by Susie Bright
(10/11/00)
Last summer, through a series of lucky accidents, I
hosted an old school bluegrass band overnight at my
house, following its local debut. They were from South
Carolina, had never been to California before, and had
only a dim idea of what I do for a living. The drummer
was particularly interested in what I had in my
library, and before he left I gave him a suitcase of
all my books on sexual politics, covering everything
from anal intercourse to the Supreme Court. I didn't
know if I'd hear from the band again, but he wrote me
a month later when they landed back home. "I really
liked reading your books on the road," he said, "and
there's so many things I'd like to talk about. But let
me just ask you this for now: Have you ever
experienced electricity during sex?"
For a moment I flashed on the sensory memory of a
burning smell between my sheets the time my vibrator
shorted out under my bedcovers. But I knew that he
wasn't talking about that, a truly rarefied
experierice. No, I think he meant something that
happened while making love, a current between him and
his lover.
I was curious that my new friend didn't define what he
meant by "electricity." He didn't say, "Have you ever
been really in love? Have you ever felt another
presence?" When people feel an unexpected or
extrasensory jolt during sex, they typically chalk it
up to true love or a sign from their god. It is
usually interpreted as a romantic signal that you are
with the "right" person doing just the "right"
thing -- although a few people who have been around the
block will admit that sparks are capable of flying
even with people they know they couldn't spend eight
hours with, let alone the rest of their lives.
The other curiosity about sexual "electricity" is that
it makes such a powerful impression that many people
who report the sensation will describe with awe that
they weren't even touching genitals, stoking the
conventional orgasm.
I first became interested in this sort of electricity
when I was learning about the sexual reeducation of
lovers who had spinal cord injuries or paralysis that
made their genital area numb. One of the most erotic
films I have ever seen was a documentary for couples
where one lover has a spinal cord disability. On
camera, these couples had undeniably powerful and
expressive sex. The last thing I expected to feel,
watching a documentary about sex for the disabled, was
envy, but that's exactly what I was left with. The
camera didn't show any white lightning, the screen
didn't crackle, but with one couple in particular, I
felt like their every touch was completely off the
ground.
I know people seek this kinetic experience, avidly, by
studying books and applying themselves to meditation,
prayer, or
exhaustive searches for the complete and perfect
partner. However, some of the most impressive stories
I've heard about electricity were in situations that
were anything but high-minded or spiritually
considered. Why do some people get their first jolt
at a billiard parlor, when others are in a temple? If you
feel it once with someone, why not forever, why not
every time?
I cannot describe for you the chemistry of sexual
electricity, though I have certainly had open ears to
all scientific, paranormal, and spiritual
explanations. The one thing I am convinced of is that
these bolts of body thunder are neither romantic halos
nor fortune-telling advisories. They do, however,
convey a sense of possibility and invention where
there was nothing before, a seamless cloth. This
electricity is not something you only feel when
looking into the eyes of a lover; it's a catalyst that
can happen when you are alone -- maybe a song that deeply
moves you or even a spell of strong weather that
brings out something in you that you can't explain. It
can touch you in a crowd -- in chaos, for that matter.
I read a recent newspaper editorial against teenage
sexuality, in which a pregnancy prevention counselor
explained with great gravity that the reason sexual
activity is so seductive to young people, the reason it
is so hard to break them from that desire, is that sex
gives them such "high self-esteem." She delivered this
verdict grimly.
Yes, sexual success does give you high self-esteem.
It's so electric that it could probably make your hair
stand on end if you found enough people feeling it
simultaneously. In a world where self-esteem has
become such a cheap cliche, sex is one place where
people feel, if only for a short while, that they are
powerful, that they are desired and desiring. No
wonder it's such an emboldment to teenagers, who
typically feel their power thwarted at every turn. A
different consciousness rules the air when you feel
sexually confident -- and it feels like magic.
What's magical is not a rabbit in a hat, or true love
in the personal ads. It's our ability to be creative
in a world where we feel generous even though our
institutions are tight and unforgiving, where we see
beauty and pain without the benefit of pointers and
price tags.
Does this mean that all these electric lovers, who
have had excellent sex and top-drawer climaxes, are
smarter and smell better and have whiter teeth? No, it
means they have a powerful creative capacity that can
be ignited by sexual excitement. More touching and
more lovemaking will doubtless feel good to the
source of that current, but that's only the beginning.
When someone tells me their electric sex story, I
don't think, "Oh, you hot stud, you wench"; I think,
"What does it feel like to know you could do
anything?" Sexual electricity isn't the living end --
it's a side effect of what it's like to live with an
endless imagination; it's the burn of a memory that
just won't quit.
I've had every sort of supernatural sensation in my
dreams, my magnificent night life, but I have not
experienced a live-wire jolt in my waking moments. I
have felt metaphorically on fire when the power of
sexual attraction was upon me, but I haven't actually
seen any lightning come out of my fingertips.
Well, maybe one time: When, I was a young woman, about
a year into my adult sex life, I had a married lover
who I was mad for. I thought about making love with
him night and day. One morning, a few months into it,
he told me that our affair was over, as of that
minute. He announced it like a military briefing -- one
sentence, no questions.
We were alone preparing a room for a meeting, and I
was unfolding chairs. I kept unfolding them, one row
after the next. He was up in front fiddling with the
podium.
"Plug in that lamp," he said, pointing to a loose cord
on the floor near my foot.
I picked up the prong end and pressed it into the wall
outlet, only to get the shock of my life -- blue sparks,
smoke, and a jolt that went from my fingertips to my
jaw. I cried out; tears poured out of my eyes and
burned my face almost as badly as the electric shock had
scorched my arm.
He flew to my side and picked me up off the floor.
"I'm sorry, baby, please, I'm so sorry," he said. I
couldn't see his eyes. He held me in his arms, he
opened a button of my shirt and buried his head in my
chest. My arm was still shaking. I could feel his
erection through my jeans, I could feel him pressing
against me. "This is so fucked up," I thought. I was
so turned on. The affair did not end as of that
minute.
In my dreams afterward, I was in the same place again,
and the current spiraled from my palms to my nipples
to my cunt to the wall. I was sopping wet when I woke
up. Right there, that deep blue shock, is the closest
I've ever come to electricity during sex.
