The Lonely Crowd, First Half

You guys must be starting to think that I have an odd fixation on the study of loneliness. I've read Bowling Alone, skimmed The Lonely American, and am now reading the granddaddy of them all, The Lonely Crowd. It would be an especially violent act of forced optimism to deny that sometimes, it can feel lonely to be asexual. And as we've established, it can also be easy to feel lonely as a single person in a society that offers little support to you. The underlying framework of this society is what David Riesman and friends unravel in The Lonely Crowd, which doesn't really have much to do with loneliness specifically. It was written in 1961, which is obvious throughout, as you'll find many offhandedly sexist comments and references to humans as "men", for a start. However, the book seems to still be relevant today. To paraphrase what Theodore Roszak said about Freud, there seems to be no cultural norm that is too sacred for Riesman's analysis.

In the first chapter, I was thinking, "I don't know if I'll get through this". Riesman introduces quite a few terms that I'd never heard before, and he throws them at you all at once, which is a little overwhelming. Add to that a dry tone, and I was not engaged from the start. But once I got the terms figured out, the book started moving a lot faster and getting a lot more interesting. Riesman's main point seems to be that one of three social frameworks predominates in a given society, and which one predominates is based on a society's level of population growth. Explaining them all would be time-consuming (be thankful for small mercies), but what's most important to know is that in our era, we're moving (or by now, have already moved) into a "social character" (or mode of conformity) that Riesman calls "other-directed". As other-directed people, our products are our personalities and our challenge is to have them approved by others. An example of other-directed focus would be a job interview where "teamwork" and "attitude" are a lot more important than your achievements. It's not a flattering portrayal of our society. And considering there are only two other choices of "social character", neither of which seem objectively better, it's looking pretty depressing at this point. Riesman promises that in the last chapter, he'll talk about a viable alternative, "autonomy". Whether his solutions are actually workable will have to wait to be seen, until I finish the book.

Riesman has some clear opinions about sex in an other-directed society, although his comments are brief, and you don't get to them until page 145. However, I can add Riesman to my growing list of people (Michael Lerner, Gunter Schmidt, Leonore Tiefer) who relate our boring and impersonal work lives with our excitement about sex. He writes:

In this phase [of incipient population decline] there is not only a growth of leisure, but work itself becomes both less interesting and less demanding for many; increased supervision and subdivision of tasks routinize the industrial process even beyond what was accomplished in the phase of transitional growth of population. More than before, as job-mindedness declines, sex permeates the daytime as well as the playtime consciousness. (146, emphasis mine)

And if you can forgive the rhyming of the above, here is another of Riesman's thoughts on the matter:

Though there is tremendous insecurity about how the game of sex should be played, there is little doubt as to whether it should be played or not. Even when we are consciously bored with sex, we must still obey its drive. Sex, therefore, provides a kind of defense against the threat of total apathy. This is one of the reasons why so much excitement is channeled into sex by the other-directed person. He looks to it for reassurance that he is alive. (146, emphasis Riesman's)

In previous times, sex was for "production and reproduction" (146). Now, that's changed. If anything, I think it's probably easier to be asexual now than it was in past eras. However, I don't think it's a coincidence that we're called "cold", "frigid", and other adjectives that make us sound less "alive", like a body in the morgue. I also think asexuals have proved that without an excitement about sex, apathy does not reign.

Well, I Thought I Was Trendy...

Hi folkswagons! I made good on my "threat", and during my trip, I got about halfway through the book Sex is Not a Natural Act (Leonore Tiefer, 1995). For a book about sexology, I have to say, this one seems pretty relevant to asexuality. This is because Sex is Not a Natural Act starts at the very beginning, before assumptions that would negate asexuality get made. Tiefer takes the time to define and explore the usages of the words "natural" and "normal", an important task that is too often ignored. So far, this is the closest she comes to discussing asexuality:

Using the clinical standard with regard to psychology is more difficult than using it for physiological matters [stuff involving the body] because it's harder to prove psychological disease, deterioration, or disability. Who's to say, for example, that absence of interest in sex is abnormal according to the clinical definition? What sickness befalls the person who avoids sex? What disability? Clearly, such a person misses a life experience that some people value very highly and most people value at least somewhat, but is avoiding sex "unhealthy" in the same way that avoiding protein is? Avoiding sex seems more akin to avoiding travel or avoiding swimming or avoiding investments in anything riskier than savings accounts--it's not trendy, but it's not sick, is it? (13)


If you don't mind me taking you back to high school or college to the "find the thesis statement" exercise, this seems to be Tiefer's: "...to analyze and critique the prevailing biomedical and masculinist paradigm dominant in sexology" (1). The "new paradigm" she describes is called "social constructionism" although "it goes by various names" (1). If I could define social constructionism as Tiefer sees it, it might be something like, "Stop obsessing about what's normal and universal for one damn minute and actually listen to what people have to say about themselves". One good example of a social constructionist attitude is given by Celia Kitzinger, who is quoted as saying, "My aim is not to reveal the 'real' histories, motives and life events of the [study] participants, but to understand how people construct, negotiate, and interpret their experiences" (61). While social constructionists would probably find odd things to say about asexuality (everyone else seems to), at least their methods seem to give us a fighting chance to be seen as a part of sexual diversity, not as people who failed to fit into a narrow view of psychological "health".

So I agree that the biomedical model needs to be challenged, and that social constructionism can provide important insights about sexuality that the language of health and sickness can't even get close to. But while social constructionism is supposed to be a method that is critical of the establishment in the sexology profession, Tiefer is awfully uncritical of it. Of course we're going to see flaws in social constructionism-- every method of inquiry has its pros and cons. While Tiefer does a hard sell of social constructionism, the fact that she doesn't speak to any reasonable criticisms of it is a weakness of the book. Even so, Tiefer is great at showing how little objectivity other scientists have, especially in her chapter on Masters and Johnson, the famed sexologists who came up with the "Human Sexual Response Cycle" that has been, Tiefer argues, wrongly universalized to all of us. As someone once said (Maimonides?), "everything is an impression". And that is no less true in science than in any other field.

Sex Is Not a Natural Act isn't a long book, but it contains a lot of food for thought...expect to hear some more about it in upcoming posts.

Waiting for a "Hell Yes!"

"How can you lie there and think of England when you don't even know who's in the team?"
--Billy Bragg, "Greetings to the New Brunette"

"No. Not even in the face of Armageddon. Never compromise."
--Rorschach, Watchmen

A few days ago, I read this excellent post about asexuals and rape. The author linked to another interesting post about the concept of "enthusiastic consent". This was defined as an unambiguous "Hell Yes!" to sex, rather than the drunken mumbles that sometimes pass for consent. In that post, Hugo Schwyzer writes that the opposite of rape is not consent, but enthusiasm. I guess it's a radical statement, but it shouldn't be. When I read that, I had a 'Eureka!" moment. I finally realized why things like "gift sex", which I wrote about here, are such disturbing ideas to me.

So this will be a post about sexual consent and "compromise", although I wasn't sure if I should even write it. What do I know about sexual compromise? Nothing from firsthand experience. But it's impossible to be part of the asexual community without hearing about the issue again and again. Yes, all this will fall into the category of "Well, easy for you to say." But if it's so easy, shouldn't I just as well say it? Isn't it better to think about this stuff on a hypothetical level first, rather than when you're already in bed with someone?

Anyway, I come with a proposition: That when asexuals talk about sexual compromise, the idea of enthusiastic consent needs to be considered. I don't think there should be a double-standard, where sexuals ought to be enthusiastic, but asexuals have to be resigned to sex they don't want just to keep a relationship together. In his post, Schwyzer writes that enthusiastic consent "sets the bar pretty darned high." Well, yeah. I thought one of the positive things about having sex today, rather than in times past, was that you could have some standards, perhaps even high standards, about the sex you decided to have. No, it's not easy to have high standards in America today. We can't expect health care, a decent education, the maintenance of our personal safety, or a stable job. But can't we at least set a high bar for the things we can more easily control? Like Billy Bragg's girlfriend of song, many of us are still having sex in the Victorian era, engaging in what Schwyzer calls "sex characterized by obligation, confusion, and detached resignation".

I'm aware that a standard of enthusiastic consent presents a conflict for asexuals who badly want to be in a romantic relationship, and yet may not be enthusiastic about sex under any circumstances. But I worry about asexuals for whom "does not pressure me to have unwanted sex" is not a necessary factor in a relationship. When we feel like we have to choose between being alone and having sex we're not thrilled about, how are we going to view ourselves? What does a choice like that do to our self-esteem and mental health? As much as our partners may love us, we still need to advocate for ourselves. I've always felt uncomfortable about the common idea of asexuals having sex "to please a partner". Sure, you can please a partner and be enthusiastic, in fact you're more likely to please them if you are. But having sex "to please a partner" with no other motivation is a pretty low spot on the evolutionary ladder of consent.

Unlike Rorschach, I don't take such a hard line on compromise. But I would wonder if compromise is always good, in all situations. I feel strongly that when we talk about sexual/asexual relationships, we have to make sure that asexual needs are not seen as subordinate to sexual needs. I also think we shouldn't be afraid to keep our relationship standards high, as hard as it may be for a group so small. I think we all deserve a partner who will make an effort to get enthusiastic consent out of us, whatever our orientation may be. Rather than the traditional waits for love or marriage to have sex, why not wait for a "Hell Yes"?

Awkward Descriptions of Sex

Thanks to everyone who commented on my last post-- I always like to get a good conversation going. I guess a kid could do worse than identify as asexual, like get an enormous tattoo of Robert Pattinson. But all joking aside, young asexuals have probably given as much thought to their asexuality as older people have-- probably more thought that whoever got that Twilight tattoo. If asexuals really are people who overanalyze, then maybe it's unlikely that they'll stick with a label just because. Although people will probably give you a hard time for changing it, questioning your sexuality is one of those "character building" experiences that your elders always tell you about. (Yeah-- I hate them, too--right along with "learning experiences".)

Now, here's a fun and unrelated game: Who can dig up the most awkward fictional description of sex? This idea came to me while reading a mystery called Mistress of the Art of Death. Its protagonist tells us: "...and this was sex, was it, this throbbing, slippery ride to the stars and back" (347). So I have that, and I have On Chesil Beach. Other than that, I'm more of a nonfiction fan so I don't have much. What makes a description of sex awkward? I think it's when an author thinks that you'll be too distracted by the sex to notice that they are dispensing with "Show, don't tell", especially when it comes to the emotional aspect of sex. For me, awkward descriptions jump off the page, and not in a good way. Another novel I read recently was Stone Butch Blues, which is about a butch woman who decides to pass as a man in the 1960s and 70s. There's a memorable scene in the book when the protagonist, Jess, is having sex with a woman who thinks she's actually a man. It's a great because it actually is awkward, as I would imagine sex can be (especially when your partner thinks you're a different gender than you really are).

However, I'm usually struck by the sameness in fictional depictions of sex. You'd think writers would get really creative, since they don't have to wrangle for a "R" rating like film-makers do--I would imagine this is why most sex scenes in movies look the same also. (If you're interested in movies at all, you've GOT to see This Film is Not Yet Rated. It explains why we see the sex we see in films.)

Anyway, this is your chance to share your favorite awkward depictions of sex, so drag out those novels...yes, I will declare a winner, and bragging rights (not much else, sorry) will be yours!

The Hot Ones

Earlier this month, Pretzelboy wrote a really intriguing blog post called "The only criticism of asexuality that actually bothers me". This "criticism from below" (ie, from people with a prior knowledge of asexuality) states that it's very difficult to know for sure that you're at the lowest levels of sexual desire when we have so little idea what the median is like. He writes:

Most of us have absolutely no idea what other people are actually like sexually. We have no idea what 50 is like and no idea what 10-20 is like. Rather, we are bombarded with images and messages about sexuality in movies, on TV, in magazines, and on the radio that give us wildely over-inflated ideas of what "sexually normal" is. People get ideas about "normal sexuality" from their peers. But not just from any peers--they get these ideas from their peers who talk the most about sex. And it's probably the people most interested in sex who talk the most about sex.

I can definitely relate to this. People tell me "love isn't like the movies", but how am I supposed to know what romantic love towards other people is like besides the information I get in movies? The curious people on the low end of the sex or romance spectrums have little to no way of discerning what real-life experiences of those things might be like. I long to ask people-- what attracted you to your partner? Why is that relationship so important to you? How do you think romantic love is different from other kinds of love? Why do you stay with someone who is so obviously wrong for you?, etc. However, these questions, if actually asked, would range from bizarre to rude to possibly TMI. And these are the tame questions. I don't think I want to know the minute details of my friends' sex lives. And most people aren't comfortable sharing those things, especially with an asexual who might not be able to relate to what they're saying. However, this leads me with nowhere to get the information about what the average experience of sexuality is. So of course all I know about sex is from a few highly sexual friends and the media. Maybe asexuals should start a research project to get this information from people, where they can answer anonymously. It would definitely be a needed service.

In the post I referenced earlier, Pretzel gives an example from his own life about not being able to know what other people are thinking about sexuality. He writes:

I was long confused about not understanding what it's like to think someone is "hot." I didn't even have much of a sense for "pretty" until I was in my 20's, so I was really confused about conversations about the matter, and I was even more confused about how there was no recognition that people like me even exist [...] Since identifying as asexual, I've found that a number of other people (who aren't asexual) don't get hotness either, and they often expericne a good bit of confusion over the matter. Had I known about this when I was younger, I might not have felt nearly as much of the sense of wierdness that led me to identify as asexual.

It's funny because I think I do know what "hot" is...just more asexual diversity, I guess, although I wonder how many asexuals fall into either camp. I thought it might be a nice piece of edutainment for me to try to define different levels of attractiveness in people. I'll give it a shot:

Beautiful/Handsome: If you were scouting for a modeling agency, these would be the people you'd pick up. They might inspire a head-turn because they're just that aesthetically pleasing. You may or may not be attracted to them.

Cute: You sort of can't decide whether to be attracted to them, or to go "aww" and pinch their cheek. They probably have above-average looks, a boyish/girlish charm and an appealing personality.

Sexy: This person is exciting, cool, and maybe a little unconventional (see the discussion of "sexy-ugly" in the movie Kissing Jessica Stein). I think people who ride mopeds are kind of sexy. While these people have a certain mystique, you don't necessarily want to have sex with them.

Asexy: I'm not sure if we will ever pass someone on the street and be knocked out by their asexiness. To me, "asexy" signifies an intellectual attraction or the hotness that comes from being asexual (which you wouldn't know just by looking at someone).

Hot: "Hot" is where everything comes together, at least in my mind. You find the person aesthetically pleasing. They're cute, they're sexy, and if you had to actually be stuck in a secret elevator with any of these people, this is who you would choose.

I remember writing in my journal years ago that if I ever met another asexual person, I would probably find them unbearably attractive. In a word, hot. Obviously, now I've met other asexuals, and I haven't ripped the clothes off any of them. However, if I needed any evidence that asexuality is actually an orientation, it could be this: That we might be most attracted to other asexuals. Sure, plenty of us are in relationships with people who aren't asexual, but isn't it true that most of us would rather be single than date someone who's totally incompatible sexually? Maybe "hot" is elusive for me because it's something that I'm most likely to apply to the rare fellow asexual. I remember a friend whispering to me about a guy I thought was pretty hot: "No one knows this, but he's still a virgin!" Coincidence? I don't know. Come to think of it, I've never been attracted to anyone whose sexuality was completely known to me. If Alan Rickman was a raging nymphomaniac, would we still like him so darn much? We all have our ideas of what we find more attractive than anything else; to me, it's the idea that someone "understands me". And who more, perhaps, than fellow aces? Not to freak you out or anything.

This Bed's Too Big Without You

As I write this, it's 3:28 am and, always the insomniac, I just can't get to sleep. Earlier in the night, as I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I had the idea of writing a blog post about...beds. We'll see if it actually turns out to be an interesting topic. Here goes:

I find it funny how discussions of beds usually have sexual innuendo (did you ever do that thing with your fortune cookies where you added "in bed" to all your fortunes, and it was amusing for some reason?). Call me kinky, but I've never understood the connection between sex and beds. I know that sounds like a bizarre statement, but since a lot of our pop culture seems to involve people rolling around on beds, it seems oddly relevant. I don't want to get too graphic, but trying to move around in any intentional way on the mushy surface of a bed sounds like way more trouble than it's worth to me. If that's not a "You know you're asexual when...", then I don't know what is.

One indicator that I'm not getting any might be the fact that I've always had a tiny twin bed that more than one person would struggle to fit into. Sure, I would like a more luxurious model. But my bedroom has always been too small, and in one case has been an actual closet. The idea of sharing a bed with someone makes the idea of sleep sound even more elusive. And the idea of sharing a twin bed, which I know people do, is something I would just dread. I can handle it for a night or two, but if I ever dated anyone, they would have to understand the fact that I wouldn't want to sleep in the same bed as them all the time. I know I'm hypersensitive, but my bedroom is one of the few environments that I can usually control.

Bed, for me, mostly means the place where sleep evades me. I try to do what the experts say: Not using the computer or exercising late at night, not eating right before bed, not using my bed for other activities (doesn't sex count as another activity?), drinking herbal tea, reading dense and/or boring books (I minored in religious studies) etc. Someone recently told me that even if I was attracted to more people, it would be hard to think about things like romantic relationships when I'm so tired most of the time. To some, my lack of a sex drive might be cause for concern. But to me, my lack of energy and trouble sleeping is my number one medical mystery.

Making Condoms Asexy

"I want to live and I want to love. I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of."
--The Smiths, 'Frankly, Mr. Shankly"

I suppose it's as it should be: Even though I’ve never had sex, I seem to have a good handle on healthy sexual practices. When I heard that the third date is, supposedly, a common juncture to have sex for the first time with someone, all I could think was: “But aren’t you supposed to talk about testing for STDs, birth control and stuff before having sex? And isn’t the third date a little early for that?” I knew that people had sex without talking about these things, but my response was the old chestnut: “If you’re not comfortable talking about sex, are you really ready to be having it?” Maybe you are, but I maintain that it’s a good thing to talk about.

And at the risk of sounding like your high school gym teacher, that’s what we’ll be talking about today: Birth control and STD prevention. Yeah, I feel a little awkward writing about this, but, as someone with no emotional attachment to sex, I actually think I’m a good candidate to talk about how our culture views these things. It’s odd that while we see commercials for birth control every 15 minutes on TV, the condoms are locked up at Safeway, presumably because people keep stealing them, so embarrassed are we to admit we might be having sex.

Related to that, it REALLY bothers me when characters in movies and TV are constantly getting it on with no discussion or representation of safe sex. I know that these depictions aren’t supposed to be realistic, but people complain when someone smokes in a movie and it’s portrayed as “cool”…and isn’t having unsafe sex, especially with someone you haven’t had that “have you been tested?” talk with, pretty dangerous to your health? Hello, HIV, duh! Is it really going to derail the plot for a character to break out a condom? I think not. Maybe having sex without thinking of consequences is the sort of wish-fulfillment that we find in movies. I guess I come from this old “theatre should entertain and educate” school. But a lot of people don’t seem to be figuring out this whole safe-sex thing—it’s something we need to start seeing as integral to sexual activity. However, as any fan of This Film is Not Yet Rated might tell you, it might be the censors' apparent love of disembodied, "artistic" sex scenes that is partially to blame.

In her blog Ace of Hearts, the Impossible K recently asked, “I’m kinda surprised this issue [of birth control] hasn’t been discussed more amongst asexuals. Is it because it’s really such a non-issue for us?” And then, “I’m curious though - how do other asexuals view birth control, especially on a personal level? Would it be safe to assume we all favor the most effective method - not doing “it” - or are there valid reasons why other options need to be considered?” As someone with self-imposed blog productivity demands, I’ll bite on this—and pretty much any topic, to be honest. Sure, I could just comment, but expounding’s more my style.

I’m trying to think of my attitudes towards birth control as a teen, and I’m having a hard time recalling them. I was pretty sure, though, that everyone (female) started on the pill when they got older and inevitably started to have sex. I wasn’t crazy about messing with my body’s hormones (which, as far as I know, are completely normal). For me, something like sex wasn’t a big enough draw to make me want to go through even the slightest inconvenience. For me, birth control has always been a “let’s cross this river when we come to it” sort of thing. However, it’s always bothered me how the onus is completely on the woman. Sure, we’re the ones that actually give birth, but usually there is another person involved in the process. Apparently, hormonal birth control is possible for men, but it’s not marketable. So it’s cool for women to mess with their hormone levels, but men just won’t go there? I’m not down with that double-standard. However, even if there was hormonal birth control available for men, I wouldn’t want to convince men to take it when I would be resistant to taking it myself. Let’s not even get into the issue of health-related products not being available for anyone to use just because they’re not marketable to a large population. I get why they’re not, but it seems like a shame anyway.

So that’s pills. The only other form of birth control that’s commonly discussed seems to be condoms. In health class, we were taught about all these exotic methods (I remember female condoms, which sort of looked like those plastic showers you use when camping). However, in general talk (if there is any), these two kinds are pretty much all that’s discussed. It’s funny because even in terms of condoms, obtaining them is still seen as the woman’s responsibility. It’s also our responsibility to talk resistant male partners into using condoms. But really, think about it: If a dude refuses to buy condoms, and you have to use various strategies to get him to use one, is this really someone you want to have sex with? When you read literature about sex education, especially for young people, there’s all this advice on how to make condom usage sexy and romantic. Even I can see that this seems like way too much work; no wonder so many women go with the pill. Somehow, I doubt people are really as resistant to condoms as we’ve been led to believe. They are 99% effective after all, but only when used properly. And I’m guessing that a lot of the time, that doesn’t happen, considering that I also happen to be well-versed in all the things that can go wrong on that front.

I’ve never really understood the concept of abstinence as a form of birth control. “Don’t have sex and you won’t get pregnant” is logical, but as someone who is technically “abstinent”, it’s not a concept that resonates with me personally at all. If you’re not having sex because you have no desire to do so, does that make your abstention birth control? I don’t think it does. It seems like not having sex is always tied into fear of risk, when that may or may not really be the case. For some of us, the risk may be a mental one—but that’s an entirely different animal.