TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY F*#KS
From “bad sex” to BDSM, what is the reality of modern sex lives? We explore where we’ve come from, what we’re into and where our curiosity will take us next
Your guide to getting busy in 2018 and beyond.
A FEW MONTHS AGO, I WAS EMAILING MY EDITOR AT ELLE.
We were discussing the now-infamous article on the Babe website which, in case you’ve been holidaying on a remote Greek Island for the past six months (so lucky, hate you), detailed a contentious sexual encounter between comedian Aziz Ansari and a woman they called “Grace”. It alleges that their date became “the worst night of [her] life” when Ansari initiated foreplay at his apartment and then failed to pick up on the “non-verbal cues” of discomfort that Grace was putting out. The article went live not long after The New Yorker short-fiction piece Cat Person experienced a rare, and still ongoing, moment of virality. In it, 20-year-old Margot has a fling with 34-year-old Robert – their flirtation culminates in Margot realising she no longer wants to have sex with Robert, but feeling obliged to for fear of hurting his feelings or coming off like a tease.
In the current, volatile discourse surrounding sexual politics, these stories are remarkable for their inability to be labelled as distinctly one thing or another. Instead, they highlight a murkier phenomenon that’s rarely discussed outside weekend brunch or private group messages: “bad sex”. The kind of bland, unpleasant or underwhelming sex that we sometimes end up having because it feels too difficult to admit we’re not, or no longer, cool with what’s happening. The fundamental issue at the heart of the real Babe incident and the fictional Cat Person one is not that one person acted like a sexual harasser, or the other failed to vocalise discomfort at the speed with which things were moving. It’s that, just like the rest of us, none of them had a sufficient understanding of how to engage in ongoing consent. They fell victim to the awkwardness that surrounds frank discussions about sex. And let’s face it, talking about sex is awkward (and even more so when we’re half-naked in a stranger’s apartment). But if we’re all having it – and we’re becoming increasingly more open-minded about what “it” even is – then pushing through the embarrassment is the only way to ensure modern sex doesn’t devolve into another aspect of our lives governed by puritanical thought (see: gay marriage, gun laws).
But what do we mean when we say modern sex? Traditionally, “sex” is the cherry-popping kind: penetrative, penis-in-vagina sex. It’s the established end point of most heterosexual erotic encounters. It’s what a guy is referring to when he asks if you’re DTF on Tinder. “The focus, particularly among heterosexuals, is overwhelmingly and disproportionately on penis-in-vagina sex as ‘real sex’. And everything else, well that’s not,” says sex and relationship therapist Cyndi Darnell. “And because
both parties feel pressure to perform penis-in-vagina sex as a rite of passage, nobody has real conversations about pleasure.” Sure, we’re biologically programmed to procreate, but sex isn’t just about carrying on the family line anymore. And if 81.6 per cent of women don’t experience orgasm through penetrative sex, like Indiana University research indicates, why does this kind of sex continue to be seen as the necessary climax? This outdated belief reduces our capacity to prioritise pleasure and to understand why we even have sex in the first place – and we’re far fussier about who we take to bed than previous generations were. A 2016 study by San Diego State University revealed “millennials hold the most permissive sexual attitudes of any generation, though they [choose] to have sex with fewer partners than gen Xers did at the same age”. So let’s not waste time on sex that fails to provide the maximum return on investment.
Yes, we’re dating longer, having children later or proclaiming, “Fuck it all!” and choosing a pug and a one-bedroom apartment in Fitzroy instead, but a comparison of 2005 and 2015 Okcupid user data shows we actually care more now about finding love. According to Emily Witt, author of Future Sex: A New Kind Of Free Love, “All of these [sexual] possibilities don’t necessarily mean that the story of what a successful sexual life looks like changes as quickly.” In other words, most of us still want a nice guy to take home to meet Grandma, but we’re slowly warming up to the alternatives. “You don’t have to choose a lifelong identity. There are going to be times when you want to shack up with somebody in an apartment, but there are going to be times when that’s not available to you... you can go through different phases.” That acceptance of sexuality as fluid is currently being championed by generation Z’s Amandla Stenberg and Rowan Blanchard – but that’s not to say they’re the only ones playing the field. “I’m noticing at the moment that women are dating other women and not giving it a label,” says sex therapist Dr Nikki Goldstein. “They’re not even calling themselves pansexual. They’re just saying, ‘This is who I love.’” That embrace of previously marginalised or non-existent labels is one part of modern sexuality that many of us aren’t afraid to adopt. “The culture has been moving towards a more honest and authentic expression of sexuality,” adds Witt. “Even when you’re on a dating app now, you see plenty of people who identify as polyamorous or are open about already being in a long-term relationship (but wanting something on the side).”
Ah, dating apps. Where would modern sex be without them? Apps like Tinder and Grindr didn’t spark the casual-sex revolution, but they have facilitated a faster and easier access to like-minded prospective sexual partners, thus reinforcing the idea that sex and love aren’t a Venn diagram and can exist wholly separate from one another. And that sex doesn’t always have to knock the earth off its axis. “As women, we’re led to believe that a negative sexual experience can be devastating – that if some asshole crosses one of our sexual boundaries, or if we leave the orgy feeling fat and uncomfortable instead of enlightened, then we might never
recover,” writes sex columnist Karley Sciortino in Slutever: Dispatches From A Sexually Autonomous Woman In A Postshame World. “But why do women always have to be the ‘victims’ of sex? Why is it that in nearly every area of our lives we are encouraged to take risks
“If 81.6 per cent of women don’t orgasm through penetrative sex, why is it seen as the necessary climax?”
and try new things... but when it comes to sex, we’re like, ‘Be safe or you’ll end up traumatised or dead’?”
Accepting that bad sex, while not inevitable, is certainly a likelihood during the course of our sexually active lives will help us better define the blurred lines around consensual, non-consensual and just plain not-good sex. “Part of the conversation should be how to think of our negative sexual experiences – not the violent ones, but the ones that are just kind of like, ‘What happened? That didn’t feel good’ – and learn how to process those,” says Witt.
Right now, sex-positive discussions are something we’re obliged to seek out on our own time, although the expanding pool of options nods to the demand. Take the realm of sex-focused podcasts – where once sex advice columnist Dan Savage was our only guiding light with his show Savage Lovecast (still a hit, 12 years later), now we tune into everything from psychotherapist Esther Perel’s Where Should We Begin?, a series of disarmingly intimate recordings of couplecounselling sessions, to The Pornhub Podcast with Asa Akira, an award-winning adult film star and director.
Television is normalising taboo sexual practices, too, presenting characters who are no longer “radical” but instead accurate reflections of a growing reality. Broad City introduced us to pegging, You Me Her made a polyamorous relationship seem as everyday as a monogamous one and on Netflix series Love, Stella’s provocative sex-and-love podcast serves to emphasise the generational sex divide opposite Dr Greg’s outdated advice show. Suddenly, we have permission to wonder what it might be like to anally penetrate a man using a strap-on dildo (that’s pegging, ICYMI). And we can’t forget to thank the internet for allowing us to explore our curiosities without the public commitment that comes from walking into an actual store. According to 2016 data from online adult store Lovehoney, eight of the top 10 bestselling categories of sex toy in Australia were vibrators and dildos (and, if you’re wondering, Brisbane had the highest ratio of sex-toy sales to residents).
But amid all this exploration, we’re still experiencing roadblocks. Take the Fifty Shades Of Grey effect. The series helped to normalise BDSM – the umbrella term covering bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadomasochism – and highlighted the inextricable link between BDSM and open, honest communication. When
“The conversation should be how to process our negative sexual experiences”
“If porn is ‘bad’ for women, the question becomes: what does feminist sex look like?”
done right, BDSM is equitable and empowering, but getting to that point can be tricky. Like, when we’re cuffed to our bedposts, getting spanked by an Alexander Skarsgård lookalike, where do we put the thoughts that whisper to us, “It’s anti-feminist to get off on being dominated by a man”? Anastasia Steele never seemed like the type who would front up to a Women’s March. When navigating the complexity of sex in a #Metoo world, Witt suggests BDSM is, in fact, an effective way to sidestep the confusion and unclear boundaries we’re currently faced with. “It gives you a whole set of rules in which to have sex – you’re either dominant or submissive – that many people find comforting. If you’re a woman, you can say, ‘I like a dominant man’ without it being sexist. You have permission to enjoy those dynamics and not feel like you’re prolonging the patriarchy.”
From the early ’60s, second-wave feminism and the sexual revolution rejected that patriarchal standard of sexuality – heterosexual, monogamous marriage – and fought for freedom of choice. Suddenly, there was access to contraception and abortion, greater acceptance of homosexuality and films like Andy Warhol’s Blue Movie and Linda Lovelace’s Deep Throat ushering in the “Golden Age” of porn. But in 2018, although these freedoms are now part of the deal, we still struggle with the stigma of our sexual practices and preferences – and a lack of positive sex education is partially to blame. Think about it: first, we learn the anatomical basics, then we’re told that sex equals teen pregnancy, STIS and a bad reputation. When we’re led to believe that sex is a black-and-white matter – it’s either completely consensual and loving, or it’s sexual assault – we leave no room to dissect the reality, which is that sexual experiences are extremely nuanced. “There’s a strong idea out there that good sex is just chemistry and magic; this alchemical miracle that happens once in a while,” says Witt. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t also teach yourself. Like any other experience, sex is one where you can put a bit of effort in and get something back.”
For a long time, we’ve turned to porn. It’s had the difficult job of being both an educational tool and the scapegoat for unsatisfactory sexual behaviour and unrealistic sexual standards. “We cannot rely on pornography to teach empathy, the ability to read body language or how to discuss sexual boundaries – especially when we’re talking about young people who have never had sex. Porn will never be a replacement for sex education,” adult film star Stoya wrote in a New York Times article earlier this year.
“The one legacy from the women’s movement that I find problematic is the idea that porn is inherently misogynistic and that it objectifies women and it’s bad for women,” says Witt. “Because then the question becomes: what does feminist sex look like? An important foundation of feminism is rejecting this idea that you need to police yourself.”
In fact, adult entertainment website Pornhub released 2017 user insights that revealed “porn for women” was one of the top-trending search terms, and “lesbian” remained the porn preference among female users (proportionately, they watch a lot more lesbian porn than male users do). While there’s been a push for less gendered porn, the danger in doing so is that it allows the idea to develop that there’s a particular kind of porn that is female-appropriate – rather than a “whatever works for you” approach. “Sometimes what passes as ‘feminist porn’ tends to overemphasise story over actual intercourse, and that’s what counts as feminist somehow,” says Witt. “It’s only natural that society’s pathologies, imbalances and inequality would factor into our sexual fantasy so it’s possible to have a sexual fantasy that doesn’t look like the world you want to live in, and that doesn’t make it unfeminist.” Perhaps in the face of the patriarchy, escaping in a sexual fantasy of our own choosing is the most feminist action of all.