17 May 2008

Touching the Depth of Desire

link to this | View all from »

Daisy. Photo by Eric Francis.

WHEN I MEET A WOMAN who I find both beautiful and attractive, there can be that moment, a sinking moment, of knowing that I will never get to experience her. It’s a specific kind of powerlessness. I can feel it emotionally, and sexually (a highly focused, hormonally driven form of emotion). It can have exceedingly little to do with her, or who she is: it’s specifically about what I see and feel looking at her. I don’t know the truth of her feelings; the truth of her desires. I know she is either saying no or sending back that undeniable feeling of never.

It might not occur to me that I am wrong; that time or circumstances would change something. Desire is about now.

I now know I can go two directions with this feeling, this need. I can obsess over my desire, imagine having her, imagine her pleasure in response to my touch, my mouth, my penetration. I can imagine how my emotions and body respond to these things as well, how I feel her resonance with my pleasure and her yielding of resistance. She may not affirm my need, but she can submit to it. This is a kind of conquering desire, though the element of her pleasure seems to obviate this: obviously, if I like it, she would like it. Of course, this is not necessarily true, but it can feel true under the intense influence of pre-orgasmic emotion.

With certain women I have photographed, I can come tantalizingly close to their bodies, their feelings, their scent. I hear and feel them breathing. I notice the most exquisite details of their physical expression: the curves of their waist, the color and form of their nipples, the intricate details of their vulva. I notice the way their hair moves, and at times I can actually touch it with their permission, for example, to move it away from the eyes.

I watch their eyes watch mine as I photograph them, as I gently scale the surface of the boundary, holding back or being held back or perhaps suspended in radical acceptance, breathing consciously as I work, taking photograph after photograph not of a woman but of a woman I desire who does not want me, or who will not let herself want me.

When the game is overt it can be fun: a deliberate, energized tease on a playful level, with my desire acknowledged by their response. At times it can be a dark, malicious tease, the conscious use of power and her seeming to enjoy the process of saying no with her energy, and enjoying causing the pain of denial. Some of these images can seem on the verge of bursting open with energy.

Later, with long periods of time to review the images, their eyes can tell a different story than the one I was seeing at the time: I can see hurt, need, fear or passion mixed in with self-denial. I see the struggle for self-awareness or self-affirmation.

Yet in the end, the answer to the unspoken transaction is no.

I know this emotion is enough to drive many men insane with desire, or rage; in the past, it has driven me nearly to the point of unbearable yearning. Women experience deep desire, we all know this, but I know enough to know that there is something about how the need to penetrate her and pump her full of myself is something likely to be unique to men.

Being denied this is more than many men can stand, which is why we may push so hard to get what we want, no matter how strong the resistance or lack of desire from our counterpart. There can be an energy loop where the more I am not wanted, the more I want her. The more I need, the more she does not need me. If I express my need more, at least I am expressing, but that is always directing the energy outward. What I need is to take that desire inward, to accept myself fully in this condition; simply, to not deem myself worthless because she is not available or because I feel unworthy of her.

Through doing the work I do, I’ve learned there is another way to approach desire, which is to begin with never. I can look at a woman whose beauty evokes movement of deep emotional currents, I can feel that movement, and I can admit to myself that I will never have her. Indeed, I must admit this. I will never hold her, explore the texture of her hair or her pain, or press my face into her and smell her; I will never taste her, and she will never see my face letting go. She will have no direct consciousness of my sexuality, as I let it out of the container it’s now trapped in. I feel that, I surrender to that, I yield to it. I admit my need and the notion that it will never be fulfilled in the same gesture of thought.

I sometimes pick up on a dimension of their response: certain women can delay their gratification, sometimes for years; they can subvert their desire; a rare few can truly fulfill themselves through masturbation. My own masturbation to them may feel hollow, shameful, violative or disgusting. In them, there is no sense of yielding, and I can experience a profound sense of not being necessary. That at times can push me deep into myself, because there is noplace left to go.

I also recognize that other people will have her, she will share herself with them, open herself to them – and not to me. She may show up fresh from lovemaking with another man. Or she may show up in a state of frustration or dissatisfaction, determined to not let that get the best of her. Yet sooner or later, someone else will get to hold her, love her, fuck her, perhaps hurt her – but it will not be me. There are times when I would die for an up-close opportunity to so much as smell her cunt or her ass. It is easier, if I concede from the beginning that it will simply never happen. My own need is irrelevant.

Commenting is closed for this article.