Per què sovint s'acaba el bon sexe tot i que la parella s'estimi tant com sempre? Per què una relació íntima no garanteix bon sexe, en contra del que se sol pensar? I la següent pregunta: Podem desitjar el que ja tenim? És la pregunta del milió, no? Per què la prohibició és tan eròtica? Què té la transgressió que fa el desig tan potent? Per què el sexe fa nadons i aquests destrossen l'erotisme en la parella? És un cop fatal per a l'erotisme, no?
So, why does good sex so often fade, even for couples who continue to love each other as much as ever? And why does good intimacy not guarantee good sex, contrary to popular belief? Or, the next question would be, can we want what we already have? That's the million-dollar question, right? And why is the forbidden so erotic? What is it about transgression that makes desire so potent? And why does sex make babies, and babies spell erotic disaster in couples? (Laughter)
I quan s'estima, què se sent? I quan es desitja, què té de diferent?
It's kind of the fatal erotic blow, isn't it? And when you love, how does it feel? And when you desire, how is it different?
Aquestes són algunes de les preguntes centrals del meu estudi sobre la natura del desig eròtic i els seus dilemes en l'amor modern. Viatjant pel món he notat que quan arriba el romanticisme sembla que hi ha una crisi del desig. Una crisi del desig per ja tenir el que es vol; desig com a expressió de la individualitat, de la lliure elecció, de les preferències, de la identitat; desig que ha esdevingut un concepte central com a part de l'amor modern i de les societats individualistes.
These are some of the questions that are at the center of my exploration on the nature of erotic desire and its concomitant dilemmas in modern love. So I travel the globe, and what I'm noticing is that everywhere where romanticism has entered, there seems to be a crisis of desire. A crisis of desire, as in owning the wanting -- desire as an expression of our individuality, of our free choice, of our preferences, of our identity -- desire that has become a central concept as part of modern love and individualistic societies.
És la primera vegada en la història en què intentem experimentar la sexualitat a llarg termini, no perquè vulguem 14 nens, que llavors ho hauríem de fer més per aconseguir-los, i no perquè és un deure conjugal de la dona. És el primer cop que volem el sexe pel plaer i la connexió que deriven del desig.
You know, this is the first time in the history of humankind where we are trying to experience sexuality in the long term not because we want 14 children, for which we need to have even more because many of them won't make it, and not because it is exclusively a woman's marital duty. This is the first time that we want sex over time about pleasure and connection that is rooted in desire.
Però què manté el desig i per què és tan difícil? I la base de mantenir el desig en una relació és conciliar dues necessitats fonamentals. D'una banda, la necesitat de seguretat, de predictibilitat, de dependença, de confiança, de permanència... tots aquests sentiments que ens fan sentir com a casa. Però tant homes com dones també necessitem l'aventura, la novetat, el misteri, el risc, el perill, el desconegut, l'inesperat, la sorpresa... tot això... viatjar. Conciliar la necessitat de seguretat i la d'aventura en una relació, o el que avui s'anomena <i>matrimoni amb passió</i>, solia ser una contradicció. El matrimoni era una institució econòmica en què tenies un compromís vitalici amb els nens, un estatus social, la successió i un company. Ara volem que la parella ens doni tot això, però que també sigui el nostre millor amic i el nostre confident i el nostre amant apassionat, i vivim el doble d'anys. (Riures) Quan ens acostem a algú, li estem demanant que ens doni el que abans donava un poble sencer: Vull ser part d'una cosa, una identitat i continuïtat, però vull transcendència i misteri i emocions tot alhora. Vull viure segura i al límit. Vull novetat i familiaritat. Vull predictibilitat i sorpresa. I ho donem per fet i creiem que les joguines i la llenceria ens salvaran. (Aplaudiments)
So what sustains desire, and why is it so difficult? And at the heart of sustaining desire in a committed relationship, I think, is the reconciliation of two fundamental human needs. On the one hand, our need for security, for predictability, for safety, for dependability, for reliability, for permanence. All these anchoring, grounding experiences of our lives that we call home. But we also have an equally strong need -- men and women -- for adventure, for novelty, for mystery, for risk, for danger, for the unknown, for the unexpected, surprise -- you get the gist. For journey, for travel. So reconciling our need for security and our need for adventure into one relationship, or what we today like to call a passionate marriage, used to be a contradiction in terms. Marriage was an economic institution in which you were given a partnership for life in terms of children and social status and succession and companionship. But now we want our partner to still give us all these things, but in addition I want you to be my best friend and my trusted confidant and my passionate lover to boot, and we live twice as long. (Laughter) So we come to one person, and we basically are asking them to give us what once an entire village used to provide. Give me belonging, give me identity, give me continuity, but give me transcendence and mystery and awe all in one. Give me comfort, give me edge. Give me novelty, give me familiarity. Give me predictability, give me surprise. And we think it's a given, and toys and lingerie are going to save us with that. (Laughter)
Ara veiem la realitat existencial de la història, oi?
(Applause)
Perquè crec -i després tornaré a aquest punt- que la crisi del desig és una crisi de la imaginació.
So now we get to the existential reality of the story, right? Because I think, in some way -- and I'll come back to that -- but the crisis of desire is often a crisis of the imagination.
Per què el bon sexe s'acaba perdent? Quina és la relació entre l'amor i el desig? Com es relacionen i com entren en conflicte? Aquí rau el misteri de l'erotisme.
So why does good sex so often fade? What is the relationship between love and desire? How do they relate, and how do they conflict? Because therein lies the mystery of eroticism.
Si hi ha un verb associat a l'amor, és <i>tenir</i>. I si hi ha un verb associat al desig, és <i>voler</i>. En l'amor volem tenir i volem conèixer l'estimat. Volem minimitzar la distància, aproximar-nos-hi. Volem eliminar les tensions. Volem proximitat. Però en el desig no volem tornar als llocs on ja hem estat. El desenllaç previsible no és atractiu. En el desig volem algú altre, algú a visitar a l'altre costat, amb qui puguem passar un temps, que puguem tafanejar el seu districte vermell. En el desig volem un pont a creuar. En altres paraules, el foc necessita aire. El desig vol espai. Quan es diu així, pot sonar abstracte.
So if there is a verb, for me, that comes with love, it's "to have." And if there is a verb that comes with desire, it is "to want." In love, we want to have, we want to know the beloved. We want to minimize the distance. We want to contract that gap. We want to neutralize the tensions. We want closeness. But in desire, we tend to not really want to go back to the places we've already gone. Forgone conclusion does not keep our interest. In desire, we want an Other, somebody on the other side that we can go visit, that we can go spend some time with, that we can go see what goes on in their red-light district. You know? In desire, we want a bridge to cross. Or in other words, I sometimes say, fire needs air. Desire needs space. And when it's said like that, it's often quite abstract.
I vaig agafar la meva pregunta i he visitat més de 20 països en els últims anys amb el meu llibre sobre relacions preguntant: "Quan sents que la teva parella t'atrau més?" No l'atracció sexual, sinó en general. I en diferents cultures, religions i gèneres algunes respostes es repeteixen sempre.
But then I took a question with me. And I've gone to more than 20 countries in the last few years with "Mating in Captivity," and I asked people, when do you find yourself most drawn to your partner? Not attracted sexually, per Se, but most drawn. And across culture, across religion, and across gender -- except for one -- there are a few answers that just keep coming back.
El primer grup és: M'atrau més quan no hi és, quan estem separats, quan ens retrobem. Això és quan recupero l'habilitat d'imaginar-me amb la parella, quan la imaginació torna a tenir un paper a causa de l'absència i l'enyorança, el component principal del desig. El segon grup és encara més interessant: La meva parella m'atrau més quan el veig a l'estudi, a l'escenari, en el seu element, quan fa una cosa que l'apassiona, quan altra gent s'interessa per ell en una festa, quan és el centre d'atenció. És a dir, quan el veig radiant i confiat, probablement, el més atractiu de tots. Radiant perquè és autosuficient. Miro aquesta persona... Per cert, en el desig quasi mai parlem així d'aprop, a 5 cm. No sé quant és en polzades. Però tampoc no és quan l'altre és tan lluny
So the first group is: I am most drawn to my partner when she is away, when we are apart, when we reunite. Basically, when I get back in touch with my ability to imagine myself with my partner, when my imagination comes back in the picture, and when I can root it in absence and in longing, which is a major component of desire. But then the second group is even more interesting. I am most drawn to my partner when I see him in the studio, when she is onstage, when he is in his element, when she's doing something she's passionate about, when I see him at a party and other people are really drawn to him, when I see her hold court. Basically, when I look at my partner radiant and confident. Probably the biggest turn-on across the board. Radiant, as in self-sustaining. I look at this person -- by the way, in desire people rarely talk about it, when we are blended into one, five centimeters from each other. I don't know in inches how much that is.
que ja no el veiem. És quan miro la parella d'una distància còmoda, quan ja m'és familiar i coneguda, que es torna misteriosa i evasiva per un moment. I en aquest espai intermedi rau l'impuls eròtic, aquest moviment cap a l'altre. Perquè a vegades, com deia Proust, el misteri no és viatjar a llocs nous, sinó mirar amb uns altres ulls. Per això, quan veig la parella a la seva, submergida en alguna activitat, tinc un canvi de percepció en veure-la i m'obro al misteri que tinc al davant.
But it's also not when the other person is that far apart that you no longer see them. It's when I'm looking at my partner from a comfortable distance, where this person that is already so familiar, so known, is momentarily once again somewhat mysterious, somewhat elusive. And in this space between me and the other lies the erotic élan, lies that movement toward the other. Because sometimes, as Proust says, mystery is not about traveling to new places, but it's about looking with new eyes. And so, when I see my partner on his own or her own, doing something in which they are enveloped, I look at this person and I momentarily get a shift in perception, and I stay open to the mysteries that are living right next to me.
El més important és que en aquesta descripció de l'altre o de mi mateixa -és el mateix- no hi ha dependència en el desig. Ningú no necessita ningú. No hi ha atencions en el desig. Les atencions enforteixen l'amor, però són un antiafrodisíac.
And then, more importantly, in this description about the other or myself -- it's the same -- what is most interesting is that there is no neediness in desire. Nobody needs anybody. There is no caretaking in desire. Caretaking is mightily loving. It's a powerful anti-aphrodisiac.
Encara no he vist mai ningú excitat per algú que el necessiti. Voler-lo és una cosa. Necessitar-lo destrempa i les dones sempre ho han sabut perquè tot el que porti a ser pares disminuïrà la càrrega eròtica. Per bons motius, no?
(Laughter) I have yet to see somebody who is so turned on by somebody who needs them. Wanting them is one thing. Needing them is a shot down and women have known that forever, because anything that will bring up parenthood will usually decrease the erotic charge. (Laughter)
For good reasons, right?
I el tercer grup de respostes eren del tipus: quan em sorprèn, quan riem junts. Com algú ha dit avui a l'oficina, quan va amb esmòquing. Un esmòquing o botes de vaquer; es tracta bàsicament de la novetat. Però la novetat no són posicions noves o un repertori de tècniques. És: Quines parts de tu destaques? Quines parts són visibles? Perquè algú podria dir que el sexe no és una cosa que es fa. És un lloc on vas, un lloc on entres dins teu i amb un altre, o altres. On aneu en el sexe? Amb quines parts de vosaltres connecteu? Què voleu expressar? Hi ha lloc per a la unió trascendental i espiritual? O és per ser dolent i agressiu, però segur? És per poder-vos rendir i poder oblidar les responsabilitats? És quan podeu expressar els desitjos infantils? Què hi passa? És un llenguatge, no només un comportament. I el que m'interessa d'aquest llenguatge és la poesia, per això em vaig posar a estudiar la intel·ligència eròtica.
And then the third group of answers usually would be: when I'm surprised, when we laugh together, as somebody said to me in the office today, when he's in his tux, so I said, you know, it's either the tux or the cowboy boots. But basically it's when there is novelty. But novelty isn't about new positions. It isn't a repertoire of techniques. Novelty is, what parts of you do you bring out? What parts of you are just being seen? Because in some way one could say sex isn't something you do, eh? Sex is a place you go. It's a space you enter inside yourself and with another, or others. So where do you go in sex? What parts of you do you connect to? What do you seek to express there? Is it a place for transcendence and spiritual union? Is it a place for naughtiness and is it a place to be safely aggressive? Is it a place where you can finally surrender and not have to take responsibility for everything? Is it a place where you can express your infantile wishes? What comes out there? It's a language. It isn't just a behavior. And it's the poetic of that language that I'm interested in, which is why I began to explore this concept of erotic intelligence.
Els animals tenen sexe. És la base, és la biologia, és l'instint natural. Nosaltres som els únics amb erotisme, la sexualitat tranformada per la imaginació humana. Som els únics que fem l'amor durant hores, ho passem bé i tenim múltiples orgasmes sense tocar ningú, només amb la imaginació. Ni tan sols ens fa falta fer-ho. Gaudim del poder de predir i anticipar-nos, una gran arma del desig, l'habilitat d'imaginar com si passés, de sentir-ho com si passés sense que passi, però mentre tot passa alhora. Al principi d'estudiar l'erotisme pensava en la poètica del sexe, i si ho considero com una intel·ligència, és una cosa que es pot cultivar. Els ingredients? La imaginació, ser juganer, la novetat, la curiositat, el misteri. Però l'agent central és la imaginació.
You know, animals have sex. It's the pivot, it's biology, it's the natural instinct. We are the only ones who have an erotic life, which means that it's sexuality transformed by the human imagination. We are the only ones who can make love for hours, have a blissful time, multiple orgasms, and touch nobody, just because we can imagine it. We can hint at it. We don't even have to do it. We can experience that powerful thing called anticipation, which is a mortar to desire. The ability to imagine it, as if it's happening, to experience it as if it's happening, while nothing is happening and everything is happening, at the same time. So when I began to think about eroticism, I began to think about the poetics of sex. And if I look at it as an intelligence, then it's something that you cultivate. What are the ingredients? Imagination, playfulness, novelty, curiosity, mystery. But the central agent is really that piece called the imagination.
Però més important, per entendre quines parelles mantenen la guspira i què manté el desig, vaig haver de tornar a la definició original de l'erotisme, la definició mística. I vaig prendre un desviament passant primer pel trauma, que és l'oposat. El vaig observar mirant la comunitat en què vaig créixer, una comunitat belga, tots supervivents de l'Holocaust. A la comunitat hi havia dos grups: els que no van morir i els que van tornar a la vida. Els que no van morir estaven molt limitats, no sentien plaer i desconfiaven. Perquè quan estàs vigilant, preocupat, neguitós i insegur, no pots aixecar el cap i enlairar-te i jugar, sentir-te segur i imaginar. Els que van tornar a la vida van entendre l'erotisme com l'antídot de la mort. Sabien com mantenir-se vius. I escoltant l'asexualitat de les parelles amb què treballo, alguns diuen: "Vull més sexe." Però la gent normalment vol millor sexe, i millor és per reconnectar amb sentir-se viu, amb vibrar, renovar-se, la vitalitat, amb Eros i l'energia que el sexe els permetia, o que esperaven que els permetés.
But more importantly, for me to begin to understand who are the couples who have an erotic spark, what sustains desire, I had to go back to the original definition of eroticism, the mystical definition, and I went through it through a bifurcation by looking, actually, at trauma, which is the other side. And I looked at it, looking at the community that I had grown up in, which was a community in Belgium, all Holocaust survivors, and in my community, there were two groups: those who didn't die, and those who came back to life. And those who didn't die lived often very tethered to the ground, could not experience pleasure, could not trust, because when you're vigilant, worried, anxious, and insecure, you can't lift your head to go and take off in space and be playful and safe and imaginative. Those who came back to life were those who understood the erotic as an antidote to death. They knew how to keep themselves alive. And when I began to listen to the sexlessness of the couples that I work with, I sometimes would hear people say, "I want more sex," but generally, people want better sex, and better is to reconnect with that quality of aliveness, of vibrancy, of renewal, of vitality, of Eros, of energy that sex used to afford them, or that they've hoped it would afford them.
I vaig canviar a una pregunta diferent. "M'aïllo quan..." era la nova pregunta. "Desconnecto els desitjos quan..." que no és el mateix que "Em desexcita que..." i "Tu em desexcites quan..." I la gent deia: "M'aïllo quan em sento mort per dins, quan no m'agrada el meu cos, em sento vell, no tinc temps per a mi, no he tingut l'oportunitat ni de parlar amb tu, tinc mals resultats a la feina, quan tinc poca autoestima, no em valoro gens, quan no sento que tinc el dret de voler, de tenir o de rebre plaer."
And so I began to ask a different question. "I shut myself off when ..." began to be the question. "I turn off my desires when ..." Which is not the same question as, "What turns me off is ..." and "You turn me off when ..." And people began to say, "I turn myself off when I feel dead inside, when I don't like my body, when I feel old, when I haven't had time for myself, when I haven't had a chance to even check in with you, when I don't perform well at work, when I feel low self esteem, when I don't have a sense of self-worth, when I don't feel like I have a right to want, to take, to receive pleasure."
Llavors vaig invertir la pregunta. "M'activo quan..." Perquè generalment ens agrada preguntar "Tu m'excites quan..." o "El que m'excita és..." i jo no en formo part. Si tu no hi participes, l'altre pot fer moltes coses per Sant Valentí i no servirà de res. No hi ha ningú a recepció. (Riures)
And then I began to ask the reverse question. "I turn myself on when ..." Because most of the time, people like to ask the question, "You turn me on, what turns me on," and I'm out of the question, you know? Now, if you are dead inside, the other person can do a lot of things for Valentine's. It won't make a dent. There is nobody at the reception desk.
Per tant, jo m'activo quan, encenc els meus desitjos, em desperto quan...
(Laughter) So I turn myself on when, I turn on my desires, I wake up when ...
En la paradoxa entre amor i desig, sembla sorprenent que els ingredients de l'amor -bidirecionalitat, reciprocitat, protecció, preocupació, responsabilitat- són a vegades els que reprimeixen el desig. El desig ve amb un grup de sentiments que no són tan bons per a l'amor: gelosia, possessió, agressivitat, poder, domini, atreviment, trapelleria. De fet, la majoria ens excitarem de nit per les coses contra les que ens manifestem de dia. La ment eròtica no és gaire políticament correcta. Si tothom fantasiés amb un llit de roses, no tindríem converses interessants sobre el tema. No. En la nostra ment hi passen moltes coses que no sempre sabem exposar a la persona que estimem perquè pensem que l'amor és altruista i, de fet, el desig conté cert egoisme, en el bon sentit de la paraula: l'habilitat de connectar amb un mateix en presència de l'altre.
Now, in this paradox between love and desire, what seems to be so puzzling is that the very ingredients that nurture love -- mutuality, reciprocity, protection, worry, responsibility for the other -- are sometimes the very ingredients that stifle desire. Because desire comes with a host of feelings that are not always such favorites of love: jealousy, possessiveness, aggression, power, dominance, naughtiness, mischief. Basically most of us will get turned on at night by the very same things that we will demonstrate against during the day. You know, the erotic mind is not very politically correct. If everybody was fantasizing on a bed of roses, we wouldn't be having such interesting talks about this. (Laughter) But no, in our mind up there are a host of things going on that we don't always know how to bring to the person that we love, because we think love comes with selflessness and in fact desire comes with a certain amount of selfishness in the best sense of the word: the ability to stay connected to one's self in the presence of another.
I us vull dibuixar aquesta imatge, perquè hem nascut amb la necessitat de conciliar aquests dos aspectes. La necessitat de connexió i d'espai, de seguretat i d'aventura, d'estar junts i ser autònoms. Si penseu en un nen que us seu a la falda càlidament, confiat, segur i còmode, algun dia tots hem de sortir al món a explorar i descobrir. Això és l'inici del desig: l'exploració, la curiositat, la descoberta. Algun dia el nen es girarà, et mirarà i si li dius "Ei, el món és un lloc genial. Vés. T'ho passaràs molt bé.", llavors podrà marxar i experimentar la connexió i l'autonomia alhora. Gaudirà de la imaginació, del seu cos i dels jocs, sempre sabent que hi haurà algú quan torni.
So I want to draw that little image for you, because this need to reconcile these two sets of needs, we are born with that. Our need for connection, our need for separateness, or our need for security and adventure, or our need for togetherness and for autonomy, and if you think about the little kid who sits on your lap and who is cozily nested here and very secure and comfortable, and at some point all of us need to go out into the world to discover and to explore. That's the beginning of desire, that exploratory need, curiosity, discovery. And then at some point they turn around and they look at you. And if you tell them, "Hey kiddo, the world's a great place. Go for it. There's so much fun out there," then they can turn away and they can experience connection and separateness at the same time. They can go off in their imagination, off in their body, off in their playfulness, all the while knowing that there's somebody when they come back.
Però si hi ha algú que diu "Estic preocupat, negitós i deprimit. La meva parella ja no té cura de mi. Què hi ha allà a fora? No ho tenim tot estant junts tu i jo?", hi ha algunes reaccions que tots podem reconèixer. Alguns tornarem o vam tornar ja fa temps. I aquest nen que torna és el que renunciarà a una part d'ell mateix per no perdre'n una altra. Perdré la meva llibertat per no perdre la connexió. Aprendré a estimar d'una manera carregada de preocupacions de més i responsabilitat i protecció de més i no sabré com deixar-te per sortir a jugar, per experimentar el plaer, per descobrir, per veure'm per dins. Traduïm-ho al llenguatge adult. Comença de petit i continua en la vida sexual fins al final. Un segon nen torna però aquest et mira de dalt a baix. "Et quedaràs aquí? M'alliçonaràs? Em renyaràs? T'enfadaràs amb mi?" I potser no hi són, però mai no marxen del tot, i són els que sovint et diran que al principi era molt excitant. Al principi, la intimitat creixent no era tan forta que pogués disminuir el desig. Com més em connectava, més responsable em sentia i em cohibia més en la teva presència. Un tercer nen no torna.
But if on this side there is somebody who says, "I'm worried. I'm anxious. I'm depressed. My partner hasn't taken care of me in so long. What's so good out there? Don't we have everything you need together, you and I?" then there are a few little reactions that all of us can pretty much recognize. Some of us will come back, came back a long time ago, and that little child who comes back is the child who will forgo a part of himself in order not to lose the other. I will lose my freedom in order not to lose connection. And I will learn to love in a certain way that will become burdened with extra worry and extra responsibility and extra protection, and I won't know how to leave you in order to go play, in order to go experience pleasure, in order to discover, to enter inside myself. Translate this into adult language. It starts very young. It continues into our sex lives up to the end. Child number two comes back but looks like that over their shoulder all the time. "Are you going to be there? Are you going to curse me, scold me? Are you going to be angry with me?" And they may be gone, but they're never really away. And those are often the people that will tell you, "In the beginning, it was super hot." Because in the beginning, the growing intimacy wasn't yet so strong that it actually led to the decrease of desire. The more connected I became, the more responsible I felt, the less I was able to let go in your presence. The third child doesn't really come back.
El que passa si vols mantenir el desig és aquest equilibri. D'una banda, vols seguretat per poder deixar-te anar. D'altra banda, si no pots marxar, no obtindràs plaer, no podràs arribar a aconseguir un orgasme, no t'excitaràs perquè et centraràs constantment en el cos i el cap de l'altre i no els teus propis.
So what happens, if you want to sustain desire, it's that real dialectic piece. On the one hand you want the security in order to be able to go. On the other hand if you can't go, you can't have pleasure, you can't culminate, you don't have an orgasm, you don't get excited because you spend your time in the body and the head of the other and not in your own.
En aquest dilema de conciliar els dos grups de necessitats fonamentals, hi ha coses que he observat que les parelles eròtiques fan. Tenen molta privacitat sexual. Entenen que hi ha un espai eròtic que és personal de cada u. També entenen que els preliminars no són només cinc minuts abans del plat fort. Els preliminars comencen just després de l'orgasme previ. També entenen que l'espai eròtic no és acariciar l'altre. És crear un espai per desconnectar de la rutina, de deixar de tocar les tecles amb avorrida inèrcia, (Riures) i d'entrar en aquell lloc on ja no ets un bon ciutadà que té cura de coses i és responsable. La responsabilitat i el desig es repel·leixen. No funcionen bé junts. Les parelles eròtiques saben que la passió va i ve. És com la lluna; té eclipsis intermitents. Però també saben com ressucitar-la. Saben fer-la tornar i són capaços de fer-ho perquè han desmitificat el gran mite, el mite de l'espontaneïtat, que diu que et caurà del cel mentre plegues la roba com una acció divina. Ells entenen que el que pugui passar en una relació a llarg termini, ja ha passat.
So in this dilemma about reconciling these two sets of fundamental needs, there are a few things that I've come to understand erotic couples do. One, they have a lot of sexual privacy. They understand that there is an erotic space that belongs to each of them. They also understand that foreplay is not something you do five minutes before the real thing. Foreplay pretty much starts at the end of the previous orgasm. They also understand that an erotic space isn't about, you begin to stroke the other. It's about you create a space where you leave Management Inc., maybe where you leave the Agile program -- (Laughter) And you actually just enter that place where you stop being the good citizen who is taking care of things and being responsible. Responsibility and desire just butt heads. They don't really do well together. Erotic couples also understand that passion waxes and wanes. It's pretty much like the moon. It has intermittent eclipses. But what they know is they know how to resurrect it. They know how to bring it back. And they know how to bring it back because they have demystified one big myth, which is the myth of spontaneity, which is that it's just going to fall from heaven while you're folding the laundry like a deus ex machina, and in fact they understood that whatever is going to just happen in a long-term relationship, already has.
El sexe en el compromís és premeditat. És voluntari, intencionat. És perserverança i presència.
Committed sex is premeditated sex. It's willful. It's intentional. It's focus and presence.
Feliç Sant Valentí.
Merry Valentine's.
(Aplaudiments)
(Applause)