Showing posts with label ecosexuality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ecosexuality. Show all posts

3 Apr 2022

Into the Valley of the Giants with Gilbert Noon

 
Georgia O'Keeffe: Black Hills with Cedar (1941)
Oil on canvas (16 x 30 in.)
 
 
Let us beware of thinking that the world is a living being, says Nietzsche [1]. And let us be doubly cautious about assigning it with a gender and speaking as if the body of the earth and the body of woman were one and the same thing. 
 
Having said that, I was guilty of doing precisely this in my misspent pagan youth. But now I don't much care for anthropomorphic metaphors of Mother Earth which stress her life-giving and nurturing aspects, particularly when tied to a spiritual ecofeminism and/or left-leaning green politics. 
 
I'm also no longer so keen on those attempts by ecosexuals and nature fetishists to think of the earth in erotic terms - as something one shouldn't merely worship and revere, but fuck [2]. Perhaps that's why the following paragraph from D. H. Lawrence's unfinished novel Mr Noon (1984) struck a chord:
 
"The valley began to depress him. The great slopes shelving upwards, far overhead: the sudden dark, hairy ravines in which he was trapped: all made him feel he was caught, shut in down below there. He felt tiny, like a dwarf among the great thighs and ravines of the mountains. There is a Baudelaire poem which tells of Nature, like a vast woman lying spread, and man, a tiny insect, creeping between her knees and under her thighs, fascinated. Gilbert felt a powerful revulsion against the great slopes and particularly against the tree-dark hairy ravines in which he was caught." [3] 
 
Some critics see this passage as evidence of Lawrence's misogyny, although I would argue that Gilbert Noon's reaction might better be described as gynophobic, rather than misogynistic; i.e., an irrational fear of (being engulfed within) the female body, rather than a learned dislike for and contempt of women per se.   
 
What it does tell us for sure is that, whatever other kinks Mr Noon may have, he's not a macrophile and doesn't - unlike Baudelaire - entertain sexual fantasies involving a giantess [4]; or, if unconsciously he does harbour such thoughts, then these clearly disturb him and he does what he can to repress them.     
 
 
Notes
 
[1] Nietzsche, The Gay Science, Book III, §109.  

[2] See: 'On Ecosexuality' (6 Nov 2016): click here.

[3] D. H. Lawrence, Mr Noon, ed. Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 251. 
      Gilbert Noon isn't the only Lawrence protagonist to resent being belittled by landscape; see my post on the case of Alexander Hepburn and his orophobia from Nov 2017: click here.

[4] I discuss macrophilia in a post dated 23 July 2019, entitled 'Bigging Up the Gibson Girl': click here
      The poem by Charles Baudelaire referred to is 'La Géante', in Les Fleurs du Mal (1857): click here.       
      Interestingly, although Baudelaire fantasises about living at the feet of a giantess, crawling on her enormous knees, enjoying her curves, and sleeping in the shade cast by her breasts, he doesn't actually speak of creeping between her knees and thighs - and so towards the hairy ravine of her cunt - as Lawrence (perhaps tellingly) misremembers. 
      However, it could be - as Lindeth Vasey suggests - that Lawrence is thinking of Tolstoi's description of a landowner's dream, involving a landscape that is transformed into the body of a giant woman: 'The old man dreamt that he was standing between the woman's legs, in front of him a deep, dark ravine, which sucked him in ...' See the explanatory note 251:37 on p. 328 of Mr Noon (CUP, 1984).       

 

4 Feb 2021

Lobsterfuck: Notes on Marine Biology and Art Porn

 Video still from Masshole Love (2013)
dir. by and starring Rebecca Goyette as Lobsta Blue
 
 
I.
 
Marine biologist Marah J. Hardt has a particular fascination with the wet and wild sex lives of sea creatures, including lobsters, which, apparently, are more promiscuous than prawns and far kinkier even than crabs ...*
 
For example, in order to seduce a larger male lobster - which is an aggressive and territorial loner by nature - a female lobster will first moult her shell, releasing pheromones into the water as she does so, and indicating by her display of naked vulnerability that she represents no threat, but is only looking for a good time. 
 
As the male comes closer to get a better look, the female lobster will then piss in his face, her urine acting as a potent aphrodisiac. 
 
After playing this erotic game over a period of several days, the male lobster is completely smitten and the female lobster's scent has a transformative effect on his behaviour, turning him into an amenable lover desperate to get her back to his place - usually just a hole in the sand - so that they might mate in oceanic bliss. 
 
During coition, the male lobster turns the soft-bodied female over, mounts her, and inserts a modified first pair of pleopods (known as gonopods) into the receptaculum seminalis of the lucky lady. Having double-dicked the object of his affection, the male then uses a hardened structure located on a second pair of pleopods to help push gelatinous globs of sperm into her semen-storing structure. 
 
The male then deposits an additional gooey material to the outside of the female's receptacle which hardens within a few hours and effectively forms a plug, thereby ensuring no sperm will dribble out (this spunk plug falls off after several days).  
 
Once the deed is done, the female flips her tail out from under the male and he releases her from his tender embrace.       
 
 
II.
 
Inspired by the reproductive activities of our deep sea friends, New York based interdisciplinary artist Rebecca Goyette (aka Lobsta Girl) has produced an interesting body of work that she terms Lobsta Porn and which explores human sexual fantasy (and sexual violence) in light of the love lives of lobsters and from a feminist perspective.   
 
In Masshole Love (2013), for example, a short film shot primarily in Provincetown (MA) - a favourite coastal destination of artists and members of the LGBT+ community - Goyette plays the role of Lobsta Blue, a woman who confronts a past history of sexual abuse by dedicating her life to erotic performance art whilst dressed in a bright blue lobster costume. 
 
In this work, as in others, Goyette offers a magical mix of burlesque, street theatre, psycho-sexual therapy and lobstasexcitation, in order to encourage audience members to discover their own marine sexual identities within the deep blue sea (the latter imagined as a polymorphously perverse space or queer universe).
 
 
III.
 
Unfortunately, I have the same kind of concerns, philosophically speaking, with Goyette's lobsta porn as I have with the ecosexual project devised by Beth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle: click here and here, where I express these concerns in some detail.
 
In short, I fear that her sex radicalism, like theirs, is ultimately just another form of moral idealism and remains - no matter how you dress it up, be it with flowers or lobster claws - human, all too human ...
 
Having said that, if it makes Ms Goyette happy to produce and exhibit this faux-transgressive work and other people pleased to view and to buy it - and if no actual lobsters are harmed - then what do I really care? 
 
I would like to know, however, what she plans on doing after the aquatic orgy ...?    
 
 
* See: Marah J. Hardt, Sex in the Sea, (St. Martin's Press, 2016). Readers interested in listening to her 2019 TED talk on this topic can do so by clicking here
 
 

23 Dec 2020

On the Sex Life of Robinson Crusoe 2: The Man Who Married the Earth (and Sired Mandrakes)

Illustration from De Materia Medica (1460)
by Greek physician and botanist Pedanius Dioscorides

 

As we discovered in part one of this post, a bite from a red-spotted spider is enough to put any man off placing his penis inside a mossy hole in a tree, no matter how inviting the prospect is: click here.
 
However, this painful experience didn't stop Michel Tournier's reimagined Robinson Crusoe [a] from further experimenting with what is now known as ecosexuality; i.e., an eroticised form of nature worship [b]. In fact, following this incident Crusoe learns how to love his island as a whole and to conceive of the Earth as a living entity [c]
 
Awaking one day from an al fresco nap, he feels full of a queer new tenderness for Speranza:
 
"He felt as never before that he was lying on Speranza as though on a living being, that the island's body was beneath him. Never before had he felt this with so much intensity, even when he walked barefoot along the shore that was teeming with so much life. The almost carnal pressure of the island against his flesh warmed and excited him. She was naked, this earth that enveloped him, and he stripped off his own clothes. Lying with arms outstreched, his loins in turmoil, he embraced that great body scorched all day by the sun, which now exuded a musky sweat in the cooler air of the evening. He buried his face in the grass roots, breathing open-mouthed a long, hot breath. And the earth responded, filling his nostrils with the heavy scent of dead grass and the ripening seed, and of sap rising in new shoots. How closely and how wisely were life and death intermingled at this elemental level! His sex burrowed like a plowshare into the earth, and overflowed in immense compassion for all created things. A strange wedlock, consummated in the vast solitude of the Pacific! He lay exhausted, the man who had married the earth, and it seemed to him, clinging timorously like a small frog to the skin of the terrestrial globe, that he was swinging vertiginously with her through infinite space." [119-120]
 
That's a lovely piece of writing, reminiscent of D. H. Lawrence; one thinks of Birkin's marriage to the vegetation in Women in Love [click here]. 
 
Later, Crusoe discovers a "gently rolling meadow broken by folds and slopes and dressed in a covering of round-stemmed, pink-tinted grass" [120] that excites his interest and in which he deposits his sperm, thereby accomplishing a further stage in the metamorphosis he is undergoing. 
 
Now, according to the Freudian definition of the term, Crusoe - as one who deviates with respect to aims - is a sexual pervert. But Crusoe, however, sees things a little differently. Writing in his journal, he decides that were it not for a social mechanism directing a man's sex exclusively to the vagina of a woman, he would naturally allow it to return to its original source - Mother Earth.      
 
And to those who might protest that nothing can be born of such an incestuous union ... 
 
Nearly a year later, Crusoe "perceived that his love was bringing about a change in the vegetation of the pink coomb" [128]. At first, he had taken no notice of this, but then his attention was caught by the growth of a new plant that he hadn't seen anywhere else on the island:
 
"The plant had large, lace-edged leaves which grew in clusters at the level of the earth on a very short stalk. It bore white, sharp-scented blossoms with pointed petals and brown, ample berries which largely overflowed their calyxes.
      Robinson observed them with curiosity, but thought no more about them until the day when it became unmistakably apparent that they appeared within a few weeks at the precise place where he had sown his seed. Thereafter he ceaselessly pondered the mystery. He sowed his seed in the earth near the cave, but to no avail. It seemed that these plants could grow nowhere but in the pink coomb. Their strangeness restrained him from plucking them and dissecting and tasting them, as he might otherwise have done." [129]   
 
It's at this point in the text that ecosexuality gives way to Jewish mysticism concerning the mandrake, as Crusoe recalls a verse from the Song of Songs: The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee, O my beloved. [d]    
 
"Could it be that Speranza was keeping that bibical promise? He had heard of the miracle of the plants, such as nightshade, which grow at the foot of gibbets, where the hanged have let fall their last drops of semen, and which are held to be the fruit of the crossing of man with earth. On the day when this thought occurred to him, he ran to the pink coomb and, kneeling beside one of the plants, very gently lifted it out of the ground, digging round the root with his hands. It was true! His love-making with Speranza was not sterile. The white, fleshy, curiously forked root bore an undeniable resemblance of the body of a woman-child. Trembling with delight and tenderness, he put the mandrake back, and pressed the earth around it as one puts a child to bed. Then he walked away on tiptoe, taking great care not to crush any of the other plants. 
      Thenceforward, blessed by the Bible, a stronger and more intimate bond united him with Speranza. [...] That this closer union represented a further step in the shedding of his human self was something of which he was certainly aware, but he did not measure its extent until he perceived, when he awoke one morning, that his beard, growing in the night, had begun to take root in the earth." [129-130]  
 
I can't imagine what Daniel Defoe - author of an asexual Crusoe - would make of all this. And I don't really care. For me, Tournier has produced an astonishing novel in which, as Deleuze notes, the isle of Speranza is as central to the story as Crusoe himself [e]. 
 
However, as we shall see in part three of this post, Crusoe's relationship with the island is not the end of his story and strange-becoming. How could it be? For as he himself recognises, his "love affair with Speranza was still largely human in its nature" [212]; he inseminated her body as though he were still lying with a woman. 
 
There has to be more than this; one has to be able to go still further; one has to discover at last that beyond all forms of terrestrial sexuality - forever subject to the spirit of gravity - lies solar sexuality ...    
 
Notes
 
[a] Michel Tournier, Vendredi ou les limbes du Pacifique (Éditions Gallimard,1967). The text I'm using here is the English translation, simply entitled Friday, trans. Norman Denny, (John Hopkins University Press, 1997). All page numbers given in the post refer to this edition.   
 
[b] I have written elsewhere on Torpedo the Ark about ecosexuality: click here and here, for example. I think it's fair to say I mostly regard it as a morally conventional, all-too-human form of hippie idealism masquerading as queer ecology. Ultimately, I prefer my own model of floraphilia as a form of perverse materialism. That said, since it's Christmas week, lots of love and best wishes to Beth and Annie.      
 
[c] This idea is, of course, a very old one and in Crusoe's time even respectable scientists still believed the Earth to be alive or some kind of superorganism. This view eventually fell from favour, however, and, as a Nietzschean, I'm highly suspicious of attempts to revive it. For whilst it's true that Nietzsche champions the sovereignty and sanctity of the Earth, I would refer those who would absorb his philosophy into their own system of environmental ethics or eco-vitalism to The Gay Science, III. 109, in which he instructs us to always remain on our guard against thinking that the world (and/or the universe) is a living being. 
 
[d] I'm quoting from the King James Version of the Bible, Song of Songs 7:13. 
      It should be noted that it wasn't just the ancient Jews who were fascinated by the mandrake. Because its roots have hallucinogenic properties and often resemble a human figure, they have been associated with a variety of superstitious practices and beliefs throughout history and are still regarded as sacred plants within contemporary pagan circles.       
 
[e] See Gilles Deleuze, 'Michel Tournier and the World Without Others', in The Logic of Sense, trans. Mark Lester with Charles Stivale, ed. Constantin V. Boundas, (The Athlone Press, 1990), Appendix II, section 4, pp. 301-321. A brilliant reading of Vendredi ou les limbes du Pacifique as one would expect. 
 
 
The third and final part of this post on the sex life of Robinson Crusoe - sun-fucked - can be read by clicking here.
 
 

11 Feb 2018

It All Comes Down to Artifice in the End (Notes Towards a Decadent Floraphilia)

A rebours by Ink-Yami (2017-18)


I.

For me, Rupert Birkin is literature's greatest floraphile: a man who loves plants with a vital and perverse passion; a man for whom nothing satisfies like the subtle and responsive touch of cool vegetation upon his naked flesh - not even the love of a good woman. For whilst Birkin reluctantly returned to the human world and married Ursula, he always knew where he truly belonged and where he most wanted to deposit his sperm - in the folds of the delicious fresh growing leaves.

Click here for further details ...


II.

Just as perverse is the floraphilia of the aristocratic anti-hero of À Rebours: "Des Esseintes had always been excessively fond of flowers", writes Huysmans. However, unlike Birkin, he doesn't put his fondness into ecosexual practice and go rolling around wet hillsides, masturbating amidst a clump of young fir trees. Rather, Des Esseintes expresses his love of plants in a far more sophisticated and refined manner.

Des Esseintes is also discriminating amongst plants and doesn't embrace all flowers "without distinction of species or genus". In fact, he despises the "common, everyday varieties" that blossom in pots for sale at the local florist; "poor, vulgar slum-flowers [...] that are really at home only on the window-sill of a garret, with their roots squeezed into milk-cans or old earthenware pots".

Des Esseintes isn't too keen either on what he calls stupid flowers, such as the convential rose; flowers "whose proper place is in pots concealed inside porcelain vases painted by nice young ladies". In fact, whilst he can't help feeling "a certain pity for the lower-class flowers, wilting in the slums under the foul breath of sewers and sinks", he loathed the bourgeois blooms that one finds in "cream-and-gold drawing-rooms". Ultimately, Des Esseintes kept his admiration exclusively for the "rare and aristocratic plants from distant lands, kept alive with cunning attention in artificial tropics created by carefully regulated stoves".

But, best of all to his mind, are artificial hothouse flowers made from rubber, paper, or synthetic material: "As a result, he possessed a wonderful collection of tropical plants, fashioned by the hands of true artists ..." But of course, a Decadent is easily bored. And so, whilst enthralled by the admirable artistry displayed in his collection of künstliche Blumen, Des Esseintes begins to dream of another kind of flora: "tired of artificial flowers aping real ones, he wanted some natural flowers that would look like fakes."

This comically perverse acceleration of Decadent philosophy's anti-natural aesthetic all the way to its absurd conclusion - thereby reversing, as Patrick McGuinness points out, the relationship between nature and artifice, copy and original - is one of the most admirable aspects of À Rebours      

Having soon assembled his astonishing collection of real fake flowers, including some remarkably sinister looking specimens that suggested disease and deformity rather than health and vital beauty, Des Esseintes is beside himself with joy:

"Yes, his object had been achieved: not one of them looked real; it was as if cloth, paper, porcelain and metal had been lent by man to Nature to enable her to create these monstrosities. Where she had not found it possible  to imitate the work of human hands, she been reduced to copying the membranes of animals' organs, to borrowing the vivid tints of their rotting flesh, the hideous splendours of their gangrened skin."

Fatigued by his horticultural handiwork and hothouse philosophizing, Des Esseintes goes to lie down on his bed. He soon falls asleep, but, alas, his sleep is disturbed "by the sombre fantasies of a nightmare", which concludes with an erotic encounter with an ashen-faced plant-woman, "naked but for a pair of green silk stockings". Her eyes gleamed ecstatically. Her lips had the crimson colour of an anthurium. And her nipples "shone as brightly as two red peppers".

As the dream intensifies, the plant-woman enfolds Des Esseintes in her tendril-like arms:

"He made a superhuman effort to free himself from her embrace, but with an irresistible movement she clutched him and held him, and pale with horror, he saw the savage Nidularium blossoming between her uplifted thighs, with its sword-blades gaping open to expose the bloody depths.
      His body almost touching the hideous flesh-wound of this plant, he felt life ebbing away from him - and awoke with a start, choking, frozen, crazy with fear."

I suspect that Birkin, in contrast to Des Esseintes with his eurotophobia and castration anxiety, would have been far more receptive to such a dream and would have awoken with blissful joy rather than a cold sweat.     


Notes

D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 106-07.

Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature (À Rebours), trans. Robert Baldick, introduction and notes by Patrick McGuinness, (Penguin Books, 2003), Ch. 8, pp. 82-92. 

For a related post to this one on Des Esseintes (and his bejewelled tortoise), click here.


25 Nov 2016

Ecosexuality Contra Necrofloraphilia (How Best to Love the Earth)

Black and Pink Floral Skull design 


I greatly admire Beth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle for endeavouring to think ecosexuality and questions concerning broader human culture within a nonhuman and inhuman framework. And I fully approve of their attempt to encourage people to form connections with not only other life forms, but also inanimate objects, be they real or virtual, natural or artificial. 

But this isn't as easy as perhaps they imagine. For it's not just a question of sharing space and sharing affection with the things that you love, it's also a question of establishing a zone of proximity and entering into some kind of strange becoming. And it means abandoning all anthropocentric conceit and all traces of vitalism which posit life as something more than a very rare and unusual way of being dead.      

What I'm suggesting is that ecosexuality must shed itself of its moral idealism and become a more daringly speculative and perverse form of materialism. For the fact is, the earth, however you wish to metaphorically think it - as mother, as lover, or both - simply doesn’t care about the life that it sustains. Rather, it is massively and monstrously indifferent; just like the rest of the universe.  

In attempting to make an eroticised return to the actual, ecosexuality is ultimately fated to discover that it’s not an affirmation of life, but a form of romancing the dead; i.e., necrophilia. Thus it's really not a question of how to make the environmental movement sexier and full of fun, as Stephens and Sprinkle suggest, but queer-macabre in a deliciously morbid manner. And if you genuinely want to indicate the ecological entanglements of human sexuality then you must sooner or later discuss death as that towards which all beings move and find blissful unity in an orgiastic exchange of molecules and energy. It's death - not sex - that is radically (and promiscuously) inclusive.   

As for the 'twenty-five ways to make love to the earth' listed by Stephens and Sprinkle, which include dirty talk, nude dancing, skinny dipping, recycling, and working for global peace, if this is the best they can do at constructing a green lover’s discourse or an ars erotica then, to be honest, I’m deeply disappointed; all the multiple pronouns in the world don’t lift this above banality. 

One might - provocatively - suggest that there are other, more explicit, more obscene, ways of loving the earth; that our ecosexual relationship is actually a violent, mutually destructive type of amor fou in which the earth displays her passion with volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, and earthquakes and we, in turn, display our virility through displays of power; mining for coal and drilling for oil, deforestation, dredging the seas, the erection of hydro-electric damns and nuclear plants, accelerated species extinction, etc. 

Perhaps it’s these things that turn the earth on – mightn’t global warming be a sign of arousal?


See: Beth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle, ‘Ecosexuality’, essay in Gender: Nature, (MIHS), ed. Iris van Der Tuin, (Schirmer Books, 2016).

Note: This text is taken from a much longer commentary and critique of the above essay by Stephens and Sprinkle (emailed to the authors on 23 Nov 2016). 


6 Nov 2016

On Ecosexuality

Elizabeth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle


For those of you who don't know, Elizabeth Stephens is an interdisciplinary artist, activist and academic whose work explores themes of sexuality, gender, and politics.

Former prostitute and porn star Annie Sprinkle, meanwhile, played an important role in the sex positive feminist movement during the 1980s and has since built up over thirty-five years of experience in erotically charged entertainment, education, and performance art. 

Today, Sprinkle and her partner Stephens are committed to queering the environmental movement and to this end have declared themselves to be ecosexuals. They have also written an ecosex manifesto and established a new field of research and aesthetic practice called sex ecology.

Central to their philosophy is the notion of replacing the metaphor of Earth Mother with that of Earth Lover, in the hope that this might "entice people to develop a more mutual, pleasurable, sustainable, and less destructive relationship with the environment". This means not only treating the Earth with kindness and respect, but also engaging in libidinal relationships with the material world; hugging trees, caressing rocks, being pleasured by waterfalls, etc.

Now, you might be thinking at this point that, as someone who has written enthusiastically on floraphilia, I would happily and unconditionally offer my support to Stephens and Sprinkle - but you'd be mistaken. Unfortunately, I have a number of problems with their project, but these might, for the sake of convenience, be boiled down to just two: firstly, I don't share their idealism and, secondly, I don't like the way they attempt to impose a unified and recognisable sexual identity upon a diverse range of paraphilias and polymorphously perverse practices.

Let's examine each of these points in a bit more detail ...   

1. Like many others before them, including nature worshipping Romantics and blood and soil loving Nazis, Stephens and Sprinkle quickly fall into idealism and, related to this, anthropocentric conceit as they project their own egos (their own politics, their own prejudices, their own peccadilloes) into everything; not just the Earth, but the Sun, the Moon and the Stars to boot. Their ecosexuality is thoroughly - and disappointingly - allzumenschliche.

They would do well, in my view, to learn from Lawrence on this, who, with reference to the case of Thomas Hardy, warns that to try and subject the earth to your own idealism always ends badly - not least of all for you as an idealist. He writes:

"What happens when you idealize the soil, the mother-earth, and really go back to it? Then with overwhelming conviction it is borne in upon you ... that the whole scheme of things is against you. The whole massive rolling of natural fate is coming down on you like a slow glacier, to crush you to extinction. As an idealist.
      Thomas Hardy's pessimism is an absolutely true finding. It is the absolutely true statement of the idealist's last realization, as he wrestles with the bitter soil of beloved mother-earth. He loves her, loves her, loves her. And she just entangles and crushes him like a slow Laocoön snake. The idealist must perish, says mother-earth. ...
      You can't idealize mother-earth. You can try. You can even succeed. But succeeding, you succumb. She will have no pure idealist sons [or, in this case, daughters]. None.
      If you are a child of mother-earth, you must learn to discard your ideal self ... as you discard your clothes at night."

Put simply, the Earth doesn't want to nourish you like a child nor accept you as a lover or spouse; it is massively and monstrously indifferent to your existence and your longings.

2. One of the joys of floraphilia is that it's a paraphilia and not a legitimised form of love; the prefix para implying not only that it exists alongside the latter, but that it's abnormal. And that's how I like it and want it to remain. To be pollen-amorous is to allow one's desire to free float on the passing breeze; it is to become-flower, which is to say, beautiful and soulless. It's not about constructing some new form of sexual identity and of tethering the latter to an essential truth.

Foucault, of course, brilliantly analysed the dangers and disadvantages of this with reference to the birth of the modern homosexual, arguing that homosexuality only "appeared as one of the forms of sexuality when it was transposed from the practice of sodomy onto a kind of interior androgyny, a hermaphrodism of the soul. The sodomite had been a temporary aberration; the homosexual was now a species" subject to an entirely new discursive regime.

I'm sure Stephens and Sprinkle are aware of all this and so it surprises me to say the least that they insist on positing ecosexuality as a primary drive and identity, or some sort of ontological category into which all other sexual positionings - GLBTQI - can ultimately be collapsed (because we are all natural beings and all sex is ecosex).

I wish them well, but I also wish they'd exercise a little more philosophical caution and nuance ...       


Notes

D. H. Lawrence, 'Dana's "Two Years before the Mast"', Studies in Classic American Literature, ed. Ezra Greenspan, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2003).

Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality 1: The Will to Knowledge, trans. Robert Hurley, (Penguin Books, 1998). 

Readers interested in knowing more about the work of Beth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle and reading their ecosex manifesto can visit: sexecology.org


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