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Visions of sex

Anal. Orgasm. G-spot. Recently, you may have seen these bright posters spring up on campus, advertising events hosted by the Women's Center. One of the highlights of this week was the guest lecture series by Ellen Heed, who spoke on three consecutive days about self-pleasure, human genitalia, and “all of life’s erotic possibilities.” Sexual pleasure is often a stigmatized topic of conversation, and on many levels Princeton students aren’t comfortable openly discussing what constitutes good and bad sex. These events provided an excellent opportunity to reflect on this.

There is a coherent view of human sexuality underlying this week’s programming. It seeks to throw off the inherited shackles of a repressive sexual culture that often demonizes female pleasure and enforces old-fashioned norms like monogamy, heterosexuality, and prohibitions on premarital sex. It encourages people to be comfortable with their own bodies, unashamed to explore new possibilities for pleasure and self-discovery. It seeks the goods of communication and respecting boundaries in relationships, to keep sexual relationships positive, pleasurable, and consensual.

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This is certainly one view of sexuality, one that I respect. It has many qualities that to some would seem positive, to others negative. In this framework, non-consensual sex is obviously completely illicit, but as long as sexual activity is consensual, the options are limitless. Restraint makes sense only in the context of the boundaries of a partner; practices are informed by desire and curiosity, rather than by prescriptive moral codes. You invest in a relationship to the degree that you feel comfortable, no more —nobody can force vulnerability from you, and you always have the option of walking away from sex and wiping your hands clean, separated from unwanted intricacies.

There is an alternative view of sexuality that looks at sex from a completely different angle. It sees sex as an act that has as its goal the comprehensive, total, and self-giving union of two people. Under this framework, consent is a necessary, but by no means sufficient, condition; indeed, not all things are permitted. This view of sex takes into account not only the subjective experiences of the partners —their desires, pleasure, and enjoyment —but also their objective capacities as sexual beings.

According to this ethic, the sexual act cannot be detached from its inherent orientation towards the creation of new life. For this reason, sex is viewed as something existentially relevant and of great moral weight and is seen through the lens of an ideal: an exclusive and monogamous relationship of a man and woman, open to children. Sex becomes much messier; you have to deal with whatever consequences of sex come your way —dirty diapers, stretch marks, breastfeeding, and the gradual depletion of your bank account. You have to tie yourself down to non-sexual expressions of love, from showing your affection during a chaste courtship to doing the dishes at the end of an exhausting day of running a family. You are forced to pick one person and commit to them, regardless of your doubts and insecurities, embarking on a journey of growth even while running the risk of failure, betrayal, and suffering.

The view I am referring to is often portrayed as conservative, a matter of religious foibles, or even as backwards and repressive. But it has little to do with conservatism or liberalism. It is a product of a different way of looking at human beings and human actions. Good sex, under this logic, is sex that is honest and pure and self-giving. There are no guarantees about pleasure.

For adherents of this ethic, it is inherently wrongheaded to place pleasure on a pedestal. Yes, pleasure is a good thing. Yes, sex creates opportunities for self-discovery and the discovery of another that speak to a natural human longing for intimacy and physical delight. Yet the moral metric for gauging actions is ultimately not one of pleasure. It demands answers to tough questions. How do I struggle with myself as I flutter between restraint and temptation? How do I come to grips with the flaws in myself and in my partner, and the seemingly crushing reality that no intimacy is ever complete?

I subscribe to this alternative view not because I think it’s easier or it’s more pleasant —it’s certainly not. I do this because I do not want to enter a relationship having trained myself to see pleasure as my body’s birthright, as claimed by Sinclair Sexsmith, another guest lecturer last year. I do not want to look at another person’s boundaries as merely the limits to my curiosity. I do not want to separate my sexuality from a calling to parenthood. I do not want to take easy, no-strings-attached delight in what for all of human history has been the coming together of humanity’s greatest creative force —the capacity to bring new life into the world. It is difficult, but I want to train myself to look into a person’s eyes and see the human being on the other side, not the reflection of my own eyes, my own desires.

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Especially relevant to this week’s theme of self-pleasure, I want to reject the inward turn, the notion of ultimate self-reliance and the illusion of sexual pleasure as a proxy for fulfillment. I acknowledge that I do not have all the answers and that there are many more visions of sex than the two I’ve laid out here, but I want to keep pursuing the truth. To that end, I encourage you all to join the discussions about love and sex, not only for one week, but every week.

Thomas Hikaru Clark is a junior from London, England and the president of the Anscombe Society. He can be reached at thclark@princeton.edu.

These views do notrepresent those of The Daily Princetonian.

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