Good morning and happy happy Saturday, beloveds,
As promised, today we’re going to talk about something very very sexy indeed and near and dear to your Professor’s heart. It’s a little thing called consent.
Some people think that asking for something is a mood killer. CRACK! That was your Professor’s riding crop snapping in these people’s general direction. Here’s the deal, beloveds. . .sometimes you will be with a companion who is new to you and your mind will be racing: “zomg, this person is so hot that I fear very soon they may spontaneously combust and I will be on the news. I wish this ladyperson or man dude would make a move. I wonder if there’s anything new on Netflix? I want to do freaky, freaky things and I wish that. . .” Stawp, beloveds, stawp. Imagine something very, very powerful instead. What if we could behave like sex-positive grown ups and use our wordy-words? One needn’t be flowery, either. . .one needn’t say that “your eyes are like pools of delicious cool sparkling water and I would like to press my lips gently upon your mouth parts.” nay, nay, beloveds. Consider: “I want to kiss you. Is that alright?” or “you are super hotness. May I explore sexytime possibilities with you and perhaps have a talk about our boundaries” or even “Come here.” All good, beloveds, allllll gooods.
One of the primary barriers to consent is rape culture, in the opinion of your Professor. We are presented in the media with romantic images that are somewhat, well, to use the academic term, bullshitty. Without warning, man dudes descend like a vulture in heat for a roadkill carcass and devour ladypeople while the lady person swoons. Barf. Worse yet, a woman says “no” to a man and then the man gets all stalkery and stands out in the rain and looks mooningly up at her window and then later in the film the woman says “Oh, man dude, I was so foolish. I can see that my initial adult decision to be repulsed by you was so, so wrong. Your stalkery persistence has convinced me that you are worthy of my attentions”*
The other barrier is that people think that sexytimes is a use of a part of our snake brains and words would spoil it or, in the popular parlance of our times “totally kill the mood”. To this, I gently pat them on the hand, look them in the eyes and say “oh, beloved. May I hold you gently to my ample bosom and explain the truth to you?” Once my beloved has consented I would say “there, there. don’t you feel validated in the idea that this was mutually amenable to us?” Sexytime is for grownups, beloveds. And true grownups are never afraid to ask for what they want, or ask if something they want would be in total greenlight or “I’ll try anything once, twice if I like it” territory for their partner. I promise that the sexiest word in the English language is “yes”, be it uttered in the heat of the moment or a boundary talk before playing with a new companion in a creative way.
Until next time,
*every fucking hollywood movie ever.
Bonus clicky: a little talk about consent from a man dude who is quite smart on the subject and easy on the eyeballs: