the spoils are shared evenly. When Tantra works, both partners achieve, in the words of Tantra.com, a “higher state of consciousness” and a “realization of the blissful nature of the Self.” If that all sounds a little too corny for comfort, the carnal payoff is pretty amazing, too: Tantra teaches both men and women to surf the waves of multiple orgasm for as long as they like. If a couple remains together—and who wouldn’t after that?—their sexual fire will burn brighter, instead of fizzling out, as the years pass.

  The modern urge to slow down in the bedroom, as elsewhere, has its roots in the nineteenth century. As industrialization cranked up the pace, people began to look East for a slower alternative. A growing interest in Oriental philosophies brought Westerners into contact with Tantra. An early fan of what came to be known as “sacred sex” was Alice Bunker Stockham, one of the first female doctors in the United States. After studying Tantra in India, she returned home to promote the control of orgasm as a route to physical ecstasy, emotional bonding, better health and spiritual fulfilment. She coined the term karezza, which derives from an Italian word meaning “caress,” to describe her secularized version of Tantra. Her sex tips first appeared in 1883 in a book called Toktology, which Tolstoy later translated into Russian. Others followed in Stockham’s footsteps, defying Victorian taboos to publish books and manuals on the art of slow, mindful lovemaking. In Hell on Earth Made Heaven: The Marriage Secrets of a Chicago Contractor, George Washington Savory gave Tantric sex a Christian spin.

  More than a century later, my own journey into Tantra gets off to a halting start. As I begin the research, my first instinct is to smirk, or run away. The New Age jargon, the chakras, the self-help videos hosted by men with ponytails—it all seems so cheesy. I’m not sure I’m ready to harmonize my inner man or awaken my divinity, or even if I know what either of those things means. And do we really have to call the penis a lingam, or “wand of light”?

  When you think about it, though, Tantra is not as goofy as it sounds. Even the most down-to-earth among us knows that sex is more than just a very pleasant muscle spasm. It can forge deep emotional bonds; it can pull us out of ourselves, letting the mind float free in a timeless present. Occasionally, it offers a glimpse of the profound, the transcendent. When people talk about their most intense moments of sexual ecstasy, they often use spiritual metaphors: “I felt like I was flying like an eagle.” “I crawled into my partner’s body.” “I saw the face of God.” Tantra seeks to develop that link bet
ween the sexual and the spiritual.

  In the ancient world, people spent years purifying and mastering their body and mind before a Tantric guru would even give them the time of day. Only once their “inner psychic energies” were awakened could they begin to study the sexual techniques. Nowadays, anyone can start learning Tantric lovemaking tomorrow. And this being a consumer society, there are workshops to suit every taste. Some are more spiritual than others. Many Western instructors blend in techniques from the Kama Sutra and other sacred-sex texts. Not surprisingly, the purists accuse the reformers of peddling “Tantra Lite.” But even if that is so, who cares? What is wrong with modified Tantra if it works? Even if people fail to reach a higher plane of consciousness, or to realign their chakras, they can still benefit from the basic sexual philosophy. After all, once you strip Tantra of its mystical baggage, you are left with the rudiments of good sex: tenderness, communication, respect, variety and slowness.

  Even hardened skeptics succumb to the charms of Tantra. In 2001, Val Sampson, a forty-something journalist, went to write a feature on Tantric sex for the London Times. She dragged her husband along to the workshop, expecting that both of them would giggle all the way through. Instead, they found that the simple breathing exercises actually worked, and that the message about honouring your partner with slow, sharing sex struck a chord. “It was a revelation,” Sampson tells me when we meet at her gym in Twickenham, on the outskirts of London. “I really had no idea that there was another approach to sex that was about giving time to each other, about bringing your head and your heart completely into the sexual relationship.”

  Sampson and her husband promptly signed up for a Tantra weekend. Now they are converts. In 2002, Sampson published a book called Tantra: The Art of Mind-Blowing Sex, a how-to guide written for people who normally run a mile from anything New Age. Her view is that we can all decide how deeply we want to explore the mystical side of sexuality. “I think it’s equally valid to follow Tantra as a spiritual path or simply to improve your sex life,” she says. “In the end, you’ll probably get to the same place, anyway.”

  At the end of our chat, Sampson gives me the phone number of her Tantric teacher, the improbably named Leora Lightwoman. I call her that evening. Lightwoman is taken with the idea of a book on slowing down, and invites me to join her next workshop.

  Two months later, on a blustery Friday evening, my wife and I arrive at an old warehouse in north London. We ring the bell, and the door clicks open. Voices float up the stairwell from the basement on a wave of incense. One of the workshop assistants—they are called “angels”—greets us on the landing. He is in his thirties and has a crooked smile and a ponytail. He wears a white vest and cream-coloured yoga trousers and smells strongly of armpit. He reminds me of the host of a particularly toe-curling Tantra video I have seen. My heart sinks.

  We remove our shoes and enter the basement, a large whitewashed room decked out with ethnic throws. My worst fear—that everyone in the workshop would be a macrobiotic vegan or an aromatherapist or both—turns out to be way off the mark. There are a few archetypal New Agers, in sarongs and beads, but most of the thirty-two participants are ordinary folk in comfortable street clothes. There are doctors, stockbrokers, teachers. One man has come straight from his trading desk in the City. Many have never been to a self-improvement workshop before.

  Lightwoman is at pains to put everyone at ease. A graceful, elfin figure with cropped hair and large eyes, she speaks slowly, as though rolling each sentence around inside her head before releasing it. She starts the workshop by explaining a little about Tantra, and then asks us to introduce ourselves and say why we are here. The singletons claim to be on a journey of self-discovery. The couples have come to deepen their relationships.

  Once the ice is broken, we start with a little Kundalini shaking. This involves closing the eyes and vibrating the body from the knees up. The aim is to relax and get your inner energy flowing. I don’t know about the energy, but I certainly feel less tense after about ten minutes of wobbling around. We then move on to the showpiece event of the evening, the Awakening of the Senses. “In the modern world, when everyone is in a hurry, we often do not take enough time to use our senses,” says Lightwoman. “This is about rediscovering your senses and bringing them back to life.”

  Everyone puts on a blindfold and holds hands with a partner. After a few minutes, my wife and I are guided across the room and made to sit on some cushions on the floor. The only sound is the gentle rustling of angels escorting people back and forth. Instead of fidgeting, I can feel myself surrendering to the moment, going with the flow. In a soft voice, Lightwoman asks us to listen closely. The silence is then broken by the ring of a Tibetan bell. Deprived of other sensory input, my mind is free to concentrate on the ringing. The sound—clear, rich, noble—feels as if it is washing over me. I want it to go on forever. Other sounds—hands beating on drums, maracas, a didgeridoo—have a similar effect. For a moment it occurs to me that I could stand being blind if my ears could always bring me this much pleasure. The ceremony continues, moving on to the sense of smell. The angels wave richly scented objects beneath our noses—cinnamon, rose water, oranges. The aromas are intense and exciting. To awaken our taste buds, the angels then pop morsels of food—chocolate, strawberries, mango—into our mouths. Again the result is a sensory explosion.

  Touch is the final leg of the journey. The angels run feathers up and down our arms, and nuzzle our necks with furry toys, which is a lot nicer than it sounds. We are then given an object to explore with our hands. Mine is a bronze statuette of a woman. My fingers probe every nook and cranny, trying to draw a mental picture. We are then asked to investigate our partner’s hands with the same spirit of wonder. This sounds lame, but actually turns out to be rather moving. As I slowly explore my wife’s hands, I remember doing the same a long time ago, in the early days of our relationship, in the doorway of a bistro in Edinburgh.

  Later, we remove our blindfolds to find the room darkened and everyone sitting on cushions in a large circle. In the middle, the objects used in the ceremony are artfully arranged on a red blanket draped over some boxes and dotted with candles. It looks like a luxury cruise liner sailing into port on a summer evening. A warm glow envelops the room. One man, a lawyer who came to the workshop simply to please his wife, is blown away. “That was really beautiful,” he mutters. “Really beautiful.” I know how he feels. My senses are tingling. The evening has passed in the blink of an eye. I can hardly wait to come back for more.

  The next morning, though, my plans go disastrously awry. Our daughter is rushed to hospital with a chest infection, and my wife has to drop out of the course to be with her. It is a big blow for us both. Nevertheless, I decide to carry on alone, turning up on Saturday morning as a singleton.

  The awkwardness of opening night has given way to an easy camaraderie. It helps that the workshop is as far from a swingers’ party as you can imagine. There is no overt sexual touching or nudity. Respect is a top priority for Lightwoman. Indeed, she expels a single man from our workshop for showing a little too much interest in the female participants.

  After another round of Kundalini shaking, we pair off for a series of exercises designed to teach the art of slow, loving sensuality. One is called Yes-No-Maybe-Please. Partners take turns touching each other, with the touchee delivering a running commentary to the toucher: Yes means “I like that”; No means “Try something else”; Maybe means “I’m not sure”; Please means “Mmm, more of the same.” In Tantra, each time couples make love they should explore each other’s bodies as if for the first time. For this exercise, my partner is a slightly shy young woman. Because the standard erogenous zones are off limits, we are free to investigate areas often neglected in the heat of the moment—knees, calves, ankles, feet, shoulders, the base of the neck, elbows, the spine. We start off tentatively, but gradually find a groove. It is all very sweet and sensual.

  Other exercises foster the same Slow ethic. We da
nce sensually, breathe in unison and stare into each other’s eyes. Striving to create intimacy with a total stranger feels a bit weird to me, but the principle—slow down and make a connection with your partner—is clearly working for many participants. Couples who arrived with ho-hum body language are now holding hands and canoodling. It makes me miss my wife.

  The toughest exercise of the weekend is designed to strengthen the pubococcygeus, the cluster of muscles that run from the pubic bone to the tailbone. These are what you flex to push out the final few drops of urine. Lightwoman calls them the “love muscle.” Strengthening them can deliver more intense orgasms for both sexes, and can help men separate ejaculation from the spasms that accompany it, paving the way for the multiple orgasm.

  Lightwoman asks us to combine a love muscle workout with controlled breathing. While clenching and releasing the pubococcygeus, we imagine moving our breath up through the seven chakras, starting at the perineum and finishing at the crown of the head. Even if, like me, you are skeptical about the whole chakras thing, the exercise is very relaxing, and strangely affecting.

  For many, though, the highlight of the weekend is a manoeuvre called streaming. In the normal course of things, sex culminates with a genital orgasm that lasts a few seconds. Tantra seeks to extend and intensify the ecstasy by releasing the sexual energy from the groin and spreading it around. This is known as the full-body orgasm. In both sexes, streaming is a technique for clearing out the channels through which energy flows. It works like this. After some Kundalini shaking, you lie on your back with your knees in the air and feet flat on the ground. As you slowly open and close your legs, the shake is supposed to start again at your knees and then work its way up your body. Your partner can help the energy flow by waving a hand above the shake and slowly coaxing it in the right direction. It sounds kooky, but let me tell you that streaming does exactly what it says on the packet. In a word: Wow! Almost as soon as I lie down the shaking takes over, as if something has invaded my body. It moves up through my pelvis into my solar plexus. At first the movements are violent, and a little scary, reminding me of the Alien movies, where characters convulse and contort before the monster bursts out of their chests. But the fear is short-lived. Before long, the shaking induces a feeling of elation and ecstasy. And I am not alone. All around, people are crying out in joyful release. It is a genuinely remarkable moment. Afterwards, the couples lie entwined, stroking each other languidly.