With any of this, he usually reaches orgasm, and while she doesn’t, what he does sometimes feels good. She hasn’t said much about that because she figures it’s just something you get to over time. Once, he asked if there was something else he could do that she liked. She said no, because it was a question she didn’t have the answer to—she didn’t know what she liked or might like just yet. He was her first partner, after all.
He’s made clear he loves her, and they’ve been together a long time, so isn’t it right to take things to the next level and have real sex? She’s not feeling quite there yet—and she’s particularly nervous about moving to things where her clothes come off, worried about how he’ll perceive her body. Sometimes it happens when they start to go further in the kinds of almost-sex they’re having, but she’s put the brakes on and he’s been cool about it, even though he’s felt frustrated. She went with a friend to a clinic to get on the pill, for whenever it does happen; even though they agree they’ll also use condoms, she wants to be extra safe. She’s also worried about bleeding—enough of her friends have said they did—but is just hoping that it doesn’t happen to her or, if it does, that he won’t notice.
Soon enough—and before she’s really 100 percent about all this—his parents are going out of town. Who knows when that’ll happen again; they don’t get a lot of opportunities for extended time alone. If now’s not the right time, when will be? She says she’ll stay over when his parents are gone, which is her way of saying, albeit indirectly, that she’ll have sex with him. The evening comes around, and they spend some awkward time at the house—impending sex the big elephant in the room—both unsure of how to initiate or talk about it. After watching a movie and sharing a pizza, they eventually head to his bedroom, where they engage in a few other sexual activities before going ahead with intercourse. It’s fairly brief—he gets off, she doesn’t, but that’s normal enough the first time, which is probably why he doesn’t ask her if she did and why she doesn’t say anything about it—and it hurt a little, but it wasn’t terribly painful like she was expecting. She feels like she was just lying there, and wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, but he doesn’t seem to think it was a problem. Afterward, they do feel closer, and she’s really glad she did It with him. They talk, both agree that it was special and that they’re feeling good about it, and drift into sleep. Tomorrow morning, before she goes home, he’ll make clear that his feelings for her have grown, and that she gave him a gift that he values greatly and doesn’t take for granted. When he drops her off, they’ll say, “I love you” and mean it, and she’ll feel lucky and loved.
Sound familiar? It’s a pretty common ideal for sexual initiation. It isn’t all fairytale, either: In the last decade I’ve worked with teens and sexuality, I’ve heard many versions of this scenario, from young women reporting what they feel and wish for, and what adults and peers tell them is a remarkably positive first time.
On the surface, it looks pretty good. The guy is a good guy. The girl wasn’t forced into anything she was opposed to or strongly did not want. They moved forward only when she gave consent, and her consent was always sought out in some way. They were safe and smart with regard to pregnancy and infections, and while it was not exactly blissful for her, it wasn’t terribly painful, either. He didn’t change his behavior toward her afterward; in fact, it made them feel closer, and they’re both glad they chose each other. It’ll be a good memory for them, whether they’re together ten years from now or not. All in all, it fits most ideals of what a positive first sexual experience should be.
But something monumental is missing from this picture.
If it takes you a minute to find what it is, don’t feel bad. After all, the missing piece isn’t just missing from
this
picture; it’s missing from nearly every common idea and ideal about sex and women. It’s been missing for so long, plenty of us don’t even see the giant void that sits smack in the middle of these pretty first-time fantasies.
The black hole in that scenario is her
desire.
Nowhere do we see a strong, undeniable sexual desire, deep, dizzy sexual pleasure, or earnest, equal sexual satisfaction on her part. It makes no appearance in a sexual script many would posit as an ideal initiation. We heard her say yes, but we never once saw her beg the question herself. We saw her yes as the answer to someone else’s desire, rather than as an affirmation of her own. Her yes is uncertain, but sexual desire—whether or not we choose to act on it—is certain, unmistakable, and persistent.
If I’d told you that same story and swapped the roles, you might have felt like you were reading speculative fiction. If
she
were feeling sexually frustrated—if we thought it a given that she feels strong urges for sex (she’s a normal teenage girl, after all)—if things weren’t moving fast enough for
her,
if
he
were the reluctant or slow-moving partner, if
she
were the one initiating,
she
were getting off,
he
were the one who felt okay about it because at least it didn’t hurt . . . what planet does
that
happen on? We, as a culture, still tend to consider even a woman’s yes to a man’s sexual invitation revolutionary. That’s unsurprising, of course. This is a world where women still frequently are not asked for consent, are often raped or coerced, still engage in sex with partners out of feelings of duty or obligation, usually have our sexuality depicted in grossly inaccurate ways by men and other women alike, and independent female sexual desire and earnest sexual enjoyment are not only disbelieved, in some circles, but are even “scientifically” contested. And for many women, just finding a partner—the first time at bat, no less—who fully seeks and supports her consent, and accepts any nonconsent, is indeed monumental. We, validly, consider such women lucky.
But consent—our mere yes—is ground zero. While there are a lot of positives in a script like this one, and basics that many women, young and old, still do not have or cannot count on, many of those positives are but a Band-Aid on a wound, a best-case scenario in substandard conditions, making the most we can out of an incomplete set of materials. They’re a paint-by-numbers version of Van Gogh’s
Starry Night,
in which they forgot to include a pot of yellow paint.
The patriarchal roots of all this are a pit stop, not a conclusion. In case they’re not as obvious as the nose on your face, or you feel the need for a quick review, here are the CliffsNotes. We’ve got more than a few millennia in which women’s sexuality has usually been considered but an adjunct of male sexuality. We’ve got our whole documented, celebrated human history of men as a ruling class taking command of their own sexuality and women’s sexuality alike (even when that sexuality has nothing to do with them); we’ve got women often having no voice when it comes to what men do to their bodies and call sex—or, when they’re allowed that voice, they’re allowed it only within the limited window of male desire. We’ve got road-weary miles of history that considers women’s sexuality linked solely to reproduction and marriage, while men are allowed and encouraged to have a sexuality that exists separately from their reproductive processes and spousal arrangements. We have the endlessly tiresome arguments based in Darwinian theory or biochemistry trying to show us that this absence of women’s pleasure in the equation of sex has nothing to do with social conditioning or gender status, but with the “fact” that women do not actually experience real, physical desire.
We’ve long idealized or enabled the romance-novel script of ravishment: reluctant women and passive girls seduced by strong partners. While we’re slowly coming around to the notion that violent force is not romantic, and that rape is not sex but assault, “gentle persuasion” is still swoon-worthy stuff. The young woman who is provided with a sexual awakening by a paternal male partner remains an ideal, common fantasy
or
a profound sense of anxiety if those roles can’t be performed adequately for or by women and men alike.
The chastity belts of yesteryear are on display in our museums; those of the current day live on the mutilated genitals of poor African women and rich American women alike; in sex education curricula and the tiresome continuance of good girl/bad girl binaries; in households where a male partner has a hard drive full of porn everyone knows is there (and in his head during sex), while his female other makes sure her vibrator is well hidden and resists asking her partner to use it during sex together, for fear of making him feel insecure.
And all of this and more has gone on for so long and been so widespread that what should be the simple given of our yes often seems an unattainable ideal.
That is the work of ages to try to undo or revise. It’s a monumental tangle, so it’s going to take monumental work and time to untangle. But I don’t want to find us trapped by it, especially when getting to the good stuff is about more than just rectifying and repairing an ugly, tired history.
In Zen Buddhism, we aim for beginner’s mind, a way of thinking in which we approach all we can with the freshest eyes and few preconceived notions. The unknown can make us fearful, but the opportunity to have an unknown, to be able to approach something completely anew, is a gift. People often view sexual inexperience as something to be embarrassed about and ashamed of, a state to change as quickly as possible. In thinking that way, we miss out on the fact that we are all in a unique position of opportunity when presented with any situation in which something is new to us (and with sex, that’s the case with every new partner, and every time we engage in it—we get first times every time).
We need to stretch our beginner’s minds. Let’s just say—just because we can—that we, all women, in every sexual scenario imaginable, are already past the no
and
the yes. Let’s say that nothing even starts without that yes, and that when it is issued, it is firmer, stronger, and more exuberant than we presently imagine it could be. Let’s write a new ideal sexual-initiation script.
What if her foundation looked like this: Her family recognized that serious or casual, long-term or short, all wanted sexual relationships have value, and that whatever risks of negatives we take with sex are offset by the possibility of great positives? Academic contests, college applications, and sports tryouts aren’t seen as things to avoid simply because they may have unsatisfactory outcomes: We recognize that risking hurt or disappointment for something that may be beneficial is often worthwhile. What if her family felt the same way about their daughter’s experiences with sex? What if rather than nurturing an environment of sexual passivity or silence, her parents provided her with a safe space for sex, active help and encouragement with birth control and sexual health, and direct discussion about sexuality, including her own sexual desires—not just her desires for emotional closeness or security, but masturbation, anatomy, and body image, and the ways in which sex is often unrealistically presented by peers and media? What if her parents spoke to her about their own early sexual experiences realistically, both their joys and their bummers, and what they’ve figured out about sex since then?
What if she felt comfortable in a partnership that lasted only a month, or was with someone of the same sex, and everyone around her was just as supportive of her sexual choices and the import she feels they have? What if she chose first-time sex as an opportunity to say goodbye to a partner, rather than to cement a relationship, and no one had a problem with that or suggested that without continued partnership she wouldn’t be okay? What if what she feels is truly her “first time” is receptive oral sex, performing anal sex on her receptive male partner (and what if he felt that was
his
“real” first time?), or masturbation—and neither she nor others questioned the validity of those experiences as bona fide sexual initiations? What if she prioritized physical pleasure over emotional intimacy in her first time, and no one automatically presumed that she was acting or thinking like a man (and defaulted to the assumption that that’s what men experience or feel like in the first place)? What if she had expectations of pleasure, rather than of pain?
What if she were trusted to make sound sexual choices, to take care of herself and reduce her own risks, even if her male partner didn’t yet inspire that same trust? What if the right time for her sexual initiation was based not on how long she’d been with her boyfriend, but on her feeling that if she didn’t do it soon, she was going to pounce on him like a hungry dog?
What if she came to sex already comfortable with her own body and sexual response, and her male partner had the expectation not of being the person who
taught
her about her sexuality, gave it to her, or took it from her, but rather of
learning
about it with her? What if she had all of these sorts of foundational factors whether she or her partner were white or black, gender-normative or not, queer or straight, wealthy or poor, thick or thin, fourteen or thirty?
What if she had grown up trusting women—including herself—wholly when we express sexual desire, even when it doesn’t resemble our own or occur within contexts we find individually ideal or familiar? What if she were reared with the absolute that women experience, initiate, and pursue desire, and that it is completely acceptable to do so with great enthusiasm? Britney Spears had to say, “Oops,” before she told us she did it again, both so we knew it was an oops the first time and to make clear that while she may have lost all of her senses, it wasn’t something she
meant
to do, because girls
can
feel sexual, but it’s not something they completely intend or purposefully pursue. What if she were reared without that “Oops,” but with an “Atta girl!”