I'm no prude, but...or am I?
You can’t escape sex these days. Not even in the years we were promised would be the beginning of our sexlessness, our bodies no longer the centre of our appeal. I entered my 40s excited by the prospect, relishing the diminished attentions of men so that I could focus on more important things. But now it seems that motherhood, menopause, and monogamy - the big three libido killers - are no longer acceptable excuses for not talking about, agonising over, and striving to improve the type and frequency of sex we’re having.
We’re supposed to want to want it all the time, even if we don’t. If that’s the case, there’s something wrong with us and we must do all we can to fix it. Not only because of the impact it must (MUST!) have on our relationship, but because we are all highly sexual beings who are clearly repressing our true selves if we aren’t thinking about banging at least 50 percent of the time. Even if our hormones are wreaking havoc on our lives and our uteruses are mounting full-scale attacks against us. Even if we are worried about our finances, health, teenage children, or ailing parents. Even if we’ve always been more interested in emotional connections and intellectual pursuits than physical ones. Case in point:
I recently finished the novel everyone was talking about last year, All Fours by Miranda July. I wanted to love it as everyone else seemed to and excitedly put it on my Christmas wish list. I’d heard it was about what happens when women remember who they were before they were mothers or, more accurately, evolve into someone new. I was told it was about menopause and identity, the complexity of relationships, inner turmoil, and mid-life revelations. And though it technically touched on all of those themes, especially in the first part of the book, I soon realised that it was not going to explore them in the way I’d expected. Some of them were barely side notes to the star of the show, which was, unsurprisingly I suppose, sex.
There was a bit towards the beginning where the protagonist and her close friend are sharing intimate details of what gets them off. The protagonist says she is ‘mind rooted’ - requiring significant mental stimulation to become aroused - whereas her friend describes her desire in purely carnal terms, as something she craves physically, insinctually, without much involvement from her brain. She is, as the protagonist puts it, ‘body rooted’. I thought it was a brilliant description of the different ways people approach sex, and was glad to see July present them as equally valid and normal forms of human desire. I saw myself in it, felt validated and seen as a person for whom sex does not often stem from a physical place but one of emotional connection. But then. Then. [Mild spoilers ahead - skip the next paragraph if you haven’t read it and plan to or are reading it now]
The last part of the book is about how the protagonist makes the switch from being mind rooted to becoming utterly obsessed with the body - her own and others’. Relationships and everyday life become disposable in favour of lust, desire placed before everything else. This change is framed as empowering, an awakening, the rebirth of her true self. In that sense I can understand why for so many women, especially those who feel unsatisfied in their current arrangement, All Fours was a revelation, a fight song for the sexually repressed. But my god did I find those parts boring. The more obsessed with sex the main character becomes, the more I found her utterly unlikeable and narcissistic. I even considered discontinuing reading it, something I don’t do often or lightly. The novel’s quirkiness and good writing propelled me to see it through, but as I searched for some kind of deeper meaning to it all, I was left disappointed. In the end, it was just another book about sex. I’d wanted more.
Saying these things will undoubtedly lead to me being labelled a prude by some. And I’m okay with that I suppose, given the alternative. Because it’s not that I don’t like sex or don’t have it anymore, neither of which are true, but that it’s none of anyone’s business what goes on in my bedroom, nor am I that interested in what others get up to in theirs. I simply don’t understand the level of preoccupation with sex our culture has. Sometimes it seems as if a new planet has just been discovered in the solar system and everyone is racing to get there and colonise it, to stick their flag in its porous surface and exclaim ‘I was here!’ to the world. Me? I’d rather stay rooted on Earth, writing poetry about the moon.
And look, I’m not saying we should never talk about sex or share our desires and insecurities, but I guess I’m a bit old school for believing that there’s a time and a place for such discussions and it isn’t at a raucous group dinner in the middle of a busy restaurant or in an unexpected text detailing a partner’s new fetish. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve smiled politely as people shared with me their raunchy sexcapades, trying to appear supportive and sex positive, while inwardly I was cringing and wishing it would stop. More than anything, I find it incredibly tedious. No, I did not need to know that you like to be choked at sex clubs, thank you very much. I’d rather know what you thought of the film we just watched.
I get that repression of sexuality is not healthy and that the move towards oversharing is a pendulum swing against restrictive religious-based norms that fostered a culture of secrecy and shame around desire (especially female desire) for many years, but does it have to be quite so graphic and prolific? It feels like sex is being pushed at us relentlessly right now, even by mainstream media, and when something is being really hyped up, my immediate questions are: what are they selling, and who benefits? Below, a summary of some recent boinking-related content I’ve been exposed to recently:
Make sure you have a healthy supply of sex toys, erotica, and lingerie! Ethically owned and sourced, please.
There’s no reason not to be having regular sex in your 70s, 80s and 90s - you go, girl! Insert ads for personal lubricant and an erotic yoga class for seniors here.
Have you considered polyamory? Okay then, an open relationship to explore your sexuality within the confines of pseudo-monogamy? Eww, no. Monogamy is not an option is you want to be a Hot Girl. Are you sure you aren’t at least poly-curious?
Where do you stand on pubic hair and porn? Current views are none and lots, respectively. Unless you’re a prude and then it’s lots and none.
What are you doing to keep things fresh, to keep you and your partner turned on?
What are your fantasies? Sketch out at least 15 roleplay scenarios and then schedule the time, procure the supplies, scout the locations, and book the babysitters to enact them.
Everyone is doing it, isn’t it great? We’re all free to do whatever (and whoever) we want!
Are we though? Or are we just putting our energy into sex because it’s one of the few things we feel we can (or should be able to) control, one of the few things that has the ability to make us feel good these days? Is relentless pleasure-seeking and one-upping each other in the non-vanilla stakes a valid form of self-expression and growth, or is it a diversion driven by people and industries who want us to be more sexually pliable? Because there is historical precadent for that.
Though the free love revolution of the 60s and 70s sought to unshackle us from the stigma of sex outside of marriage and the prioritisation of reproduction over pleasure, we don’t talk often enough about how the increased availability of women’s bodies and our participation in ever-darker ‘play’ greatly benefits men as well, and in some ways contributes to our continued objectification. Of course it’s great that we no longer have to be married to get contraception, or feel compelled to hide even the existence of our desires, especially for those in non-hetero relationships. The problem is that, even now, it is still women who bear nearly all of the consquences of human desire, on both our bodies and our lives.
Judgement, hypersexualisation, responsibility for contraception, hormonal upheavals, pregnancy, birth, childrearing, emotional labour, caretaking of relationships…all of these remain largely on our shoulders. In that regard, not much has changed. Meanwhile, men are now able to enjoy strings-free, committment-free, sometimes degrading and violent sex, with even fewer consequences than they faced 50 years ago.
Do we actually have agency over our bodies and sex, or have we merely been sold the illusion of it?
With the quashing of women’s reproductive freedoms taking place all over the world, and with a terrifying rise in misogyny and gender-based violence, we would be wise to re-think our obsession with sex and whether having more of it is in our interests right now; especially if it’s with men, and especially for those of childbearing age. There are growing feminist movements advocating against sex with men, sex strikes they’re calling it, which have been met with equal parts amusement and horror. Not many men think they’ll go through with it, and that those who do were clearly lesbians anyway. Because how could any woman possibly live without dick, if dick is something she enjoys? Little do they know…well, I won’t get into that.
Needless to say, I will be over here reading my sexless books in a sexless corner, luxuriating in my impending Crone status while everyone else is happily humping and talking about it on the internet.
I will silently wish all of you a happy and fulfilling sex life but change the subject if you go into a level of specifics that is beyond my feigned-interest level.
I will have private thoughts and desires that I don’t share with anyone else, relishing the sexiness of my secrets.
I will regularly jump my husband’s bones but you won’t know anything about it.
None of you will know how dirty (or not) I am in the bedroom, now or ever.
For me, that’s as it should be.
This is a really interesting and thought-provoking article. I think, for me, it's about the line between gratuitous sex and healthy, sex-positive conversation. As you pointed out, we don't want to return to the dark days of sex being shameful and taboo (I grew up in the Catholic church, so I know that story all too well), but there's a certain line between honest sharing and uncomfortable, no-holds barred raunchiness. I read an article recently that spoke about how this current generation of girls has been duped into believing that free and open sex with anyone and everyone is empowering and freeing when in fact it's often scary, debasing, and leading them further from what they truly desire for their intimate relationships. Porn and soft-core porn novels a la Fifty Shades, have certainly aided in this belief. But I also believe sex is a huge part of human life and if it's handled correctly, can be a very important part of a novel that explores intimate human relationships. Do I need to see a graphic sex scene to accomplish that end? No. But I think we should be exploring the nuances of sex in literature--married sex, in particular. Given that many of us don't go around sharing the details of our sex lives with others, I think it's helpful for us to see that we are not alone in our experiences, that pleasure and desire can still be experienced in later life, and that monogamous sex can be just as exciting (if not more so) as banging random strangers you met on Tinder. Thanks for getting me thinking about this interesting topic, Amity!
I’ve been learning more about asexuality recently through encountering more people who are openly ACE. If we want them to feel more included and accepted in society, we have to consider their needs in what we put out into the world as well. Not all ACE people are fully sex-averse or phobic, but enough are to warrant changes in our behaviour. Adding content warnings is a good start, but not enough.
What you describe in your post echoes the sentiment of what many ACE people are thinking and feeling. For them it goes even further as it feels like a rejection of their identity and an unsafe environment in which to be “out”. I don’t want to be part of conversations which make people who are ACE feel like this, just like I don’t want to be part of transphobic conversations. And we simply don’t know who is or is not comfortable with sexual conversations regardless of their sexual identity unless they tell us.
The conclusion I’ve come to is that elicit sex conversations need to include getting consent from the participants. It’s not prudish to only want to have them with certain people or never have them at all. It’s a preference. Once that should be respected.