And people wonder why we're so secretive: The Treatment of BDSM in The Sacred Encounter

The CCAR, the Reform Movement's rabbinic organization, recently published The Sacred Encounter: Jewish Perspectives on Sexuality.  It's a collection of essays and reflections on a variety of aspects of sex and sexuality.  Many people have been excited about this book for a long time--to have something written about sex from a liberal Jewish perspective is something that's been much needed for a while. I know that I'm not alone in being eager to get my hands on a copy and read it.

I haven't finished it yet (at around 750 pages, it might take a while).  But I've read some of the pieces--particularly ones that were of particular interest to me.  So, a full review of the book will have to wait. But I find the need to react to the treatment in the book of BDSM.  Because it's a topic I (obviously) care about.  And to say that I'm disappointed and disheartened would be an understatement.  The essays that are on this topic are "Release from Bondage: Sex, Suffering, and Sanctity" by Rabbi Daniel A. Lenrman, NCPsyA, LP and "Jewish Views on Sexual Fantasy and Desire" by Rabbi Edythe Held Mencher, LCSW.

Of the 2 chapters (out of 49) that are on this topic, neither is written by someone who is kinky.  Both are written from the point of view of psychology.  And while that is a good and interesting point of view, it is not sufficient.  To make a comparison, I wonder what the response would be if the book's entire treatment of LGBTQIA topics were written by straight people who are viewing homosexuality and gender identity from the point of view of psychotherapy.  There isn't even a personal reflection written from the point of view of someone who has experience in any of this (the end of each section of the book contains a selection of personal reflections on the topics covered in that section).  There isn't a personal reflection that touches upon the topic at all, in fact.  From the point of view of the book, it would seem that kinky Jews don't exist or are impossible to find--much less kinky rabbis (if only there were a blog written by 3 of them...).  It would not have taken that much effort to include something from the point of view of someone who actually knows and understands kink in a personal way.

Or at least by someone who has significant knowledge of BDSM, which neither author seems to demonstrate. Both pieces conflate dominance and submission with sadomasochism; while those topics are interconnected for many, they are not the same.  Using the comparison above, it is as if the book were equating sexual orientation and gender identity in its entire treatment of LGBTQIA topics.  In addition, that kink is a sexual orientation is not addressed.  Both articles are written from the point of view that kink is a choice.  While there are those that believe that, neither article articulates that there are many who believe that it is an aspect of our sexuality that is hard wired.

In fact, both articles point out that these desires may be based on pathology (which, while for some people this may be the case, for most it is not).  As Mencher states:

"What for some may be an element of their sexual fantasy and play becomes for others a compulsion that truly limits their capacity to have sexual and intimate lives characterized by tenderness and affection.  If any of us is either experiencing such a sense of being driven and limited in our sexual and intimate life or is involved with a person with whom we experience a coercive or predominantly sadistic or masochistic relationship, it is vital to make use of clinical resources available through psychotherapy to address such issues.  Our goal would be to experience diminished suffering and to be able to experience the full range of human connection that is the Jewish ideal.  Sometimes such a sense of constriction and compulsion reflects traumatic life experiences that we feel forced to relive, and our commitment to freedom and healing out to lead us and others toward more life-affirming paths." (p 707)

In fact, repressing this aspect of my sexuality limited my capacity to fully explore intimacy and made me feel constriction.  There is great tenderness and affection in many d/s relationships and even in sadomasochistic play.  And embracing my submission and my masochism has been extremely life-affirming.   This statement by Mencher encouraging reparative therapy indicates a lack of understanding of how (at least some) individuals come to these relationships and what those relationships look like.

Similarly, Lehrman writes in a footnote, "...One influential interpretation of masochistic desire sees it as a response to abusive treatment in childhood, during which a person may learn to gravitate toward punishing others because he or she knows intimacy only through punishment and severity, not through tenderness.  For an overview of the history of understanding sadomasochism, see Theodore Millon, Disorders of Personality (New York: Wiley, 1996), chaps. 13 and 16."(p 724)  He then goes on to define pathological masochism and sadism, citing the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM 4), without acknowledging that the DSM 5 no longer classifies masochism or sadism as mental disorders (they are now in the category of paraphilias).

Instead, it would seem, the main basis for understanding BDSM relationships for both authors is from having read 50 Shades of Grey, which both pieces describe. Which makes both articles hopelessly tied to this period of time (I highly doubt that the trilogy will have any cultural relevance in 5 years).  It also indicates a lack of knowledge of the kink community, which by and large has viewed the book as a horribly flawed and somewhat problematic description of What It Is That We Do (WIITWD).  That a book series written by someone who also has no personal experience of BDSM (which is clear from her descriptions in the book and she has stated) is what informs the authors' view of BDSM relationships is both troubling and indicative of the views expressed in the pieces--and the lack of understanding that the pieces reflect.

While I found Lehrman's description of Emmanuel Ghent's comparison of surrender and spirituality to be quite compelling, it also proved inadequate.  First of all, the piece he describes and analyzes is titled, "Masochism, Submission, Surrender: Masochism as a Perversion of Surrender," and thus starts from a point of view that is problematic (not to mention that his main citation is an article published in 1990, a time when the internet essentially and practically did not exist and at which our attitudes towards sexuality were vastly different).  But what was both more interesting and ultimately more lacking for me was his discussion of Jewish mysticism and meditation as forms of surrender.  I  found this comparison compelling--and in fact, the state that he describes as the goal of the mystics, is an excellent description of sub space.  I thought this was a great insight, but it is one that I came to on my own because there is no such comparison made in the article.  That he does know that term, or even that idea, is indicative of his overall understanding of submission--or of the subtleties of submission and surrender, the difference between topping and bottoming and dominance and submission.

While I find some comfort in the fact that both pieces ultimately state that we shouldn't entirely reject kink, I also find disappointment in the fact that this seems to be a concession.  Mencher instructs us that limited kinky play can be a healthy expression of sexuality, but that we should limit those desires and strive toward mutuality.  As a kinky individual, I read this as saying we should all be switches and a d/s relationship is unequal. As someone who identifies as submissive, I read this as saying that my sexual orientation is not acceptable.

In his conclusion, Lehrman writes that just like we accept that King David's lust and murder; Jacob and Rebekah's deceit and fraud; Simeon and Levi's, "berserk, heedless vengefulness" (p 723); and the Book of Joshua's genocide are all aspects of who we are as a people and as people, so should we accept BDSM. To him, BDSM is about about sexualized violence and violent sex.  So when he states, "And what Torah gives us again and again is not the Ought but the Is--what we really are..." I believe he means that we need to accept that such violent tendencies are a reality.  But when I read that, I feel that it's telling me that I'm inherently flawed, and only accepted in the sense that we accept those who have this behavioral tendency, despite that flaw.

In addition, in his footnote in which he addresses the actual question of if BDSM is an acceptable form of sexual behavior from a Jewish point of view, he rejects the notion that it is exactly consensually that marks the difference between play and abuse (an idea that is widely accepted within the kink community) stating, "It is naive, therefore, to hold that mutual consent provides a clear and straightforward guideline for evaluating the moral dimensions of sexual behaviors." (p. 726)  He fails to recognize that it is exactly through pain and humiliation and (previously agreed upon) force that some find great satisfaction.

Both pieces take the attitude of assuming that submission comes from a place of weakness and not empowerment--and do not indicate that a consensual relationship between dominant and submissive is equally satisfying for both parties.  And because both articles do not differentiate between d/s and s/m, neither fully addresses power exchange.

While I applaud the CCAR for including this topic at all, I can't help but wonder if it is included as the last 2 chapters of the book because it was an afterthought.  That perhaps because they didn't realize until 50 Shades took off that they would have to address this topic, they just put it in at the end.  That they didn't have time to do any research to include a personal reflection on kink or to find a Jewish sex therapist who is accepting of (and understands) BDSM.  I am happy the topic was addressed, but I wish it went further.

So while I'm glad it's there, I'm also disappointed in how it's there.  When I read these articles, I realize how far we are as a society from accepting BDSM.  And that makes me sad--it's a painful reminder of why I keep my identity a secret.  Why few people who know me because of my kinkiness know that I'm a rabbi.  Why I am careful to not connect this profile with other kink profiles.  Why there are very few people who know me in my professional life who know about this aspect of my being (and most of those who do know are either kinky themselves and/or people I've been in relationship with).  Because people don't accept BDSM.  It's still societally considered other, and far enough removed other that it is ultimately rejected and stigmatized too often.

That the Reform Movement, a progressive movement known for its acceptance of diverse people (especially in terms of sexuality), has underscored this message of otherness is, honestly, disappointing.  I'm not disappointed in the movement per se, but in the fact that we are so far removed from acceptance that even the Reform Movement isn't there yet.

The awesome, the unsure, and the repulsive

I'm not sure why I'm writing this.  I'm not even sure I should be writing this.  But I guess I need to write this.  I've needed to get a lot of this out for a while now.  Not just to a friend or 2 I know I can trust, but to get it out for whomever.  Not that our readership is that vast, but you never know.  We could totally go viral some day.  Heh.  Viral.  That will become funny by the end of this post.

So, anyway, it's been an interesting few months.  I had been enjoying time with someone new--casual (he made that clear from the outset, which was more than fine with me) from around November.  He and I had developed a really nice friendship over the course of a year or so.  And, after a long period of ambiguous flirting before we did anything about it, we eventually became intimate.  And it was nice.  He presented as vanilla but was kinky enough, and open to new ideas so to speak.  We had fun.  We remained friends, and enjoyed physical times together, as well.

And then, all of a sudden, he essentially stopped communication in mid-February.  Quite suddenly, really.  One night, we went to the movies and then he was going to come over but ended up not being able to last minute, after we each got home (I have no reason to doubt this being legitimate).  Then, that Saturday, we were both at a social event that mutual friends were having--I ended up coming late, and he texted me to ask if I was coming.  Then, a week later, he had a friend cancel on an event he had tickets for, so he asked me to go.  That's really the last time he initiated social contact--we've seen each other since then here and there because I've initiated contact, or because we've both been in the same place at the same time. And he's been perfectly pleasant when we have seen each other, so I was a bit confused and perplexed.  It was only after I asked him point blank that he told me that he had started seeing someone and that it was heading in a monogamous direction.

Which I am really happy about him for.  I just don't really understand why that means he can't relate to me as a friend or why he couldn't just tell me that.  In my darker moments, I wonder if he only pretended to be friends with me in the first place because he wanted to get in my pants (or under my shirt, he's kind of a boob guy), and that now that I've lost my utility, and he's found someone prettier and (presumably) less messed up in the bedroom, there's no point in spending time with me.  I think better of him than that, but there are moments in which I wonder if I didn't misjudge this whole thing. Self doubt can be strong. In my less cynical moments, I assume that he's so involved with this new girl, that he doesn't have time to prioritize his other friends. He's spending most of his free time with her, and isn't making time for others.  In my really optimistic moments, I imagine that he can't deal with spending time with me because he can't imagine sitting across from me without wanting to tear my clothes off.  I'm sure the truth is somewhere between all that.  Or something happened that's so egregious that we can no longer be friends, and I'm just not aware of it. I don't think that's the case, but who knows at this point.  Or maybe he just got bored with me, and I'm no longer of importance or interest at all.

At any rate, it hurts that I've lost a good friend--or at least that a good friend can't find a way to spend time with me or really acknowledge my presence (other than in brief snippets and never really meaningfully), which feels the same as having lost that friend.

And I realize, that maybe there's another reason.  He and I never had the poly conversation--it never came up and never had reason to.  The fact that I'm honestly happy for him is directly connected to the fact that I want those that I care about (romantically, platonically, or otherwise) to be happy and to have the love (or intimacy or whatever) that they seek.  I sometimes forget that the rest of the world doesn't really get that, or expects all that one seeks to come from one source.  The world tends to assume that everyone is monogamous.  I don't pretend to really understand monogamy--I mean, I get that most people buy into it and identify that way and that it's the expectation and I respect people's monogamy. But I don't really understand why people would want intimacy with only one person in their lives.  I'll behave that way when it makes sense within a relationship--but for the sake of the relationship, not because it's my natural response, or because I particularly understand my partner's need.  But because it's something that I'll do for my partner.  But I digress. That my default is that I want those I care about to have the intimacy they need makes me happy when they find other relationships, even if it means I can't be with them.  And I become a bit perplexed when they don't assume I'll be happy about their having a new relationship.

Sometimes I forget that others don't know that about me and some have no concept that anyone would feel that way.  They presume that a lover finding someone new is going to be taken as a bad thing.  So, maybe, he was scared to tell me--thinking I wouldn't accept him finding what he needed elsewhere or that I'd be angry instead of accepting and even happy for him.  How would he know that that's not how I process things? I get that he may have thought I wouldn't accept it, so he pulled away. Or maybe he doesn't know how to relate to me, even as just a friend, now that he's in another relationship.

And that's really what hurt the most--that he didn't tell me about what was going on and just cut off contact.  And maybe, since he and I have had that initial conversation about his new relationship, weeks later, he's still not sure I'm ok with what's going on with him.  From my point of view, I just want to be happy for my friend and know I have that friendship.  I miss that friendship.  Maybe I'm just as guilty for not saying this outright to him.

Meanwhile, just to make things complicated (this is where the line in paragraph 1 becomes funny), I found out around the same time that he cut off contact that I have herpes.  Genital Herpes, to be specific.  HSV 1 and 2 (I'm an overachiever like that).  I'm nearly certain that he gave it to me.  There were others that could have possibly transmitted it to me, based on last time I was tested, but they all tested negative since I informed them about my status.  He hasn't been tested, as far as I know (at least he hadn't been--his doctor had once told him that there was no accurate test for males who were asymptomatic, which just isn't true, but I find it easy to believe that a doctor said that; there's a lot of bad information out there).  And, based on the timing, it's almost certainly from him.  I don't blame him, per se.  I'm responsible for my own actions and he did nothing wrong.  I have this just because, well, I have this. Just like any germ.

But that this came at the same time as the other stuff made all of it hurt a little bit more (the diagnosis included).  And, in some ways, this diagnosis has been really rough.  Trying to reframe every negative thing I've heard about herpes over 40 some odd years is hard.  My mother's reaction (I shared my diagnosis with her, although not where it came from, because I think it's important for my family to know my medical situation) basically blamed me for becoming diseased (the conversation actually included the line, "Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free") and didn't make it any easier for me to accept this.  Most of my friends in whom I'm confided have been amazingly supportive.  But still, I have a virus that I will likely never be able to get rid of.  And I've had about an outbreak a month.  And that sucks.  And I can pass it on to others.  And that sucks.  And I have to take a huge ass pill every day.  And that sucks.  But I'm trying. I'm trying hard.  And mostly it's working.

And so, here I am.  Overall, I'm in a really good place.  I'm happy.  I have good friends.  I feel good about myself for the most part.  I'm doing great work.  I'm thriving in so many ways.  And yet, at times, I feel repulsive.  I feel that I'm unworthy of any kind of intimacy. I feel almost like I deserve rejection.

Since the diagnosis, I saw one of my dearest friends, with whom I have also shared intimacy over the past several years--I hadn't seen him in a while. He also happens to be one of the people that, based on proximity of time, could have given it to me (he tested negative) and so I had told him about my diagnosis right away so that he could find out about his own status.  When I saw him, a few weeks later, he was clearly happy to see me, but when I tried to give him a kiss on the cheek, he literally cringed.  I don't know that he's even aware of that.  And if he's reading this, I'm not certain he'll immediately recognize that it was him.  But that really hurt--a lot.  Remembering that moment now, weeks later, still hurts.

That he feels he can no longer have intimacy with me, I understand.  But that he acts in a way that seems as if he is repulsed by me makes me feel bad and sad and like I'm dirty and gross.  And that he doesn't trust me enough to think that I would do something that would put him at risk--that hurts even more.  I know that he thinks highly of me--that I'm smart and sexy and all that.  But still--that moment, and an earlier conversation when I offered that despite my diagnosis there were things we could do with no risk (like, literally, no risk)--he commented that there were other people he had to think about. Again, that he doesn't trust my judgment--that even a small part of him assumed I would put him and others at risk and not consider any of that.  (I won't even get into the fact that intimacy with someone with unknown diagnosis is more risky that someone who is HSV positive and on suppressive therapy...that's a whole different blog post).  So, yes--that he will not have sexual intercourse with me, I completely understand and accept.  Because I know it's a scary thought, even though the transmission rate is about 1% over the course of a year, with a condom and Valtrex, because I also accept that the idea is what's scary and not the reality.  But that he won't even enter a conversation with me about other activity or possibilities--that's hurtful. But I'm trying to accept it as not a rejection of me.  Because I know that's not the intention.

But still, that hurts.  A lot.  The trust I thought was there, I guess isn't, but maybe it is.  Again, I don't think that's what he meant.  And I don't think he even realizes this.  But that's how it felt.  That's part of why it sucks to have a diagnosis with a nice stigma attached.

So, I love my life.  I do.  But there are parts of my life that hurt.  There are friends who I really think intend to be my friends, who I really don't think are just giving me lip service when they say they are my friends, yet whose actions make me unsure about that.

And there are parts of me that struggle to trust myself because of that--to trust my own judgment or my own confidence in myself. Because, believe me--I'm awesome.  And I'm sexy.  And I'm deserving of everything I want.  And I have people who appreciate all that and remind me of all that.  But there are also the ones who every now and then act as if they don't.  The ones who sometimes hurt, even if it isn't their intention.  And, in some ways, they are the ones whose acceptance I want most (partly because it seems unattainable).

But, I'm a forgiving friend.  And once you're my friend, it's really hard to get out of that category.  And I'll still be there for my friends.  So, I move forward. And remind myself about how awesome I am during the moments during which I feel entirely repulsive.  And tell myself that I'm responsible for my own opinion of myself.

Back to the beginning, I'm not sure why I wrote this, other than I needed to.  And maybe that's enough of a reason.