Personal Essay: “The Talk” in the classroom surprised me

by ONNOLEE SLATEN

Staff Writer

It was a routine day in Professor of English Gary Richards’s Methods of Advanced Literary Studies course. Having just finished our feminist theory unit, I expected our next discussion to focus on gender and sexuality. I didn’t expect us to discuss sex itself.

Richards introduced cultural anthropologist Gayle Rubin’s 1984 essay “Thinking Sex,” which explores society’s sexual hierarchy through two circles. The inner “Charmed Circle” represents socially accepted sex, such as heterosexual, monogamous and procreative sex, while the outer circle encompasses stigmatized practices, such as homosexual, masturbatory and porn-driven sex.

Then the discussion took a turn. Thinking back, I really should have guessed the tone after seeing “bodies only” vs. “manufactured objects” on the projector. As the class went through each category in Rubin’s diagram, Richards asked where we believed the line fell between “good sex” vs. “bad sex.”

The questions we discussed were surprisingly direct. What body count is considered to be too high? How wide does an age gap have to be before one raises a questioning brow? Is pornography a valid method of experiencing pleasure? Is it ok to have sex in the park?

While sexuality has historical and sociological context, furthering conversation and analysis, the act of having sex itself did not seem as relevant to me at first. Sex is so personal that I did not know why it was being brought up at all.

I’ve never really thought of sex in terms of “right” and “wrong” or “good” and “bad.” For me, sex simply just exists as a natural, fantastic, uncomfortable part of human existence.

While I feel comfortable with the concept of sex, I was uncomfortable talking about it with my professor and peers I did not know. I felt a little blindsided; I had not realized that literary theory also includes sexual discourse.

Most of the class was hesitant to speak. I would look around and see hands lifting slowly before sinking back under desks. I stayed silent and just watched, not exactly sure how I should go about sharing.

Eventually, the bravest among us raised their hands.

Though some of the answers were more of a question than a statement, as if we were attempting to guess at the most “acceptable” answer, regardless of true opinion. These opinions tended to favor the center circle of Rubin’s diagram more, with homosexuality being the only exception. This made me think: does our hesitation only enforce what Rubin is saying? Would this conversation be more honest if we weren’t in a classroom at all?

When asked about his own methodology in tackling discussion about sex, Richards said, “Humor will often make students more at ease. I want them to take these ideas seriously, but in a comedic way. I want students to feel comfortable with sharing, but I also don’t want students to be uncomfortable thinking that they have to share.”

Once Richards had eased the tension of the room, the conversation became more productive.
As we talked to each other, we seemed to keep coming to the same conclusion: the acceptability of sex is reliant on the circumstances of each individual encounter.

This is an anticlimactic answer, but it shows the complexity of sexual discourse. There is no universal definition of morally “good” sex, despite societal standards attempting to define it.
I left the classroom that day with many observations.

First, most of my classmates seemed to focus on safety and consent when defining moral “sex.” These ideas marked the common ground that every person agreed on.

Next, the most vocal people in the class when talking about sex were mostly queer. This interested me. Queer rights and sexuality exploration have been a significant discourse currently, which has given queerness the space to raise awareness and advocate against discriminatory policy.

One unintended side effect of this is that straightness is not considered to be a sexuality that should be spoken about in an academic sense. If straight people don’t have to advocate for their rights, then is there any point in talking about straightness at all?

As a queer person, I found it to be strange that a conversation about sex was not discussing the most common kind of sex.

While Richards was encouraging discourse on sex, he was also careful to steer the conversation when topics became too heavy or explicit.

“We don’t want to yuck your yum,” said Richards. “You know that if you happen to share something, I don’t want to be dismissive of it. But at the same time, you may make people uncomfortable. I might make a joke. I might move on from it.” He did this that day when students overshared, which I really appreciated.

Hearing the differing viewpoints regarding sex from around the classroom made me step out of my own worldview for a moment.

Did this conversation miraculously make me completely open to talking about sex to my academic superiors and peers? Absolutely not. Even as I write this article, I struggle to place myself as the subject of these conclusions.

I don’t want people I’m not close with perceiving me in any sexual context at all. This is my risk of having these conversations.

However, I realized I wasn’t viewing my classmates differently because they had discussed sex. We all experienced anxiety, which I believe came from mutual respect. None of us knew exactly where the boundaries were, but we were all trying not to cross them.

I’m not trying to say that all students should bring up sex in their economics class, or that everyone should have sex in the park. I’m saying that, when relevant, objective conversation about sex and sexuality can change one’s worldviews if given the chance.