Sex Church film

I spent much of the last year researching "Sacred Sexuality," looking for an sensual spiritual place or time or community. I didn't really find anything. I found bits of things - a dark room, some books, nice folks, expensive teachers.

Now I'm in grad school, taking a film class. I had to come up with three short film ideas. I thought about the power of film to create momentary realities. I thought I might make a film about a sex church. Here's what came of that - here's the film, followed by a self-critique.

Filmmaker: Justin Hall - Date: 17 November 2004

Title: Sex Church - Project No: 3

PERSONAL CRITIQUE

INTENT: (How you want to affect us)

I want to share my search for intimacy. "Sex Church" is a recounting of some efforts I made to find a sacred context for human touch.

I've been researching sacred touch, sacred sexuality for about a year; when I last became single, I wanted to find a healthy way to get the nourishment and stimulation that comes from intimacy without the procedural attachments. The attachments can be a rich part of intimacy, of course, but I was curious to see if there might be explicitly celestial entanglements that could bind intimate physical relationships.

That search took me to some curious places; I kept a journal at www.links.net/sex. When I was thinking of short film ideas for this class, I thought about the power of film to make visions tangible. In his book The Red Thread: Spirituality and the Paradox of Sex, David Guy provides a number of mini-biographies of writers and artists who worked to develop alternate visions for human sexuality. They used their craft to reach towards utopian living. That's something I've done with regards to technology; I work to promote personal expression on the internet with many of the articles I've written as a freelancer. Why not take the same approach to sacred sexuality? If there's a sex church I want to join, and I can't find it, why not write it up, film it, see it realized on-screen?

Well, as it turns out, there's a good reason "why not": that being, I still don't know what that "sex church" would look like. Even after months of study, with teachers, tantrikas, meditation, rituals, books and movies. This is a self-crit about a film, not a personal spiritual exegesis, but in short, I've sampled many of the world's spiritual traditions but I've never found any conclusive truth other than "be good to people." That's a hard thing around which to build strong visual images. I couldn't figure out how to script a ritual around "be nice" where people would end up touching each other in a way I found compelling.

I interviewed folks from Northern California who had participated in different sorts of modern spiritual rituals, some sexual/sensual. They reported a mix of spiritual influences - Hindu/Tantra, Pagan/Celtic, general New Age. Drawing on that mélange of mysticism, I figured I would just find my appropriate spiritual leader actress and work out a proper ceremony with her. Los Angeles would have plenty of props for whatever we wanted to put together. I would give some measure of control of the ritual to someone with some preferences. Gather enough parishioners together, give them roles to play, objects to wield, and a few hours on a shag carpet, and I should be able to get some compelling ritual footage out of it.

Besides, I was planning to have a soundtrack of a voice over by a participant, so I didn't need to record all the sound of the shoot. Talking to Professor Gray had encouraged me to frame the film as a sort of fake documentary - create a vision by portraying the participants in this world I was imagining. The soundtrack would be interviews with participants as footage of the sensual services was mingled with b-roll from their daily lives.

Most of my ideas about the film were shots I wanted to get - moving the camera over intertwingled, prone bodies; all permutations of people kissing, hands and fingers interlaced. And break-out interviews with individuals, asking them why and how they participated. Basically, I wanted actors who would improvise this setting according to some loose rules. I felt confident of my ability to arrange appropriate moments once I had the people.

But I didn't have any core idea of how this service would work, and that made it hard to recruit participants. My casting call for a film called "Sex Church" did not get a lot of takers. Professor Suissa gave me some suggestion to emphasize intimacy more than sensuality, and I did get a terrific response to a film called "Ritual Romance". Hundreds of head shots! People saying, yes, I'd like to be your cult leader. Yes, cast me as the vulnerable, searching male lead. I struggled to imagine one of these strong-jawed men who were each straining to project confidence in their headshots sharing my words about my search for sacred sexuality. I tried to imagine asking one of these aspiring actresses to improvise a romantic ritual for twelve. And then casting the extras! Please be prepared to lay around wordless for hours using feathers to explore divine touch. Yeesh.

Casting was daunting. Frankly, I lost my nerve. I was trying to do something too unusual in too short a time. I thought I might look for porn actors who were comfortable with nudity, if not with intimacy. Instead, a volunteer leader offered herself up off of Craig's List; and it seemed to be the perfect solution.

Widow Centauri: a supremely-confident-sounding dominatrix-turned-comedian, and sex educator, she stepped right into the role of the group leader. She said yes to every question I asked her, she was eager to help plan, she had friends who would show up, she had few boundaries about nudity or sexuality. I felt so immediately relaxed, I went about writing my script for all the voiceovers, how the characters might respond to a ritual I expected her to concoct. I was able to write out all the thought-processes the characters might have had that would lead them into this sacred sex session, I just couldn't imagine the session itself.

The night before, I had a feeling I wasn't going to find the lead actor I needed in whatever motley crew emerged from Widow's rolodex. I filmed myself talking about my hopes and aspirations for the shoot. I had become almost completely fixated on Peter Greenaway's stunning film The Pillow Book, about a calligrapher-lover who finds text on skin to be the height of sensuality. His movie layers images and text, picture in picture, varying opacities and image foreshadowing to create a deeply sensual series of moving pictures. While I had no idea what a sex church service might look like, I knew exactly what the film about that sex church service would look like - it would look like The Pillow Book.

The next day, our enthusiasm didn't quite pan out. About three of her six committed participants cancelled within 12 hours of the shoot. I had no back up performers scheduled. We were left with a total of three actors; Widow, her fortunately agreeable and helpful friend Sallie, and a talkative older gentleman Michael whose belly had served as the model for the cave troll in the first Harry Potter movie. He was pleased to show us his pocket full of generic Viagra he'd brought for the ritual.

Fighting desperation and eye-widening misery, I cast myself as the "lead" and had two cameras running as we four worked to create something that could be filmed for footage to create the images I envisioned building in the editing room.

Widow's vision for a ritual was more about the Bondage and Domination, Sadism and Masochism that she was familiar with professionally as a dominatrix, and less about graven images, chanting, waving burning bundles of sage and reading poems, the spiritual soup I was half-expecting. Instead of anything New Age, I was covered head to toe in lube, and zipped into a latex bodybag by two relative strangers. Immobile, unable to speak, breathing through a tube, I had a powerful sensual experience that was the opposite of the sex church I had been vaguely imagining for all these months. I spent ninety minutes in the dark, alone, unable to feel directly or smell the people that were touching me. I was in isolation, being manipulated and treated to an altered state. Maybe I was being punished for my sins. More likely, I was being shown that I could have an intense sacred-ish sexual experience on demand with no planning, but if I wanted something more specific, well I had better be able to put that in my Craig's List posting.

So, now I've created Ed Wood's The Pillow Book. Uneven, improvised, inappropriate, insane. And yet, to my taste, still somehow sensual and at times even sacred. I'm honored that the people who showed up were willing to play along with this scheme. I was touched by Widow's optimism, and frankly blown away by the bodybag experience. And I had a queasy blast making this thing.

SYNOPSIS: (What we see)

A filmmaker's voiceover describes his hopes for shooting a film the next day as the actual events that transpired are edited in a series of layers to undercut and reinforce his message: he doesn't know what he's doing but mostly he likes it.

STRENGTHS:

• Unusual visual effects - certainly better than watching just the talking head of the voice over! The window panes, seeing only the eyes or the mouth, plays some with intimacy, making intimacy and connection attractive but elusive.
  
• Unscripted raw performances.
  
• The inclusion of the filmmaker - it makes the piece honest, almost meta-media at moments. A movie about making a movie: how film school!
  
• I hope it's not too long - I worked hard to trim off about three minutes from this thing after I had a rough cut. I was already begging indulgence with the inclusion of myself in the action, and with the subject matter; I didn't feel comfortable taking too much time from my peers with an overlong film.
  

• Unusual visual effects - it's not clear that they always serve the story. Why am I watching this guy's mouth move?
  
• What is the story? The filmmaker's search for sacred sexuality? Yowza. Character, and plot, and motivation are fleeting here, and so connection between the viewer and the action on-screen is hard fought. Perhaps all we're left with is shock.
  
• Unscripted raw performances. Were these people acting? What just happened on screen? Was there any script? Obviously not. Meandering!
  
• The inclusion of the filmmaker - was that a cop out? Because it was a weird idea and no one else would play along? Because he couldn't find a better concept to hang his hat on, he just ranted about his perverse predilections and then included unusual footage from a low budget sex party? Ahem.
  

• Most of the time, I don't have a problem with confidence. I tend to do things I believe in, or at least fully participate expecting that there will be some worthwhile results. But here I lost my nerve a bit. I didn't fully commit to this idea in a way that I could recruit the people I needed to help me. It was a difficult challenge - taking on physical intimacy between strangers; asking that from actors. Perhaps as difficult as the concept of a sex church itself.
  
• I want to learn to write scripts or treatments that explore my more philosophical ideas in more personable detail. Less abstract, more character. I think this film resembles an entry I would write for my web site - exploring some personally important phenomena with layers of meaning and media. If I look at the piece as a sort of a web page, I can be happy with it. It's a personal document. But if I look at this film as an attempt to frame a vision for sacred sexuality, it doesn't quite live up to my ideal. Perhaps my ideal is silly, and that's the lesson I should take away. I think there's some portion of the sacred sexuality puzzle that can be worked out in film; perhaps I need to learn to be more honest with myself about the pieces I do understand, and the pieces I don't understand. Watching a meta-media film like Adaptation, I realize that many brilliant film writers are explicit about their struggles. Talking about my process comes naturally to me - crafting a story about someone other than me is a greater challenge. I would like to learn to use actors to tell a story that's not so directly my story; in order to do that I may have to use Meta-Media techniques to understand what I can describe and what I can't. So maybe it's a film about a guy searching for sacred sexuality - he doesn't have to be me. And maybe he doesn't find what he thinks he wants, but he finds some nice, odd people and some pretty pictures along the way.
  

tale of two pairs

You should write this part up on your web site, she said - a brief respite from our kissing. But make the people anonymous, we agreed.

It was obvious what had triggered this notion from her: we were six people, three men, three women, who had evolved from spin the bottle at 2am to freestyle spit swapping and loving stroking pile-ons by 3.30am. This woman and I had really chosen to focus on each other, what an evening that was.

Which left the other two pairs. One young man was answering the door; there had been a knock: a stoner neighbor had his car stolen, and he needed to borrow a phone. As our young man stood hearing the story and preparing to assist, the two girls were locked in a deep tongue driven embrace, furiously kissing and rocking such that they rolled in front of the door distracting the men from their business.

Yah, the young man explained, we got some weird shit going on in here.

Hey Dude, You Have a Condom?

A rotating cast inhabits my Venice summer sublet. One gent living there briefly works as a host, entertaining people at various bars and parties around town. As an artist friend said, "that guy is good looking. Hot!" He's well-built, dark haired, blue eyed. Gregarious to boot.

He invited me out, I joined him at a Santa Monica bar for some drinks and carrying on during my brief layover in Los Angeles. I met two women, they were both mothers, around my age. They both seemed open to being hit on.

But I went home early, I had work to do the next day. I was sitting at my computer pleasuring myself when he came home. He brought with him a rather soused woman, stacked, "racktastic," as a friend might say. I pulled my hand out of my pants, buttoned up, and met them at my door. I felt charged up with sex, not unsatisfied, but ready. She was a vision of ready sexuality, flirtatious, comely, buxom.

She chatted me up a bit, I urged them outside to use the hottub. They went to check it out and then came back complaining about some kind of strange beast in the yard. I walked large through the yard, daring any animal to join me. I turned on the tub and the light within and they came to the side of the tub. I was ready to join them, to shimmy off my clothes and soak inside. Perhaps I should have just charged forward with that. Instead I went to get towels for them, playing host. When I came back, they were both still dressed, eyeing the water. I felt I at least deserved a chance to see her naked. You know, for bringing them some towels. Seeing him wouldn't have been bad either. Looking back, I probably should have lead by example, taking my clothes off and jumping in the water. He thanked me and I felt dismissed. Not in a bad way, just that I was being urged to carry on elsewhere. This was their moment.

But their moment wasn't so sharply defined. About fourty minutes later as I was sleeping, I heard them step back into the house, into their room. It wasn't long before they were pushing and grunting and groaning a bit. I believe they left the bedroom door open. I was bemused, slightly, but mostly trying to sleep.

A little bit later I hear them walking around, rummaging through the house. "Just ask him," I heard her say. "He doesn't live here," he replied. Drawers yanked open, drawers pushed shut. She urged him again "Why don't you ask him?." He relented, my door is pushed open, a knock follows, "Hey dude, you have a condom?" I'd been listening of course, to their loud furtive scavenging. I did have a condom, but I took a minute to remember where it was and pull myself from sleep into social engagement. "A condom? Hmm, condom, I think so." Mostly I was shocked, bemused again, that they were willing to pile into my room late looking for something sensual. Although as a friend pointed out, if a condom was all that stood between him and some sex, he would not hesitate to wake a friend to find one. But I had spent about a total of six waking hours in the same room with this guy, so I was surprised at this presumption.

He trundled off to the bathroom right quick after making the request. I found the condom, and in my boxer shorts I marched off to his bedroom. There in the light sat the naked sex ready woman, wan smile underneath mussed hair over breasts hanging out slender tops of tan nipples visible. I smiled, and handed her the condom. She smiled back at me. Thanked me. I smiled back, and stood there, mostly maintaining eye contact for a moment, savoring briefly. So amused! Slightly turned on. Too amused to be offended. Then I retired to my room.

He emerged from the bathroom and joined her in their room.
I heard him say: "I think this is for you to wear."
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"I don't know how this works." he declared.

I rose out of bed and walked into the room. There was naked stacked girl and bufftastic boy, perfect young thick strong full Southern California bodies. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, more casual slouching naked than proud. He was bent on one knee to shield his privates at the foot of the bed. He was grinning at me, at least. I took the opened peel-top condom packet from his outstretched hand and said, "this is for you to wear," smiling and handed it back to him.

"We'll get you a girl tomorrow," she said as I was walking out of the room. "I'll take seconds," I replied with a grin. "No way!" I heard her say. I laughed. I did feel randy. I felt like videotaping these specimens in their sexual congress. I felt like joining him across her massive chest. I felt like sharing my body and sexuality with them. I felt thin, scrawny, boyish, girlish, hairless and so lean next to them. Mostly I felt like they weren't inviting me to participate with them directly, and I could only hint and laugh as this unfolded. I felt too bold by half, and not bold at all.

I lay down to sleep. They left the door open. I heard them going at it. Pounding, pushing, bedshaking. Moaning. Grunting. And then, over. He used the bathroom, I could tell from his heavy footfalls. And then, door open, I heard the aftermath:

It was now about 3:45. He hit the bed, immediately suggesting: "Well, let's get some sleep."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I gotta get up at 9.30 tomorrow."
She agreed, but she wanted to talk. In a strong nasal voice "You know I'm not normally like this. I mean I like to go out. I can go out for four days. I'll stay out for four days. Just dancing you know? Just dancing. I don't go home. I'm just having fun."

From him, a muffled "Uh huh."

"I think it's because I grew up in a sheltered environment - people watching over me and taking care of me. Too much supervision. Now I'm on my own and I can go out, just dancing for days. Four days at a time some times! But it's not always like this - I just like dancing."

She paused. Then she accused: "You're not even listening to me. You're just sleeping."

A few beats later, his voice rises from the pillow, "Just dancing?"

And that sleepy contextual grunt was enough to set her off again for another seven minutes of talking without any interaction from him. He'd throw in a word here and there, occasionally suggesting again that they sleep. But she wanted to stay up.

I was certainly kept awake by all this, virtually transcribing their interaction. I decided to subtly offer myself as a late night chat partner. And what more? I strode about the house, puttered in the kitchen, turned on and off some lights, typed on my computer.

Again, if I wanted to talk to her, I should have said something, something direct, like "you want to talk to me? because I can hear you." Or, "I think he's sleeping, but I'm awake." Or, "Hey, come talk to me instead?" But I didn't see then how I could more directly coax her out of bed with him and into my bed, or even to the couch or mmmm the hot tub. She was still sex framed in my mind, but I was realizing that she wanted something deeper with my roommate - their sex had been their moment. And they weren't feeling the Robert Johnson's daughter's moment. And was I prepared to talk to her about her dancing and her sister and her lifestyle for hours? Actually, I was amused and anthropologically stimulated enough that I thought I could spend hours exploring this random stranger. The logic of the late night.

Her voice finally died, my roommate long silent. I fell asleep myself, not unhappy to have spent these wee hours listening to them negociate.

A few hours later, I knocked on their door at 9:15am asking in a loud clear voice, "Hey guys, do you have any yogurt? Any plain yogurt?" They woke up in a panic - "yogurt? what yogurt?" A struggle ensued underneath the covers. Shaking his head, the roommate finally replied, "I think there's some yogurt in the fridge." I laughed. I knew where the yogurt was - I was just jerking their chain, and mine.

favorite post of the day

My favorite personals post title of the day: "BiPolyPagan Faerie Princess Seeks Handmadien" [sic] - now I'm just trying to figure out where I fit in that particular fantasy.

return of bazooms

I'm officially predicting the return of bazooms - pointy tits. Enough of this round, bubble shaped sweater melons. I see missiles in shirts in the near future - torpedo tits. Breasts like I saw in films from the 1950s - sleek and shaped like they could poke your eyes out. Perhaps a response to times of war - perhaps just a new shape. Innovation in tits.

Or maybe a throwback - recycling style in bodyshape. Unless there's some kind of a logic to rounded shaped breasts? Were the brassieres that shaped those torpedos uncomfortable? I imagine they were - but brassiere technology has improved - there should be something we can do to fix that.

So many brassieres today are oriented towards making rounded shapes. I wonder what other breast shape options are out there for brassiere buying woman?

Watching Sex

Robert Johnson sings some soul-chilling blues music. Fantastic stuff. I've had his albums for years, savoring the echoes of thick sin and payback from another time. Recently, reading about his life, I read this entertaining exchange. The article concerns the son of Robert Johnson, using the courts to claim his portion of his father's music royalties.

In the end, the crucial testimony came from Virgie Mae's closest friend, Eula Mae Williams, an 80-year-old midwife with pure white hair, who recalled an evening walk she took with her fiance and Virgie Mae and Robert Johnson.

To the shock of the assembled lawyers, who had to pause during questioning because they were laughing so hard, she described how both couples made love standing up in the pine forest, watching each other the whole time.

She was questioned by Victor McTeer, an attorney from Greenville who was representing Carrie Thompson's relatives as they contested Claud's claim to the estate.

Q: Well, let me, let me share something with you, because I'm really curious about this. Maybe I have a more limited experience. But you're saying to me that you were watching them make love?

A: M-hm.

Q: While you were making love?

A: M-hm.

Q: You don't think that's at all odd?

A: Say what?

Q: Have you ever done that before or since?

A: Yes.

Q: Watch other people make love?

A: Yes, I have done it before. Yes, I've done it after I married. Yes.

Q: You watched other people make love?

A: Yes, sir. Yes, sir.

Q: Other than … other than Mr. Johnson and Virgie Cain [her married name].

A: Right.

Q: Really?

A: You haven't?

Q: No. Really haven't.

A: I'm sorry for you.

From Son of bluesman Robert Johnson gets his due, by Ellen Barry, from the Los Angeles Times, June 2 2004.

I haven't watched other folks having sex - sounds like I've been missing out! The participatory watching of two couples going at it simultaineously must be fun - I've done it like that in the dark only. Hmmm.

Searching for Elena from Khabarovsk

When I was travelling in Japan I would occasionally run into foreign women who were working there in the "entertainment" industry. These women hailed from Russia in particular, as well as Southeast Asia and China. Japan is the closest center of wealth in that region; it attracts people who are willing to use their bodies to earn money for their families or their future.

I wrote about two women I met following that path; I met them in the capital of Iwate-ken, sort of like meeting women in Montpelier, Vermont - the small capital of a rural area. Marina and Elena, Russian Exotic Dancers.

Today I received email from a gent in Florida:

In the article below, you described a girl from Khabarovsk who is dancing in Japan. I would like to contact her. I think she is beautiful. I am also searching for a Russian or Ukrainian woman to marry. I've included the article below to refresh your memory. Please relay to me any contact information for her if you have any.

The internet allows people to reach out and propose the most unusual partnerships! To imagine her going from Khabarovsk to Iwate-ken, to Orlando - whew.

(I was lazy, I didn't want to type out the URL to my page, to find the link for this post. I typed "Khabarovsk Elena" into Google, and I got many results for Russian brides. None of them were the gal I met, or my page!).

A Few Weeks Buildup

I think it's been weeks since I had an orgasm. It's been long enough that I can't remember. I think I was with someone else, a friend, and we were touching each other - it was a conscentual, even a mutual orgasmic evening. After that? Maybe once alone, maybe.

I moved out of my house. So my personal, private, intimate space has been lost. I think about re-establishing that on the road sometimes. But I'm mostly staying with friends, and it's hard for me to masturbate in someone else's house. Don't hold me to that - I may have done it once in a while. But I'm having a hard time just now. Maybe because my friends have kids; it's just doesn't feel appropriate for a houseguest pushing thirty to be jerking off in a family-filled house. Maybe that's part of the reason people stay in hotels.

Well I've got months to go, maybe, probably, until I land permanently again. So I've been wondering what kind of long term personal erotic strategy I might devise. I mean, I'm getting horny. I've had some cuddling recently, but no genital gratification. I've begun to wonder if this isn't a fabulous chance to practice abstinence, the feeling of sexual conversation. Wee-hoo! Saving all my spunk!

But what's the point of that? I'm 29 years old still, probably with plenty of spunk to spare. So why keep it restrained?

Well, after a few weeks, pulling up some porn and tugging on myself seems like a cop-out. When I wait a long time between ejaculations, I seem to have more fluid that emerges. So shouldn't I share the bounty of a few weeks buildup with a friend? Hah!

Either way I'm getting a bit wound up. I can feel it - like my sexuality gets closer to my skin the longer I go without sensual stimulation. Every once in a while I get a sexy thought and my body floods with feeling. Maybe that's the way I always feel; I'm just imagining more sensitivity as I prolong my gratification. I guess I feel out of touch with myself. And with other people! Huh.

shokushu

This is fantastic, from Fleshbot - someone has taken the Japanese pornographic video game model, and Japanese pornographic video game themes, and rendered it on the web. In English! Terrific homebrew interactive porn: Shokushu High School

A Curious Question

I registered myself on AdultFriendFinder, with a picture or two and some basic info. As I wrote before, I've gotten some lively offers - not exactly the sorts of relational transactions I envisioned when I enrolled. So, I could say, horizon expanding!

This evening, a 30ish man from Sacramento (without a picture posted himself) emailed with a question for me: "Hey bro, Hope I'm not offending you, But would you ever consider letting a duds suck you off? Discreet masculine jock firefighter here. ALso love to share pussy."

Well, there's something to think about. Again. Why not let somebody suck you off? That presumes the "off" or "suck" part of it gives pleasure - "off" is more of a concern for me. I think a bit about sperm retention, like any normal person. But more than that, I think about "suck on" versus "suck off." There's few non-reciprochal sexual relations. Aren't there? I've had friends offer me sexual pleasure before, without my hands or face able to do nothing. And that was fun I guess! But it took a long time for me to relax. And then I felt almost guilty at the end. Wasn't I supposed to do something? Isn't sex an exchange?

Either way, I'm not sure I'm ready to explore these questions with a 8.5" thick and cut firefighter. At least that's what his profile says. I feel like I'm being coy. It's strange for me to think that I would turn down these offers. Perhaps this is some insight into women's default posture ("talk to the hand"), at least as women's sexuality has been traditionally framed. I've been thinking about how I feel sometimes between masculine and feminine. Wearing makeup, dressing tough, mixing things up. On AdultFriendFinder, I'm actually finding the post-op transsexuals more attractive as potential dates than the thick cut firefighters.