Ecosexuals and eco-porn producers are trying to make the environmentalist movement more sexy and fun – but is that what the movement needs?
“We are the ecosexuals. The Earth is our lover.” So begins the Ecosex Manifesto, written by artist Dr Elizabeth Stephens and sex educator Dr Annie Sprinkle, partners who brought the sexecology movement to prominence by marrying the Earth in 2008. “We make love with the Earth through our senses. We celebrate our E-spots,” the manifesto continues, later going on to link all of this talk of “E-spots” with a firm stance against environmental destruction.
In short, ecosexuals see sexuality as intrinsically linked with nature, because we humans are just one small link in a much larger ecosystem. As much as we might like to believe the planet is our own personal playground, humans share the Earth with a plethora of creatures who have just as much a stake on the planet as we do. When we fuck, we’re already doing it in harmony with nature, because we are nature.
It’s important to note that ecosexuality did not begin with Stephens and Sprinkle, nor are they the gate-keepers of all ecoerotic movements; ecoesexuality is open to individual interpretation. However, ecosexual practices tend to involve a combination of art, activism and, as you might have gathered, sex. In practical terms, this might sometimes translate to nudity outdoors, but it’s more specifically about consciously taking pleasure in the beauty of plants, waterfalls, and Mother Nature’s other treasures.
The movement has certainly grown legs in the sex industry, with “ecosexual” emerging as a porn category, and a boom in vegan sex toys, lube, and condoms. Yet, in our wider sex-negative culture, ecosexuality has not had such a positive reception. A quick google of this topic yields US conservatives ridiculing terms like “grassilingus”, and a lot of right-wing sceptics puzzling over the logistics of shagging trees. Cutting through this online scepticism, however, could ecosexuality work as a way to mobilise people in the fight against climate change?
We can all surely see the benefit of more sustainable sex toys, but it’s a little trickier to imagine what the ecosex mindset might have to offer in terms of curbing looming climate catastrophe. But, given that the UK government’s most ambitious target is to reduce carbon emissions by 80 per cent by 2050 – 20 years after climate change becomes completely irreversible, making this a “too little, too late” scenario – it definitely feels like traditional activism is simply not bringing about the radical change we need. In this light, maybe ecosex tactics are worth a shot. We all know that sex sells, and maybe this can be funnelled into environmentalism efforts. As the gravity of climate crisis provokes a state of panicked denial, we need to shake off defeatism and galvanise into action. In this regard, ecosexuality is seductive: it incentivises people to change their relationship with nature by exploring their sexuality.
In order to learn more, I decided to reach out to Sprinkle and Stephens. Speaking over the phone from their Californian home, Stephens is keen to stress that ecosexual practices are not defined against other brands of environmentalism, but that they are merely one strand of a much wider field of activism, and can be combined with more traditional environmentalism. However, she sees ecosexuality as an opportunity to create space for an alternative to the straight-laced attitudes which might prevent environmentalism from appealing to new audiences. “When people are part of a cause, there is often a lot of self-righteousness because of this mentality of ‘we’re right and other people are wrong.’ This might be true, you might be right, but this attitude doesn’t attract people who are different to those involved in these movements.”
Sprinkle explains that ecosexuality seeks to put the fun, energy, and dynamism into environmentalism, a field which can often provoke feelings of depression or frustration – responses that lead to the harmful sensation that any form of resistance is futile. Ecosex, on the other hand, is about attracting people to environmental activism and eco-conscious behaviour through joy. “Learning from Roberto Jacoby’s work, we use strategies of joy to entice more individuals into the environmental movement because there are a lot people who don’t fit into any of the established environmentalist factions. We’re trying to make the environmentalist movement more sexy, fun, and diverse, and tap into unexplored audiences.”
“We're trying to make the environmentalist movement more sexy, fun, and diverse, and tap into unexplored audiences” – Dr Annie Sprinkle
“Individually there are a lot of people who really love and care about the Earth, but there’s no sort of movement that they can feel a part of if they are, for example, drag queens or sex workers.” The sense of play, humour, and parody that Stephens and Sprinkle place at the centre of their ideas on ecosexuality (i.e. viscerally embracing the “tree hugger” archetype) are also designed to create room for those who are traditionally shut out of environmental movements. Namely, their brand of ecosexuality embraces the taboo, rejecting pressures to cater to classist conceptions of “respectability” in order to be taken seriously – tactics which have traditionally shut out queer people, sex workers, and the socio-economically disadvantaged from environmental activism.
The notion of “pleasure” which Sprinkle mentions here is a vitally important aspect of ecosexuality, yet also a characteristic that has been levied against the movement, and used as a way of dismissing it off the bat. On the face of things, this feels like a reasonable critique. We are now witnessing the terrifying effects of climate change – Cyclone Idai and devastating floods in Iran both broke out just last month – and it’s evident that environmental destruction is one of the most serious issues contemporary society faces. Against this increasingly alarming backdrop, ecosexuality could be read as self-indulgent. However, might this easy dismissal of pleasure also be a lingering hangover from restrictive, hyper-capitalist attitudes and a culture which can only see merit in hard work, hustle, and self-sacrifice? Prioritising pleasure is certainly a way of making environmentalism more attractive, but there’s also a political valence to this that we shouldn’t overlook.
In order to discover more about the place of pleasure in activism, I contacted environmental justice expert Suzanne Dhaliwal: a campaigner, lecturer, and consultant who has served as the director of non-profit UK Tar Sands Network since 2009. “There is definitely a really vibrant pleasure activism movement at the moment taking place I feel – it’s really coming from a place of necessity of self-care during these times of extreme hostility,” she explains. “In response to the violence to our bodies in this time of climate urgency and fascism, there is a movement to rest, care, pleasure ourselves and communities as ecological and social justice activists to ensure that we will be able to enjoy the future that we are fighting so hard for. This is a really positive and vibrant part of the ecosexuality movement that comes from a history of social justice organising of black, brown, and indigenous organising. There are also some amazing queer communities emerging that are reclaiming the language and space of ecosexuality.”
“There is definitely a really vibrant pleasure activism movement at the moment taking place I feel – it’s really coming from a place of necessity of self-care during these times of extreme hostility” – Suzanne Dhaliwal
However, whilst this fundamental aspect of the movement emerges from the efforts of PoC activists, certain iterations of ecosexuality are associated with damaging, uncritical whiteness. Namely, in recent years the word “ecosexual” sometimes appears to be latched onto by white activists or artists looking to prop up their practice without bringing anything new to the conversation, or without a critical awareness of their own position. As Dhaliwal explains: “I think the really white ecoporn, ecosexual movement is really triggering, to be honest. The imagery is usually very white, and it’s often hard to make the connections to climate justice.”
Clearly, without being practised in a way that’s mindful and self-aware, ecosexuality can become problematic – especially if coming from a white, western perspective. Dr Kim TallBear, Associate Professor in the Faculty of Native Studies at the University of Alberta, for example, has been influential in foregrounding the movement’s possibly troubling relationship with indigenous peoples. As you can imagine, ecoerotics resonate with white, dreadlocked, neo-hippies looking to reconnect with nature, making the appropriation of indigenous practices a risk. TallBear has previously warned against the “appropriation of Native American knowledges and motifs to the ecosexual ceremonial and artistic repertoire.” She also, in conversation with Teen Vogue, pointed out that the practices and perspectives of some ecophiles are the epitome of white nonsense: “Ecosexuality is not going to appeal to most indigenous people… I teach it in my classes and my students are viscerally like, ‘This is weird, self-indulgent white people’... When people talk about the Anthropocene they typically say, ‘We as a species are now coming to realise that we have to stop putting humans at the top of the hierarchy. Other beings have agency,’ and I'm like, ‘No, it's not we who are just now having this revelation; it’s a bunch of white guys.’”
But is there a way of putting ecosexuality to work and doing it in a non-problematic way? Perhaps the answer comes in the form of ecoporn, a variety of ethical pornography that centres nature, and could be used to raise money for organisations working to preserve the natural world. Take, for example, Fuck For Forest, an initiative that directs the subscription fees from its porn site towards conservation projects. As of 2013, they managed to raise over 400,000 euros with the projects they have supported since focussing on land conservation in Latin America.
Speaking to Michał Marczak, the director behind “Fuck For Forest,” a documentary dedicated to the organisation, he explains his personal attraction to the group’s brand of activism: “I loved the idea of exploiting the market for porn and using it to help nature. The connection between sexuality with nature – that’s a beautiful concept in itself.” As an individual who grew up in the Catholic society of Poland, the group’s passionate advocacy of sexual freedom – perhaps more than their environmental credentials – struck a chord with Marczak. “They’re also fighting for freedom of expression as part of the post-hippy movement. I was always interested in the free love movement as it didn’t come to Poland, so I was drawn to it as something which I couldn’t experience here.”
As much as Marczak is sympathetic towards FFF’s cause, his documentary highlights some of the problems with white ecosex activism, as well as white, western environmentalists more broadly. Whilst the first half of the film is relatively innocuous, focussing on the activists as they record footage for their site in Berlin, the second half takes a different turn. After members of the Huitoto population living along the Ampiyacu River send a call-out to NGOs for donations, several members of FFF travel to Peru – first stopping off in Manaus in Brazil and Leticia in Colombia – in order to meet with the community in question. While their intentions are to provide money to safeguard the community’s land from developers, the fly-on-the-wall directorial style highlights how the group’s constant nudity whilst staying with the community comes off as disrespectful. Ultimately, the community votes against accepting FFF’s help, with the documentary suggesting that the organisation has failed to act with cultural sensitivity.
By frequently discussing their own views on sexual freedom, rather than observing the social and cultural realities around them, it appears that FFF has centred their agenda, and so lost an opportunity to put their funds to good use. As Marczak explains, whilst FFF is well-intended, the activists “could have done more research, or done a bit more preparation. There was a naivety I needed to show.” In this way, the film brings up important issues; specifically, the prevalence of the white saviour complex in activism directed towards helping indigenous peoples protect and maintain their land. Given that conversations about white saviour complexes have only recently begun to gain traction, it’s clear that this is an issue that many white, western NGOs need to start addressing – not just FFF.
“There are crises of sexual violence, especially to indigenous women, who are on the front lines of many of the climate struggles being fought across the planet right now” – Suzanne Dhaliwal
Understandably, the group have since criticised the documentary; claiming that events were manipulated to depict them in a negative light, and hosting a “the movie is a lie” party to coincide with the Berlin premiere. Over a Skype call from their current base in Oaxaca, Mexico, co-founders Tommy Hol Ellingsen and Leona Johansson seemed to be aware of the various ways their work could be perceived as problematic, with Johansson underscoring the fact that; “there are many ways to protect forests, there is no bad way, and we are just one option.” Similarly, Hol Ellingsen is keen to stress that FFF are open to external influences coming on board to make the website “more diverse”, and that the organisation has never claimed to be authorities on saving the planet: “we’re just a platform to raise money, maybe people can show us something better or how to do this better – we’re not perfect.”
Hol Ellingsen is right, FFF isn’t perfect, but neither is most environmental activism. Being honest and critical of ecosexuality’s more problematic associations does force us to consider the importance of intersectionality in the fight against global warming. When we adopt a more inclusive focus in our activism, we can identify which groups and communities are most affected by climate crisis, and learn from them about the change they need to see. Given that the destruction of the environment is an issue that literally affects every person in the world, it’s vital that everyone is given the same platform in the fight against it.
When it comes to ecosexuality, it’s worth detailing the ways that ecoerotics can be practised in a way that stays faithful to wider conversations of environmental justice, and doesn’t fall into the trap of obscuring black, PoC, and indigenous activists. As Dhaliwal told Dazed, this begins with the understanding that “queering ecological movements goes deeper than white queer culture”, and by directing money to indigenous resistance efforts whilst “supporting the resourcing and work of black, PoC, and indigenous queer people in ecological and climate movements.” As Dhaliwal explains, this also means supporting the fight for indigenous rights, namely: “working in real time allyship for those fighting for the right to self-determination of their lands – there are crises of sexual violence, especially to indigenous women, who are on the front lines of many of the climate struggles being fought across the planet right now.”
Ecosexuality remains a powerful movement, encouraging individuals to see greater value in the world around them, so that they care more about preventing its destruction. Traditionally, it’s about making room for those who are made to feel like they don’t have a place in environmentalism. So, while the movement sometimes involves white, middle class people taking up too much space, it does have ongoing potential to open the doors to activism and empower a much wider demographic to contribute in the struggle to save our planet. In response to the overwhelming environment of defeatism, despair, and toxic capitalism, maybe ecosexuality is the type of radically innovative approach we need to get the masses on board, so we can all come together in the face of disaster.