boob THE TUBE
How sex scenes on television this year revealed a feminist perspective
Towards the end of the penultimate season of Game of Thrones, the episode titled “Stormborn” finally consummates the long-brewing sexual tension between Daenerys Targaryen’s advisor Missandei and eunuch soldier Grey Worm.
Before leaving for war, he approaches Missandei, kissing her nervously, unsure of his next move. She takes the lead, removing her clothes, then his. When he resists her going any further, ashamed of his mutilation we’re led to believe, she says, “I want to see you. Please.” Those words, laced with love, inspire Grey Worm to finally give in to what he, too, has been wanting. As the two shift to the bed, the moment grows more powerful when Grey Worm disappears from the frame, and the camera settles on Missandei’s face – not her body – as she experiences pleasure for the first time with another person.
It’s a scene that finds its beauty in the woman’s pleasure, a sight rarely given its own weight ( especially in Game of Thrones). Here, sex represents a breaking of chains (something Daenerys knows well). Missandei and Grey Worm, once slaves, are united in their newfound freedom, but also in a deeply entwined, safe and honest romance, long simmering, now sated.
For a show often criticized for its use of rape as a plot device, this moment represents significant growth toward a feminist perspective on sex. It’s a trend that’s seen a ripple effect in a year when television has pushed the envelope when it comes to what happens in the bedroom – not in terms of censorship, gratuitousness or explicitness, but rather by granting a new perspective.
In the historical time travel series, Outlander, the long- awaited reunion between leads Jamie and Claire prompts a 20- minute love scene, punctuated with the male character placing the female’s desire higher than his own. Meanwhile, American Gods, the fantastical series adapted from the Neil Gaiman novel of the same name, features a scene in which a woman vaginally swallows a man’s body whole in a display of domination. And then there is HBO’s The Deuce, which documents prostitution in 1970s New York City and features at least a handful of full-frontal shots per episode, none of which detract from the show’s mission to humanize sex work.
In one scene, we see Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character, a self-employed prostitute, go on a date. They have sex but, left unsatisfied, she takes ownership of her own pleasure. It’s far more intimate and surprising than any of the scenes in which she undresses or completes a job with a customer. In an interview with Vulture, episode director Uta Briesewitz said, “I don’t think you can think of any other situation where you are more vul- nerable and more exposed than sharing with a TV audience a scene of a character masturbating. This is completely raw, you are completely out there.”
In each of these cases, sex is not gratuitous, but a sign of intimacy and progress within a relationship.
We see this contrasted somewhat with HBO’s Big Little Lies. As one of the most talked-about series to hit television this year, it had the advantage of early attention and expectation – a coup for a series with plans to explore as divisive topics as class, rape and domestic abuse. In fact, the narrative that won the most acclaim was the one that tied each of those strings together, featuring Nicole Kidman and Alexander Skarsgard in the roles of an abusive husband and his perfect wife. The sex scenes being portrayed by the actors are violent and difficult to watch. The couple excuse the abuse as a love for rough sex. And yet, it’s not the sex that is graphic, but the violence and the shock of it. Here was a couple we were introduced to as the squeaky clean ideal, and yet their sexual relationship offers viewers evidence of abuse; of a relationship not evolving but self-destructing; of something real.
It’s a familiar emotional excavation, mirrored in The Handmaid’s Tale, where we see women reduced to breeding vessels (“handmaids”) for the elite as they are subjected to ritualized rape. Any moment of stolen pleasure is a feminist victory, which we see when Elisabeth Moss’s Offred sneaks into the room of her master’s driver, and the two engage in her first consensual sexual experience since the new government took hold. Suddenly, the series breaks from its typically ruthless rape scenes to a passionate love scene set to a swelling orchestra, lit in soft shadows and climaxing with Offred on top. Perhaps a little heavy-handed, it still reminds us that sex is an act of rebellion; like Grey Worm and Missandei, Offred is breaking her chains.
When we typically think of sex breaking boundaries on television, we imagine something explicit and gratuitous. And while we have seen more skin in recent months than ever before on television, this year marked a watershed moment, one in which seeing a woman in control of her own sexuality, finding pleasure the way women actually find pleasure from a sexual act, has been given an empowering platform. It’s a liberty granted in large part by the creative freedom and lack of censorship on streaming and cable networks. Certainly, baring it all for the sake of baring it all is no sign of evolution, but setting ostentation aside in favour of sex-positive love and romance has moved television forward, igniting necessary cultural conversations.