Illustrated by Noel Guzman/OutWrite
This article was originally published to represent Pink (Sex) in our Spring 2023 print issue “Color.”
Written by Judah C and Brenna Connell
For many of us, sex is a process of trial and error. Sex, like gender, is subjective, something that requires nuance and space to be explored. Also like gender, sex is confusing, a process of trial and error that many assume is automatic. More often than not, sex as a form of intimacy and euphoria is policed by cisgender, heterosexual social norms which in turn leaves a lot of pressure on us to have sex that isn’t necessarily fun or comfortable. But how do we know what we like when it comes to sex, especially in an era where it feels like we must constantly conform to others’ notions of sex?
Baby Pink/Purity
My high school’s sex education class and smutty fanfics were really the only sources I had when it came to questions around sex. Sex is awkward. Pink dusted my cheeks as I continued perusing queer fanfics since my classes only talked about cishet couples. Exploring my sexuality was confined to the Internet, through a screen that fit in the palm of my hand.
There was a lot of pressure around sex in high school. Unfortunately, growing up AFAB (assigned female at birth) meant I was forcibly enrolled in the virgin/whore dichotomy, harsh labels ascribed to you based on your perceived promiscuity. These labels added all the more stress to sex, and most discussions around it were based on cisgender, heterosexual experiences. It left out those of us who didn’t fall within those labels.
Orchid/Desirability
I didn’t start having sex until I was 18 and in college. The unfortunate process of puberty graced my body at nine years old, which meant that by 18, I had a good idea of what my body looked like. I was a bit of an ugly duckling in high school, hiding my body behind large sweatshirts and jeans that never quite fit right. I was a bit jealous of the teenagers I saw in movies and TV shows, whose bodies were beautiful and skinny. They didn’t have awkward hip dips, crooked teeth nor did they seem uncomfortable in their bodies.
Western society (ugh, Western society) gives us a very clear understanding of what the ideal-gendered body looks like from a young age. It’s pretty bad already for cis folks, but it’s a lot worse for trans folks in general. Black and Brown trans folks have to struggle against more than just the norms of cisheteropatriarchy. As Jamee Pineda notes in the book, “Trans Sex,” they must also reckon with how “white supremacy and colonization forced many to normalize white European gender roles and standards of beauty.”
At the individual level, there are many ways to resist the conception of certain bodies and certain body parts as inherently masculine or feminine.
Think about language. If you aren’t a fan of how society tries to label your parts, find or make up new words and explicitly ask your partner(s) to use them! There are already plenty of these mental shifts existing within trans communities; for example, a transfeminine person referring to their penis as a clitoris and vice versa for a transmasc person. Like Lucie Fielding puts it in “Trans Sex,” “A re-naming can be a way of reclaiming a part that would otherwise be cloaked in dysphoria.”
Same with adjectives or names — if it’s a turn-on to be referred to as a “boy” or a “girl” in certain scenarios, even if that doesn’t match up with what you’d want to be called in everyday life, go for it. Let your partner(s) know!
Rose/Communication
Many movies and shows tell us that sex is something serious and erotic, often a pact between two lovers or two strangers letting all their sexual tension out. It came as a surprise to me that sex isn’t like this, not most of the time anyway. Your body makes a weird noise, prompting laughter from your partner while you’re shocked that your body can even make such a noise. Kisses on certain parts of the body can feel ticklish and you must repeat to yourself, “Don’t laugh,” lest you ruin the moment.
The most important part of communication during sex is consent. Even if you don’t consider yourself particularly kinky, having a safe word or some sort of check in system planned ahead of time is a great idea. Checking in with your partner, ideally, should just be a regular part of sex. Come on, you’ve made it this far in life by adapting cis folks’ conceptions of sex: you can definitely make seeking consent sexy.
Again — sex is awkward. No matter how many movies, porn videos, or romance novels try to depict it as some fluid, graceful act, they can’t change the awkwardness of real life human bodies. Add in genderfunky feelings about your own body, and the awkwardness can be a turn-off more than anything else. But here’s the thing: many of the anxieties about sex with a partner(s) can be relieved by openly communicating with them.
Coral/Beyond the Body
Under the covers, the brightness of my phone screen illuminates my face, almost embarrassed that it’s Archive of Our Own (AO3), a fanfiction website — but where else could I find something specific to my fantasies? Where else could I discover new things in the bedroom that I liked?
Not to speak for all the queer folks out there, but a lot of us have gone through something pretty similar. Like . . . how does sex work for trans people? It’s not as though they show us on TV. Most porn is absolutely not a healthy or realistic example. So what does that leave us with, as horny, curious, anxious teens and young adults? Fanfiction and fanart.
Ah, Tumblr, Twitter, AO3, you beautiful, wonderful cesspools and purveyors of smut.
I’m not trying to say that all the queer sex in fanfiction and art is inherently healthier or more realistic than in other forms of media. But, surprisingly — or not, if you consider how many trans creators there are — some fics are the encouraging, trans-inclusive, sex-positive sex education most of us never had. Trans creators, of both erotica and adult entertainment, also produce many examples of how trans people can be seen as desirable. While some depictions do fall into stereotypes or align with societal norms, there are many multiply-marginalized trans folks out there who write or draw desirability onto Black and Brown trans characters, fat trans characters, disabled trans characters, and trans characters who haven’t yet gotten or don’t want to get surgery. Taken in their entirety, these works are revolutionary and empowering because they reject what society deems as “normal.”
And yeah, a lot of trans folks are kinky, too. So whether your fantasy is having a stable life with a loving partner or seducing several tentacled aliens, fic has got you covered.
Hot Pink/Blossoming
“It’s why I’ve arrived, your sex god,” Mitski sings in my headphones, as I jam out to “Stay Soft” from her album, “Laurel Hell.” I straighten my shirt, taking a peek at myself in my jeans. Confidence, formerly anxiety, runs through my veins as I await my partner’s arrival. Sex isn’t always guaranteed during our time together, but when it does happen, I no longer feel pressure to perform a certain way or to conform to cishet sex norms.
Sex is about what brings you and your partner pleasure. But part of the work of unlearning restrictive structures of sexuality is decoupling pleasure from the purely physical and the confines of the arousal-to-orgasm pipeline. Instead, pleasure can unexpectedly involve turning away from the fear of dysphoria and towards the experience of gender euphoria.
Credits:
Author: Judah C (They/Them), Brenna Connell (She/They)
Artist: Noel Guzman (They/Them)
Copy Editors: Min Kim (They/Them), Bellze (They/Xey)