If I Can Do This, I Can Live My Life

Solos Gamos

Blue Vault. Photo by Eric Francis - Book of Blue.

OK, the Cum Mirror

During Web 1.0, I was reading various websites and bulletin boards devoted to masturbation and someone wrote about a solution to self-shunning after orgasm. He said basically, cum on anything, like a dish, and leave it there; when you’re ready you’ll come back to it and it’ll be really good. This is a workaround to “wanting your cum and not having it, having it and not wanting it.”

A mirror seemed logical; it was right there. in each of these photos I’m looking at my face. Here is the Book of Blue essay, “If I can do this, I can live my life,” originally written as an email to my epic lover Dani…for everyone…writ large on gallery wall

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The mirrors depicted in the Book of Blue series tell the story of a journey of learning deep self-nourishment and practicing self-acceptance. The mirror is my meeting place; the place where I meet myself and the world.

One in particular, a cheap, rectangular WalMart special, has become a kind of altar of self-surrender, where I witness my own orgasm. I’ve used mirrors as cum altars before, because they were conveniently there when I was watching myself let go, or trying to. I’d never used or explored them as a place designed as a kind of sacred licking platter, or where semen could collect and dry, leaving a many-layered and infinitely complex pattern. In the process, the mirror became a kind of art piece, then the subject of many photos and self-portraits in the Book of Blue photo series.

At first my models only posed in pristine mirrors. Eventually I discovered they were willing to be depicted in marked mirrors, or to hold them up to the world for me. What I thought would repulse them became a place a number of them have been willing to look for and see themselves.

Most of the time it was the place I would look for and see myself, though often uncomfortably at first. But I could (and can) always work myself into a frenzy. Sometimes I would spill myself onto the mirror and take it back right away, dreaming into the residue of earlier orgasms that were melting into my fresh spill, traces of which would reenter my body. This would leave a layer upon the prior residue that I had left behind, since a little always remains.

Other times I would be repelled by the thought of my semen once I released it. I learned to leave it for another time, to receive while my libido was building rather than after it had dropped from the experience of ejaculation. You may know men who go through this curious experience of self-rejection after they cum. This is why receiving their semen into your body is such a loving gesture. Despite craving it, it is often challenging to do for myself, for this reason.

Along the way, spilling on this particular mirror (and a few others) many times, it occurred to me that what went onto the mirror (this one, or any one I used) would all go back into my body. I would never wash the mirrors, I would only lick them clean. I made this commitment to myself. It felt loving and like I could heal a deep inner split with the gesture. I would receive myself whether it was new warm seed or if it had been deposited hours, weeks or months earlier, or perhaps having spilled out of a condom. (That was true of the oldest, by then yellowed, crystallized mess that was on the mirror when I began.) I kind of made a masturbation rule that when I was alone, the mirror would be my place of surrender, and that all that ever make its mark there I would eventually lick it back down to glass.

This began my rhythm, a cycle. It began with a ritual of working myself up to a sufficient level of desire and erotic heat that I craved my own semen, and my tongue wanted to melt back some of that old ejaculate. Then journeying on that feeling, I would dive into ever deeper places in myself: places of admitting my erotic needs, including for men. I could talk to myself about this odd little ritual I was doing; there are moments where I face my death. After a while I decided that when I licked the mirror, I would always do so naked. The mirror became a place where I could admit anything to myself: any desire, fear, need or fact of my life.

It came to represent the place of abject honesty with myself, pushed by or drawn from my core by the imminence of orgasm. [One day I wondered what each of those markers of emotional surrender was letting go to; and I remembered that each time I let go here, it’s moaning into mirror celibacy…over and over…that emotion is what my mirrors are coated with. - 2025]

On many occasions, alone or with different witnesses, I licked the dry semen off of my mirror, stretching the thread between humiliation and humility. Many of my closest friends have seen me do this, women whose primary erotic role in my life is to support and embrace my masturbation and process of self-acceptance.

On one occasion, a kind of prayer came to me: I’ve made a mess and I’m going to clean it up. (Ejaculation often does feel like making a mess, particularly if it’s followed by guilt or shame; and for me it often was.) This became a kind of mantra for my journey, and an invocation of my erotic healing. At other times I saw the patterns not as a mess but rather as an image of my karma and the marks I have made on the world, at some moments witnessing what I had done as beautiful, and at others feeling a need to leave as clear of a mirror as possible. Other times I would slip into an overwhelming sense of how erotic this smeared, spattered mirror I was looking into really was, and invite, allow or encourage myself to meet it with my mouth. Invariably I would spill myself there again. It began to feel like the never-ending cycle of karma.

Occasionally I would explore to a depth that is transcendent as deep cunnilingus or fellatio. I would endeavor to lick back significant portions of the residue of my life that lay on the surface, which is slow, patient going; making eye contact with myself as much as possible. I chose to work on the oldest stuff, because sooner or later it would be coming back in, so I may as well do it right then. From experience alone and with witnesses present, I learned that the older the semen, the more erotic the experience of licking it off. It became a symbol of accepting my past, and being willing to accept myself no matter what. And, the older, the more embarrassing to think what I was doing.

I have learned to be present for and live with that embarrassment, even appreciating it as a gift; until gradually it becomes transparent and I am free to experience what I am doing without judgment. At other times I tune into my feelings and imagination and recognize that I am taking up a sampling of a wide diversity of my orgasms spread over many months, and be reminded of the many times I had knelt over the space and let go.

The mirror and its pattern represent a journey into self, and this often pushed deeper by loss or separation; by unfulfilled desire; by surrendering to and ultimately celebrating the unavailability of someone I want to be with. Each of those marks has a story, its feelings, its fantasies, and its intricate passion. Many of them are the story of taking my one opportunity to go beyond a feeling of loss to a space where I am the one who must fill my own need and consciously feed myself fulfillment, love and the water of life.

On a visual note, the irregular rings on the left on glass in some images are the result of leaving an ejaculation on the mirror overnight, then licking it wet in the morning. I call them reluctance rings. What look like brush strokes are tongue marks that were laid down in fresh semen, or a blend of fresh and melted old.

Thank you to all who have held the mirror for me. With some of your help and a lot of mine, I have learned to make love to myself, to love myself.

(July 15, 2008 (rev. July 30, 2008)