Friction as a feature

What a little resistance does for the senses.

Welcome to Notes on Sensuality, an exploration into everyday sensuality.

I’m sitting in bed with my second coffee (already) and starting work on a piece that’s been simmering since Jess’ piece, Riding a motorcycle is the most sensual thing you can do. Thinking about friction from possibly the most friction-less place that exists. Such is life.

A few months ago, every second essay on Substack seemed to be about the benefits of bringing friction back to our lives in a world intent on reducing it. I’m behind on the trend, but I’m still considering: do high-friction activities, like riding a motorbike, invite more sensuality into our lives? And if so, what are we missing out on when we choose the frictionless option?

Riding a motorbike is high-friction in so many ways. You are at the mercy of the elements — in Wellington, that means rain, wind; gusts that nudge you sideways on the motorway. If you're someone who cares about protective gear that feels like you, you'll spend more time than seems reasonable just deciding what to wear. Every journey requires negotiation: energy levels, weather, distance, logistics. Where is my pannier? Where will I park? Will I need to carry my helmet? There is no zoning out — your presence is, quite literally, your safety.

But, as Jess writes, it is also the gateway to such a pure sensuality, with all of your senses being lit up: sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste (the autumn air tastes different). The body returns to itself.

You feel the engine vibrating beneath you, pushing you forward. The wind against your body. Subtle shifts in temperature. The smell of rain after it falls. The sun warming your back. Time stretches and compresses all at once — the bike carving around a mountain bend, rocks cascading down into the valley below, a river running into the sea. - Jess Jobst

I've been thinking about what she's describing — and about what the opposite feels like. When the distance between wanting and having shrinks to almost nothing, where is the body (and the senses?) You don't taste the air on the way to somewhere if you didn't travel through it. You don't feel the cold if the temperature was managed for you. Low-friction, in a way, feels like a gradual anaesthetic.

So, I’ll be running a small friction experiment this long weekend:

• Giving my motorbike a good scrub

• Making hummus from scratch (ok, not that high friction, I love to cook)

• Calling my best friend while I clean out a cupboard

• Mending my 15 year old silk robe by hand

• Putting (and leaving) my phone in another room for a whole day (can I do it? Let’s find out)

• Weeding the garden of the dichondra repens that is seeking to take over my lettuce patch

• Going for a walk even though it’s windy, I don’t feel like it and there are other things I want to do.

• Making my own filo pastry Nope, I found some in the freezer ;)

Naturally, I don’t think sensuality requires a motorcycle or a mountain road — it just might benefit from enough friction to bring the body back to itself. I’d love to know what you think — how do you feel when you embrace high-friction before low?

P.S. I went for the walk, without my headphones in. It was a windy (as mentioned) day, the swell was huge, and the air was thick with salt that took me back to my upbringing near a gannet colony on the west coast of Auckland. The trees were full of the sounds of cicada, tui and rustling from the breeze. The light was dappled in the bush, through a particular section that I think about regularly for its special light.