This is a topic that weighs heavily on me and is not easy to write about.
I’m massively in favor of providing shame-free sex education, of oversharing as a political act, and of creating sex-positive learning environments. And yet I feel unable to talk about my own sexuality publicly or in print.
In a way, this betrays my multifaceted privileged status: I’m a cisgender woman married to a cisgender, so very few people question whether I’m straight. I’m white and middle class, so it doesn’t seem to occur to people to wonder if I’m a sex-worker. I’m cisgendered, so people don’t attack or misgender me. The fact that I even have the option of choosing not to discuss my sexuality publicly means I’m already benefitting from an intersectional system that oppresses some and lifts up others.
With that acknowledged, my reasons for not discussing my sexuality publicly are many.
- I teach at the college level, and American culture is so intent on shielding children from any contact with sex that it’s usually considered inappropriate for teachers of any level to reveal anything about their sex lives (despite the fact that my students are all over 18, and despite the fact that teachers with children of their own are admitting to having had sex at least once).
- I don’t want my own sexual experiences to distract from anything I’m teaching, especially in the sex education classroom, where I want to model appropriate boundaries.
- Our culture is so sex-negative that there’s someone who will judge you for just about any sex act out there. Certainly, some sex acts should be harshly condemned (those involving non-consent, for example), but consensual sex acts between adults? Not deserving of shame, intolerance, or really much discussion at all from anyone who’s not directly involved/impacted.
In regard to that last point, I feel that women are judged especially brutally for their sexual experiences. Getting a lot of action? You’ll be called a slut or whore, and if you try to set boundaries or say no, you might be in danger of verbal or physical harassment. Not saying yes to a lot of sex? Then you’re a prude or a tease… and also in danger of verbal or physical harassment. Yes, I think that hegemonic constructions of male sexuality are also very damaging and very limiting for men, but at least they have the option of being sexually active without being condemned quite so hatefully.
I really want to change the world and improve everyone’s perception of sex, in part so that everyone can be more liberated, and in part so that I can feel freer to be myself in public discourse. I know that one of the ways to make that happen is by being more open, by showing that it’s okay to be who you are even in the face of misogyny and sex-negativity. But honestly, I’m afraid to.
I’m terrified that people can take any facet of my sexual experience – the age when I became sexually active, the kinds of people I do or don’t have sex with, and so on – and use it against me. There’s a particularly vengeful glee that you see in sexphobic rhetoric, when dragging someone’s sexual identity or experiences through the coals, that I am fearful of being the focus of. I worry that my academic colleagues will stop respecting me, that the general public will think I’m weird or slutty or whatever… though while writing this sentence, I know that I make ethical choices about my sex life and thus my sex-positive peers and friends will still have my back, so that’s something, I guess.
And because sexual norms are socially constructed, damn near any kind of sex that someone’s having or not having is probably demonized by someone out there. In our sexphobic culture, it’s especially likely that anything outside heterosexual monogamous vanilla sex within marriage purely for procreative purposes will be stigmatized – and not just that the sex itself will be stigmatized, but also the person/people having it (I explore the mechanism underlying this phenomenon in my post on the adjacency effect). In a rare candid moment, yeah, I’ll admit that many of my sexual experiences don’t fall into that narrow category of acceptable sex described above. But really, whose do? Narrowly defining “normal” sex is not only an inaccurate way to model the world (because there’s such a variety of sex practices and identities out there), but it also places rigid limits on what is a dazzling diverse facet of human experience. Again, so long as consent is foregrounded, I don’t really think there’s a wrong way to have sex.
Writing all this out, yes, I can see how it’s melodramatic and a tad ridiculous to be this worried about being judged for my sexuality. But I worry about it nonetheless. And I’m sharing this brain-vomit post to illustrate that these kinds of fears of sexual judgment exist, even among folks like myself who are trying to end slut-shaming and stigma and sex-negativity and all that horrible stuff that makes people afraid to explore their sexuality in whatever way is healthy for them and helps them grow in their lives.
I hope that someday I’ll refer back to this bog post and be able to say that I’ve outgrown this fear. That the people in my life whose opinions really matter have demonstrated repeatedly that what happens in my sex life doesn’t impact their view of me as an intellectual person, a scholar, a teacher, an artist, an ethical human being. Since I try to surround myself with awesome, open-minded, compassionate people, the limiting factor is more likely to be my own anxiety combined with the very real consequences that our society imposes on people who deviate from the norm. Which, again, is a wonderful motivation to be an activist for sex positivity, so that we can change arbitrary, stupid norms as well as demonstrate that there are many ways to be sexually active as a human, whether that means abstinence or being an ethical slut.
Time to hit “publish” and see if I’m alone in having these kinds of fears.
Originally posted at my Sex Ed with Dr. Jeana blog (with a few minor modifications).