By Major Davis
My mat sounds like a whip as it unrolls, I thrust it forward onto the floor.
I always approach the beginning of class humbly, checking in with my body. What does it need? Who do I feel like today? Am I aligned in one piece, scatterbrained? Sensual and feeling myself?
Sometimes I feel the impulse of tears behind my eyes when I first find a home on the mat. I’m wondering why I didn’t take the time to care for myself before the current moment. Wondering why I had prioritized everything but my own bodily pleasure.
Some days I feel like doing nothing but laying on the mat cradling myself, cherishing a moment to be stubborn and resistant like an obnoxious child. But it doesn’t matter, because this is my time.
Easing into movement feels like switching on a toy, testing the waters, asking myself does this feel good?
I often experience some hiccups, or even full stops. But there is always a sense of flow, because it is all based on a single experience, movement that is inherently mine. Taking ownership of my movement and my body has allowed me to feel more connected in my masturbation practice.
There is a stigma against touching ourselves in public or even in private sometimes. I often question why I avoid grazing my own body in a group setting. It all comes down to intention. At home, practicing feels less inhibited in that way. I don’t care what grazes what.
Aside from stigma, as a non-binary person, I am no-stranger to dissociation and dysmorphia. Seeing myself from the outside in, losing focus, not feeling my own touch is just a part of my life. Toying and exploring, and navigating through the dissociation is like reintroducing yourself, to yourself. It can be frustrating sometimes, but deeply renewing. Sometimes I’m so gone, and disconnected that I just have to sit with myself and say “maybe not right now, but maybe later” when it comes to touching myself through movement practice.
I have a ritual of slowly peeling off my clothes throughout my session. I move from feeling stuck inside my shell, to blooming open unfurling my many layers. Becoming okay with whatever is underneath that day is a raw, gutting feeling that challenges me to tap in.
Class can be climactic whether I am with myself or a full class. When I reach peak pose I am glowing. Filled with self awareness, even if I have become aware of a new pain, a new attention to an area of sensation, I am full, of myself.
Sometimes a movement session is quite the opposite. I find myself rolling on the floor, trying to get my brain to shut up for a full hour. Sometimes that emptiness is stimulating in itself.
Stimulation or the lack there of, can be erotic in any sense.
I describe to my partner one day, sometimes the first moment when I am alone after a period of being in other’s company, a tingling sensation washes over me. My tummy flutters, and I feel the “eeeeee” sound in the back of my throat. I am enthralled by the opportunity for nothingness. Almost engorged by the concept of aloneness. Vast opportunities to explore whatever comes to me.
Sometimes I feel this same sensation when I arrange time to indulge in yoga, a truly essential practice for my self-pleasure.
Other times I feel so angry at myself. Angry that I haven’t made time for myself, and now my body experiences the consequences. Chronic pain, pops and cracks, and aching muscles. I am being hard on myself.
It’s this vulnerability that connects me to myself. Through touch, and movement, and letting go, I am able to re-connect, as if my mat can absorb some of my daily stress, my fatigue, and I bounce back like a rubber ball. Ready to launch.
