Presence and Sexuality

Sexuality transcends its biological function. I propose exploring it as a path toward presence to oneself, capable of reshaping our intimate, social and cultural relationship to the world.

From biological instinct to cultural constructions

Sexuality carries within it, from its origin, an obvious biological function: enabling the transmission of life, the reproduction of species. Sexuality thus weaves a deep connection between embodiment and a form of terrestrial spirituality. If animals feel imperious mating urges, if we, human beings, experience intense sexual desires, whether directed toward others or toward ourselves, it is first through reproductive instinct. The pleasure associated with sexuality constitutes the vital motor of species perpetuation, and creates a fusion between three concepts: need, desire and pleasure. Need would come first, desire would flow from it, and pleasure would legitimize the repetition of the experience.

Yet human sexuality, and even animal sexuality, largely transcends this strictly reproductive dimension. It finds itself connected to desire and pleasure, certainly, but also to cultures in their constructive aspects as well as in their symbolic violence. Michel Foucault, in The Will to Knowledge (1976), postulates:

Sexuality is the name that can be given to a historical apparatus: not a reality underneath on which difficult holds would be exercised, but a great surface network where the stimulation of bodies, the intensification of pleasures, the incitement to discourse, the formation of knowledge, the reinforcement of controls and resistances, are linked with one another.

This perspective leads me to propose the idea that sexuality is not something we have but something we become, a process rather than a state. I wish to develop here its dimensions, collective implications and the formidable opportunities for personal and social construction that sexuality offers, which is initially counterintuitive for an activity that seems intimate, private, and disconnected from the rest of social life.

The political dimension of sexuality reveals itself in the control of morals and bodies, whether exercised within the family, social group or state. Gayle Rubin, in Thinking Sex (1984), proposes a “radical theory of the politics of sexuality” that shows how certain forms of sexuality are valued while others are stigmatized according to an arbitrary social hierarchy. Sexualities deemed deviant, homosexuality is still illegal in certain countries for example, demonstrate that what we believe belongs to the intimate is actually traversed by forces that exceed us. Presence to oneself in sexuality is also an act of resistance, and above all of construction much vaster than mere carnal pleasure. But how and why?

The multiplicity of experiences and meanings

In a bedroom, in passionate messages between lovers, on dating sites or during romantic evenings, all dimensions of sexuality intersect and intertwine. Sexuality represents, for each person, fundamentally different realities, according to the singular organization of these multiple criteria in that person’s existence.

Some associate sexuality with love and emotional fidelity, which incidentally has nothing to do with monogamy, because one can be faithful to several people simultaneously. Serge Chaumier, an exemplary sociologist in my view, theorizes in Fissional Love (1999) what he calls “the new art of loving”: “Fissional love allows one to live several love stories simultaneously or successively, without one canceling the other.” This analysis made me understand that we are witnessing not a degradation of loving bonds, but their mutation. In Amorous Unbinding (2004), Serge Chaumier pushes further by observing a “progressive dissociation between sexuality, amorous feeling and conjugal commitment.” This dissociation, far from being a loss, can be seen as a liberation: each dimension can finally be lived for itself, without the obligation to make desire, love and life project coincide.

Others live sexuality disconnected from any amorous commitment, considering it as autonomous carnal pleasure. Pat Califia, in Sex and Utopia (1994), defends this position: recreational sexuality is no less valid than relational sexuality. So I question myself: perhaps hierarchizing forms of sexuality precisely reproduces the domination patterns we seek to overcome?

Still others see in sexuality a sacred space where, during relations that can last hours, even entire days, they come into contact with a spiritual energy, a form of connection to the divine, in the broad sense. This approach finds its roots in tantra, a millennial tradition born in India between the 5^th and 9^th centuries. Original tantra divides into two currents: Hindu tantra (with its Shaivite and Shakta branches) and Buddhist tantra (vajrayana). Contrary to Western preconceptions, traditional tantra is not centered on sexuality but constitutes a complete spiritual path where sexual energy (kundalini) is only one aspect among others of consciousness awakening.

Miranda Shaw, in Passionate Enlightenment: Women in Tantric Buddhism (1994), deconstructs the myth of a purely masculine tantra by revealing the central role of women as initiators and tantric masters. Red tantra (vama marga or “left-hand path”) integrates ritualized sexual practices, while white tantra (dakshina marga or “right-hand path”) works with sexual energy symbolically and meditatively, without physical enactment. In both cases, it involves transcending duality, reuniting Shiva (consciousness) and Shakti (energy), the sacred masculine and feminine in each of us.

Tantric practices include breath mastery (pranayama), ritual positions (mudras), visualization of energy centers (chakras), and sometimes, in red tantra, sacred sexual union (maithuna) where orgasm is delayed or even avoided to circulate energy throughout the body. Georg Feuerstein, in Sacred Sexuality (1993), emphasizes that this retention is not frustration but amplification: “Undischarged sexual energy becomes a force of psychospiritual transformation.”

This tradition was reinterpreted and popularized in the West in the 1970s, notably by Rajneesh (Osho), who created what could be called a “neo-tantra” adapted to the Western psyche. But as Hugh Urban notes in Tantra: Sex, Secrecy, Politics and Power (2003), this westernization has often emptied tantra of its transgressive and political dimension to make it a simple personal development tool; tantra workshops can sometimes be very scholastic. So, by superficially seeking presence to oneself in sexuality, do we not risk depoliticizing what should remain subversive? What is this presence?

Margot Anand, trained at Rajneeshpuram (Osho’s center in the United States), then developed “SkyDancing Tantra,” while Diana Richardson proposed “Slow Sex.” This collective training, which I will detail below, went much further than an opening to sexual fulfillment, it transformed people, placing them in a completely different position in their social functions; and in their simple gaze, this can be felt, they “vibrate” at a high spiritual frequency. Like any true spiritual path, access to a sexuality lived as sacred gesture rather than as simple punctual satisfaction requires a long journey, which makes it relatively uncommon. Hence the meaning for me of taking up the pen on this subject, because few people perceive the transformative power of sexuality, when it could bring so much to so many people.

The cultural aspect also permeates the roles taken by partners, whether of the same sex or opposite sex, two or more. Judith Butler, in Gender Trouble (1990), opens our eyes to an important, little-considered dimension: “Gender is a stylized repetition of acts [...] that produces the illusion of a stable gendered self.” If gender itself is performance, then our sexual roles are too. This explanation allows us to understand that we are not condemned to reproduce pre-established scripts, we can improvise, create, subvert, invent, invent ourselves.

In sexuality engage laughter, joy, seriousness, and unfortunately sometimes suffered violence. Paradoxically, those who engage in BDSM, a sexuality that apparently borrows the codes of violence, count among the most respectful and attentive people to consent. Pat Califia, BDSM practitioner and theorist, illuminates this apparent contradiction in Sex and Utopia (1994) by defining these practices as “a form of erotic theater” where consent becomes sacred. This sacralization of consent in BDSM questions me: why is it not the norm in all forms of sexuality?

These people choose to work, at the heart of their sexuality, on pleasures linked to domination imaginaries to reappropriate them, overcome unconscious submission. As Lacan said, it involves moving from symptom to sinthome, that is, not suppressing what has culturally constructed us, an illusory enterprise, but setting it in motion, acquiring freedom in relation to these determinations. This Lacanian idea resonates with my experience: we cannot erase the traces of power inscribed in our desires, but we can play with them, divert them, transform them into art, that is, sublimate them.

Presence and absence in the intimate act

What about presence to oneself in sexuality, and why does this question hold such importance in my view? Can one be absent during a sexual relationship? The answer is unfortunately yes, as in the case of rape, including marital rape which remains tragically common. bell hooks, whose thinking on love is so enlightening, writes in All About Love (2000): “Genuine love cannot exist in a context of domination.” This simple but radical statement questions so many relationships we accept as normal. She adds: “Choosing love is going against the predominant values of this culture.”

In the case of “conjugal duty,” this oppressive cultural construction integrated by certain women who think themselves obligated to serve as receptacles for their husband’s pleasure, we see precisely this domination at work. But Audre Lorde offers a liberating perspective that reverses this alienation. In Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power (1978), she explains: “The erotic is a resource which resides within us in a deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed and unrecognized feelings.” This vision of the erotic as power rather than as submission changes everything. If we reconnect with this inner source, absence to oneself becomes impossible.

Gayle Rubin, in Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality (1984), helps understand the systemic mechanism: she analyzes how “the dominant sexuality system” produces these forms of alienation. It is not an individual accident if so many women absent themselves from themselves in sexuality, it is the result of an organized system. This political understanding is liberating: what the system has constructed, we can deconstruct.

Yet, I believe we are never totally absent from what engages our deep intimacy. Even in alienation, a part of us resists, observes, awaits its hour. We are always present there, but in varied modalities: frightened, dominated, dominating, in demand, in need, in fear of not obtaining or not providing pleasure. Sexuality always affects us in our identity, for good or ill, depending on our place. Monique Wittig, in The Straight Mind (1992), proposed to “destroy politically, philosophically and symbolically the categories of ’man’ and ’woman’” to liberate our desires. Could this destruction of categories allow us to access a more authentic presence?

All these tensions play out at the moment of the sexual act, and reveal our state of presence of the moment and the nature of our relationship to the other. If one wishes to progress in one’s presence in sexuality, that is, to receive more benefits from it than currently, which constitutes in my view a valid spiritual path for every human being, this requires preparation. This quality of presence that will bring us more well-being and that, in the encounter with the other, will open symbolic territories that will expand our consciousness through the body, is cultivated. It is prepared through readings, reflections, exchanges, physical exercise, writing; in a thousand possible ways.

Sexuality as a lever for personal transformation

The challenge of truly fulfilling and emancipatory sexuality lies in working on one’s presence. I will specify what I mean exactly by that. The somatic and energetic approach of tantra can enrich feminist theory.

Exploring one’s personal history, one’s culture, nourishing oneself before, after and during intimate moments is the way. The moment of sexual relationship being nourished by all that precedes and nourishing all that follows, it is in this in-between that emancipation is worked. During the act itself, everything is invented with the other person, provided one is fully present to oneself. Without this presence, we risk remaining prisoners of codes, repetitive gestures corresponding to standardized cultural imaginaries of pleasure.

Paul B. Preciado, in Testo Junkie (2008), proposes the concept of “potentia gaudendi” – this “orgasmic force” that traverses bodies and can be politically reappropriated. This idea is quite strong: sexual energy is not only personal, it is political, collective, revolutionary. Preciado goes further than Reich by showing how we can hack our own biochemistry to escape gender and desire assignments. He makes, in my opinion, a small confusion between pleasure, orgasm and ejaculation, which are three distinct dynamics, which can come together, but also separate, to reach nuances that open enormously.

Thus, this sexuality vital for reproduction becomes vital for our cultural and psychic life. The initial nature of sexuality transforms into culture. If we think and work it consciously, sexuality comes to connect to our presence in an absolute way. Adrienne Rich, in “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence” (1980), also allows us to see beyond categories. Her concept of “lesbian continuum,” which designates all forms of solidarity and intimacy between women, broadens the understanding of sexuality beyond the genital, beyond even the erotic. And if presence to oneself also passed through this sisterhood, this mutual recognition between beings who refuse dominant scenarios?

Our presence then models our entire life: our psychic relationship to ourselves, our ways of being with others, our ways of working, the projections we make, and even what engages unconsciously. A personal and intimate reflection on sexuality in all its dimensions, physiological, cultural, physical, emotional, does not only transform the quality of our sexual life. It can completely modify our relationship to ourselves and to the world, because all social issues are at play in sexuality.

However, I must recognize that this optimistic vision of transformation through conscious sexuality has its limits. Silvia Federici, in Caliban and the Witch (2004), reminds us that “sexual liberation” can also be a new form of unpaid work demanded of women. This criticism must make us think: presence to oneself in sexuality must not become a new injunction, a new performance standard to achieve. It must remain a choice, a free exploration, without obligation of result, that is, a freedom.

The example of Osho and the Rajneeshpuram commune

The experience led by Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (later called Osho) deserves attention to understand how sexuality can become a lever for collective transformation. It all begins in Pune, India, in 1974, where Rajneesh establishes his first ashram. His revolutionary vision consisted of reconciling spirituality and materiality, meditation and celebration, silence and expression, including sexual expression. Unlike ascetic spiritual traditions, Rajneesh affirmed: “Sex is the first rung of the ladder toward the divine. Without this first rung, you cannot reach the last.”

In his book “From Sex to Superconsciousness” (1968), Rajneesh (Osho) develops the idea that sexual repression creates neuroses that block spiritual evolution. He proposes a radical approach: fully traverse the sexual experience with consciousness to transcend it naturally. This philosophy attracts thousands of Westerners, mainly from the 1960s-70s counterculture, seeking an alternative to traditional spiritual models and repressive social structures.

In 1981, facing pressure from the Indian government, the community settles on a 260 km² ranch in Oregon, and builds from scratch and with incredible efficiency Rajneeshpuram, a utopian city of 7000 inhabitants at its peak. The experience is fascinating: a self-managed community with its own infrastructure (airport, transport system, power plant, dam), its own media (Rajneesh Times), its university (Rajneesh International Meditation University), and above all, its own revolutionary social codes.

Sexuality occupied a central but nuanced place there. The “encounter groups” developed by the community’s therapists (trained in the methods of Wilhelm Reich, Alexander Lowen, and Fritz Perls) included explorations of intimacy and conscious sexuality. The “Tantra Group” directed by Margot Anand offered multi-day sessions where participants explored sexual energy as a path to awakening. Open relationships were encouraged, not through libertinism, but as a means of overcoming possessiveness and jealousy, considered as manifestations of ego, impediments to energy.

The community developed innovative practices: Osho’s “dynamic meditation” included a cathartic phase where total emotional and bodily expression was encouraged, liberating sexual and emotional blockages. The “darshans” (meetings with the master) openly addressed questions of sexuality, desire and intimacy. The sannyasins (disciples) wore orange robes and a mala with Osho’s photo, but also an uninhibited attitude toward the body and pleasure.

Hugh Milne, former bodyguard of Osho, recounts in Bhagwan: The God That Failed (1986) how the community created an “energetic field” where inhibitions fell naturally. Ma Prem Shunyo, Osho’s companion, describes in Diamond Days with Osho (1993) an atmosphere where “love was in the air, not as possession but as celebration of life itself.”

The experience ended brutally in 1985 following criminal excesses by certain leaders (poisoning attempts, illegal wiretapping), leading to Osho’s arrest and expulsion. But the impact on participants remains indelible. Tim Guest, who lived as a child at Rajneeshpuram, writes in My Life in Orange (2004): “Despite the controversies, I saw adults transformed, liberated from decades of conditioning.”

Georg Feuerstein, in Sacred sexuality: the erotic spirit in the world’s great religions (1993), analyzes: “Rajneeshpuram was probably the most audacious experience of collective transformation through the integration of sexuality in a spiritual context that the West has known.” The practices developed there have spread throughout the world: tantra centers, psychocorporeal therapies integrating the sexual dimension, intentional communities exploring new relational paradigms.

If one goes beyond prejudices and controversial aspects to objectively examine the legacy of this experience, one discovers remarkable innovations in the approach to sexuality: the idea that sexual energy can be consciously directed toward spiritual awakening, that jealousy and possessiveness can be overcome through understanding and not repression, that bodily pleasure is not opposed but complementary to transcendence. People who constructed themselves in this context often carry a quality of presence, vitality and inner freedom that testifies to the transformative power of this approach.

Today, the Osho International Meditation Resort in Pune continues to attract spiritual seekers from around the world. Osho’s books on sexuality (Sex Matters, The Book of Secrets) are still bestsellers. More importantly, the idea that an incarnated spirituality, fully including the sexual dimension of the human being, is not only possible but necessary, has profoundly influenced the contemporary spiritual landscape. This vision joins my conviction that sexuality, far from being an obstacle to awakening, can become, when lived in full consciousness, a powerful catalyst for personal and collective transformation.

Contemporary spaces of conscious sexual freedom

Beyond spiritual communal experiences, other contemporary spaces explore conscious and liberated sexuality. A small anecdote: swinger clubs offer an interesting example: they are paradoxically the public places where women are most respected and safest, where each participant engages in singular relationships to themselves. Sexualities thus symbolize extremely multiple realities for people, and these meanings can greatly evolve throughout life.

This long-taboo place that is sexuality can therefore receive illumination, not a public exposure that would destroy its intimacy, but an inner light that illuminates it. Wilhelm Reich wrote in The Function of the Orgasm (1947): “A human being’s attitude toward sexuality determines their attitude toward life in general.” This Reichian intuition remains relevant, but it must be nuanced.

Michel Foucault’s works have taught us that “sexual liberation” can also be a form of control, an incitement to speak, to confess, to normalize. Feminists like Silvia Federici alert us to the new unpaid work that this “liberation” can impose on women. And yet, despite these legitimate reservations, I persist in believing that conscious exploration of our sexuality, an exploration that integrates these criticisms, that remains vigilant to the traps of power, is a powerful lever for transformation.

It is not sexuality for itself that liberates, but the quality of presence we bring to it, the critical consciousness we develop, the solidarities we weave. As bell hooks suggests, choosing authentic love in a culture of domination is a revolutionary act. Likewise, choosing presence to oneself in sexuality, refusing imposed scenarios, inventing one’s own paths of pleasure and relationship, constitutes a form of daily resistance, of construction that is our own, an embodiment of our freedom, which far exceeds the moment of sexual relationship.

The legacy of Osho and tantra, the explorations of conscious BDSM, queer and feminist theories, alternative communal experiences, polyamory, all these currents converge toward the same intuition: sexuality can be a territory of existential experimentation, a laboratory where we deconstruct and reconstruct our identities, our relationships, our relationship to the world. Not in a narcissistic quest for performance or optimization, but in an authentic search for presence, connection and personal emancipation that has direct effects in the collective and political space.

This is verified in the contemporary exploration of sexuality as a territory of construction and reconstruction of self, where presence to oneself becomes the key to an emancipation that largely exceeds the framework of the intimate to irrigate the entirety of our existence. But this emancipation can only be collective: it requires transforming the social structures that produce alienation, creating spaces of freedom and experimentation, developing new relational ethics based on consent, respect and shared creativity.