Mindful Sex

Before I can leave that body behind like I want to, though, my guide moves on, past my neck. I follow her. Selfish, the unbidden voice inside my head hisses when the numbing prickles return to titillating tingles. Selfish, it warns again, as I wonder if I’m allowed to feel this good.

When I’m instructed to touch my pelvis, my hands hesitate, suddenly shy. I’m too scared — can’t tell you why. But I feel like a failure all over again for it.

So I go elsewhere, turning over my arm, entranced by the vulnerable blue veins beneath the thin, translucent skin on my wrists. Selfish.

“Where do you feel pleasure right now?” the honeysuckle voice asks. “Who’s touch are you imagining?”

Emboldened, I go back to stroke my neck. For once, I don’t see the too-big-hands always haunting the edges of my mind when I’m touched there. Instead, they’re his hands, the man I love.

I take another breath, for as long as I want this time. On release, another shudder, but it’s relief rather than fear. Inhale, exhale. Not selfish. All honey. 

“Mindfulness in sex is a technique that brings you into the present moment by focusing on the breath, on sensations, on recognizing the thoughts coming into your brain, and then releasing them — so you can get a more full-body experience of pleasure, either with your partner or by yourself,” says Battle when I talk to her on the phone days later.

To the uninitiated, mindful sex can sound like a laughable contradiction, or god forbid, summon images of Mike Myers in The Love Guru(opens in a new tab). But it couldn’t be more logical or intuitive in practice when you learn to trust yourself.

Research shows that practiced meditators have demonstrably better sex(opens in a new tab). And according to a survey by sex toy company TENGA(opens in a new tab), 74 percent of American respondents consider masturbation self-care and 54 percent said it positively impacts their state of mind.

What’s difficult in talking about mindful sex is how it’s as simple as it is expansive, as tangible as it is hard to put into words, and as accessible as it is out of this world. You also quickly start sounding insufferable.

An umbrella term, mindful sex covers a wide spectrum of methods, philosophies, and uses for applying meditative practices to sexuality. There’s a different approach for everyone, from the pragmatist to the spiritualist, the practiced yogi or the meditation-intolerant.

“It's bringing present moment, non-judgmental awareness to sexual encounters,” says Lori Brotto. A pioneering psychologist who defined the field, her decades of research show its effectiveness as a treatment for sexual difficulties related to performance anxiety, stress, depression, low libido, body image issues, chronic pain, and sexual trauma.

At the University of British Columbia’s Brotto Lab(opens in a new tab), she and her team provide a program that first introduces patients to regular mindfulness practices that become progressively body-focused, sensual, then sexual. 

Initially, I found all the the promises of mindful sex and Tantra hard to swallow. I wanted to dismiss them. Maybe like you want to right now.

I learned though that mindful sex lays bare a lot more than just your body. Listening to yourself during sex is often a confrontation of the toxic cultural scripts, social messaging, childhood programming, and traumas you might’ve thought buried. It not only helps you recognize the inner narratives inhibiting your pleasure, but also encourages the introspection, body awareness, and perspective needed to rewrite them.

“We are such a pleasure-shaming culture,” Battle says. We champion the idea of work-hard-play-hard, “so when you start to feel good, you go, ‘Am I worthy of this? Did I earn it? Did I do enough to please my partner to feel this good? I shouldn’t feel this good. I'm going to shut down.”

As she says this, I glance at the scrawled notes I’d taken after my first mindful masturbation, with questions like: Can you be present with a partner if you’re only focusing on being present in your own body? Isn’t this selfish?

“The primary role for most women in sexual relationships and situations is to be in service of someone else,” says Battle. We’re not socialized to be our own sexual advocates because no one bothers asking what we want. “When someone does ask, we’re then hard-pressed to tell them.”

The #MeToo movement let us finally give voice to our trauma, name our wounds, say no to the kind of sex we don’t want. But embodying enthusiastic consent takes another kind of radical, more internal reckoning. It takes giving ourselves permission to voice our desires, name our pleasures, say yes to wanting more — and above all, the self-compassion needed to regain something the world never offered us in the first place.

“Society has robbed a lot of people of their sexual power, the opportunity to navigate their own sexuality. Mindful sex gives us the tools to start forming that connection,” Battle says.

It also gets at the heart of our concerns about how intimacy is changing in the modern age.

In the so-called millennial “sex recession”(opens in a new tab) or America’s overall record-setting “sexual drought,”(opens in a new tab) experts often point to the advents of digital culture for our allegedly waning libidos. While the existence of a sex drought or the reasons behind it remains highly debatable(opens in a new tab), what does seem inarguable is that intimacy has grown increasingly separated from the here and now.

Whether through dating apps, social media, sexting, or porn, the search for sexual connection and satisfaction plays out more often on screens than in our bodies. Meanwhile, the always-online culture of the information age inundates our minds with a barrage of notifications, distractions, anxieties, and stress. Who can blame us for being too busy to find the time, energy, and vulnerability it takes for truly satisfying sex? 

How-to guides on mindful sex often make it sound like a rigid, strictly serious affair with hard rules you must follow in order to do it “right.” In reality, it’s the opposite. All you really need is a body, and the willingness to hear it.

In reviewing my meticulous documentation of my journey — copious journal entries, audio recordings, and even graphs of my orgasms from the biofeedback-tracking vibrator Lioness(opens in a new tab) — I realize just how self-evident the benefits of mindful sex are. It can’t all be in my head if the data shows my orgasms getting longer during mindful masturbation sessions the more I practiced. I also hear the mindful techniques working while having sex with my partner, our voices growing softer, gentler, more giving in the audio recordings (made with consent of course, and for our ears only).

The only real “prerequisite” to benefiting from mindful sex is getting rid of the preconceived notions of what mindfulness “should” be, feel, or look like.

“People often get caught up in the idea that they're meditating ‘incorrectly.’ Or that if it’s not relaxing or hard, it’s not working and they’re doing a bad job,” says Dunkley. “But as with adopting any new skill, it can be frustrating.”

The most common blocks you might experience during mindful sex — fear of intimacy, trauma, self-defeating thinking, boredom — can all be learning opportunities. The shift in perspective embedded in mindfulness allows you to more easily return to a sense of presence when your mind inevitably wanders or comes up against those blocks. No matter how many times it happens though, that resistance, those frustrations, are like the soreness in your muscles after a productive workout.

The concepts around mindfulness can sound so abstract on paper that it’s almost easier to define it in terms of what it’s not. Mindfulness in sex does not mean clearing your mind of all thoughts, and also does not preclude engaging in fantasies, sex toys, porn, or even BDSM role play(opens in a new tab). Actually, all of those can be essential for effective treatment.

“Use whatever you want. There are no rules,” Battle laughs. “The point is to use whatever allows you to root more deeply into your senses, and spark curiosity.”

You may discover you don’t like a lot of it. That’s part of the process of becoming an active observer of your sexual experience, rather than a passive receiver of someone else’s idea of what it should be.

One of the most demonstrable benefits Brotto’s mindfulness program has revealed is improved self-compassion, closely linked to better body image. I realized that's probably why I'd stopped hearing that constant hiss of selfish every time I experienced a new type of pleasure. Increased self-compassion makes it easier to remain present rather than shut down during a negative thought spiral or triggered response from trauma. Staying present and maintaining mental distance from the distress helps you identify why it’s happening in the first place.

It's what allowed me to realize that my paralysis during flashbacks to those disembodied too-big hands often stems from the sensation of a larger body on top of mine, or a wet mouth on my cheek, a beard scraping against my neck. Before, my limbs always used to reflexively go limp, lips suddenly unable to speak. Like a child, I’d become afraid to make a sound — resign myself to crying silently and hope my partner didn’t notice.

I still can’t bring myself to communicate in the moment with my partner why it's happening, too preoccupied with struggling against the instinct to disassociate from my body altogether. But since learning to be kinder to myself, I don't see this as a failure. Rather, it's proof that I've come so far, and that I'll get there with more practice.

The invaluable understanding mindful sex gave me was that negative sexual experiences don’t need to live inside my body as trauma forever. Some of it will, and that’s OK too. But with the right touch, right partner, and right mindset, I can transform my trauma into the knowledge I need to heal.

Because as we’ve learned, speaking out against the sex that silenced us is the first step to affirming our right to the sex that gives us pleasure.

The whole picture of what mindful sex gave me feels almost sacrilegious to put into words. Or so silly that my old meditation-phobic self would roll her eyes out the back of her head.

When my partner and I did a Tantra session with Clay (which was PG and fully clothed), I caught glimpses of what I can only describe as an inner divinity — fleeting and quick to disappear if I tried to pin her down. I’ve heard it described as oneness, this altered state of consciousness that distills you to a body while also spilling you out into everything outside that body, from the bedsheets below to the moon above.

Not selfish, but selfless.

Our session started with setting intentions for why we were there. I want to relinquish control, I say. Almost by accident, I also admit shamefully to being terrified of receiving oral sex — going numb at the thought of a wet mouth where it shouldn’t be.

After we do some eye-gazing, feather-touching, and breathwork, Clay invites me to offer my partner a body part to worship. Not knowing why, I give him my wrist. She tells him to touch it like it’s his whole world. I like that.

Later, alone, we do it all over again — naked this time.

We invite each other to voice any sensations, thoughts, or memories our touch brings to the surface. When it’s my turn, I try to remember what it felt like in my skin to feel worthy of worship. Not a child being robbed of something, but a goddess giving a gift willingly.

When he touches my belly, I fight the near-universal urge women have to shrink away. He must notice, though, and asks how my tummy feels.

“Good,” I say too quickly, surprised by the lie. What I want to say is that every time you touch me there, I hear the word selfish — want my belly fat to disintegrate into nothing and take me with it. I want to say that since puberty, I’ve never been able to touch my stomach and feel good about it.

But I consciously let it go, returning to my body to realize he’s clasping my wrists. Exhaling a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, a wave of euphoria passes through me as I marvel at the pulse of my heart beating against his thumb.

I give another involuntary jump when he reaches my feet. He asks why I don’t like people touching them, and I tell him the story of how my older sister would tickle-torture me, pin me down, and crack my toe knuckles. I laugh it off, but quietly make a connection between this silly ordeal and the feeling of powerlessness under that too-big body.

Eventually his touch becomes light kisses that trail all the way down, pausing over the place I'd shied away from, asking for permission. I finally give in, observing his weight on top of me as a comfort rather than a threat. A small pang of panic flares in my chest as I brace for the familiar numbness to take over. 

But it never comes. Only tingles.

Later, I catch my naked reflection in the mirror. To my surprise, my eyes don’t zero in on my belly fat with disgust like usual. Instead, my gaze remains soft, seeing my body in frame, like a portrait — Botticelli’s Venus, a goddess naked and reborn, staring back at me shamelessly.

If you have experienced sexual abuse, call the free, confidential National Sexual Assault hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673), or access the 24-7 help online by visiting online.rainn.org.