Buttering the Societal Muffin

A conversation on the diversity of sexual experience. 

Saskia Barker

Sex—both the thought of it and the act—is a totally unique concept. As a friend of mine put it, it is “simultaneously entirely universal yet extremely personal.” In spite of this, often when sex is the subject of a group conversation, there’s one person who seems less inclined to contribute. The fact is, though, that the way each of us considers and goes about sex is individually variable, so it’s only fair that the way we discuss it should reflect that. In short, we all have something to contribute to this conversation. 

We are very lucky at Te Herenga Waka that the ways in which we define the bounds of pleasure and measure sexual success are expanding. As the experiences of women and non-men make their way into the campus conversation about sex, the focus has tended towards those with high libidos and a less ‘chalant’ or sentimental view of sex. This is not inherently bad, but it has caused us to shy away from traditionally ‘feminine’ traits—tenderness, sensitivity, emotional weight—and prevents the conversation from truly moving past the phallocentric confines that have historically defined how society thinks about sex. 

Because of this, it can be difficult for women with a lower libido, or a more sentimental view of sex, to express these things without feeling isolated or naïve—“like you’re missing out” as I’ve heard it described. For me, it feels like a strange kind of FOMO which prevails despite a lack of desire for the thing which you are ‘missing out’ on. This approach is far more common than people think, but it doesn’t often get brought into conversation. 

One student told me that when the conversation is dominated by just one perspective, it can feel like “your identity and body are misplaced in comparison to other people. Like ‘what’s wrong with me if I don’t see sex that way?’” 

Another reflected: “I’ve found that because my libido is sub fucking zero I can feel a bit disconnected from what feels like is an essential driver for many women; sex as a form of freedom and liberty … I think a lot of my mindset on this is because of societal pressures and structures. To be a woman is somehow boiled down to being wanted and desired.”

She’s absolutely right. Etched into our brains since birth is a desire to be desired. As women, our self-worth is often supported—to varying degrees—by how much we are needed or wanted. Regardless of your actual experience of or feelings towards sex, it can still feel like a receipt: proof that you are desired. For many queer people, it can even act as validation of sexual orientation—a core part of the identity you might have spent so long trying to figure out. As one queer student I talked to put it, it can be confusing and invalidating “to have navigated and pinpointed who you want to be desired by but not really getting any real ‘proof’ of that.” 

But the desire to be desired or validated doesn’t necessarily equate to an appetite for actual fucking—and isn’t always fulfilled by sex either. Giving up that much of your body to somebody else can be quite emptying. 

One student told me that sex can be “empowering in the way that it deepens your connection with someone,” but that she’s “often left these experiences feeling a bit hollow.” Even if you are secure within yourself, it’s hard not to feel a bit incel-y if you can’t produce this ‘receipt’ because you aren’t as buzzed by sex as a lot of other women seem to be. 

Also etched into our brains is an expectation to ooze tenderness and sentimentality. I can understand our inclination, as women, to lean away from these traditionally feminine traits by adopting a less ‘chalant’ view of sex. Our separation from sensitivity is not just isolated to attitudes towards sex. A sensitive man is performative, and a sensitive woman is naïve. 

This becomes obvious when we look at the much-scorned notion of the performative male. We’ve come to assume that a man who likes things traditionally rooted in femininity—feminist literature, sentimentality, Clairo—is doing it just for show, and we don’t like that. As one student observed,  “femininity in general is seen as this abject, or like gushy thing, and that idea … can leak into attitudes around sex even for women … [so] we don’t want to lean into femininity and gentleness in sex.” For me, this manifests into a compulsion to quiet my emotional investment to a palatable level. It conjures the uncomfortable feeling of being fourteen years old, taking the Rice Purity Test and liberally interpreting every item just to prove—via my low score—that I was tough and nonchalant enough to have ‘done stuff’. 

Even if you do have a lower libido, or feel vulnerable about sex, it still can be empowering to talk about it as if you don’t—almost like you’re reversing the method of control men have historically exercised over women. But this just reinforces the conversational norm that there is a singular way sex should be discussed. 

One student pointed out that the development of “labels that don’t fit into the linear ‘hetero to homosexual’ spectrum, like asexuality or even pansexuality,” serve as further evidence that traditional models of sexual attraction simply don’t mesh with a lot of people. 

Sex positivity shouldn’t only be about letting people want sex, but about granting the freedom to want it differently, to whatever degree or in whatever form each of us desire as individuals. 

Personally (though subject to change), I’m not particularly enthusiastic about sex if I don’t love or trust the other person. I see it more as an extension of a relationship, or non-sexual intimacy. Without emotional connection, it can be hard for me to feel sexual desire. 

In the words of a friend of mine, it’s “... a safety thing, like ‘oh great I trust you. Now we can touch each other’.” 

I’ve had stranger, less wholesome, poorly thought-out sexual experiences which were hot(ish) in their separation from emotional ties. I have no regrets—but I don’t feel like it’s something I’d actively seek out anymore. 

The phallocentric view suggests that physical pleasure is the thing you gain from sex, and the reason you pursue it. This is certainly one of the upsides. Physical pleasure—particularly for women and people AFAB—should not be overlooked. But in terms of trust, confidence, and self esteem there is for some a huge amount to be gained or lost emotionally. 

The way that each of us considers and goes about sex, and the reasons why we may want it, can be influenced by a variety of factors. Victims of sexual abuse, assault or harrasment,or people who take SSRIs and other medications might have a higher standard of trust, or a lower libido. Such influences impact those who experience them very differently so individual circumstances are hugely varied. It makes sense that the way we think about sex is too. 

This is also an important idea in queer relationships, where for one party there might be minimal physical pleasure. The gratification can instead come from providing pleasure for somebody else, or having it provided to you by the other party. It can be hard (for some, not all) not to feel guilty or unequal if you haven’t already established trust, or figured out the dynamics of your relationship outside of sex. 

It’s not just about your sexual orientation or past experience; why and how we want sex varies and evolves throughout our lives. What I want now is not what I wanted five years ago, and it may not be what I want five years in the future, but that doesn’t mean I was ever wrong. We aren’t on a quest to find the ultimate way that sex should be viewed. Maybe the most sex-positive thing would be to allow ourselves to feel however we may feel—whether that be excitement, sentimentality, confusion, boredom, disinterest or anything else—and to be comfortable thinking and talking about it on our own terms. There is room for everyone in the conversation about sex.