The Limits of Consent

The vaudeville team of Vernon Clayton and Carl Fletcher, J. Willis Sayre Collection of Theatrical Photographs, 1922

The MeToo movement cast a list of experiences I’d had into a stark new light when I was 27 years old. In some cases, it became clear that I’d been sexually harassed—when I’d had my ass groped at work at sixteen, or when this guy threatened to rape me at our friend’s birthday party. It might sound crazy to younger people who don’t remember a pre-MeToo world, but although I found those events upsetting, it never occurred to me to tell anyone what had happened, or to seek any sort of justice. For better or for worse, at the time I understood them as annoying side effects of being a woman.

There were other experiences, however, that were much more ambiguous: finding out that, unbeknownst to me, a hangout with a coworker was actually a date; being pushed against a wall and kissed unexpectedly; being a bit too drunk to read body language well, but backing off as soon as the lack of interest became clear. Were these violations, or even assaults? Or were these better understood as the awkward fumblings of young people exploring their desires?

MeToo provided important language and concepts to identify and discourage coercive and/or deceitful attempts at intimacy, but it was a rather blunt instrument, and the language of harrassment and abuse didn’t provide much insight into understanding encounters that were awkward, uncomfortable or regretful, but which both people had agreed to in the moment. It’s also of limited use when everyone involved in a sexual encounter is committed to a mutually pleasurable experience, but for some reason it doesn’t go well.

This is where consent comes into play. Consent was not a topic that was covered in my high school sex ed class—I didn’t hear about the concept in any capacity until I was in my early twenties and got involved in the queer scene. I wanted to make sure the person I was with was enjoying themselves, so at first I applied verbal consent quite literally, asking permission at every step. This turned out to be hopelessly unhot—and let me tell you, lesbian encounters can be tentative enough without this added layer—so over the years I made adjustments: discussing desires outside of the act itself and trying to do so in an alluring rather than a bureaucratic manner, getting to know each other’s body language, building enough trust so we could be frank with one another, and figuring out how to say “not like that” in a way that redirected rather than stopped things entirely.

Verbal consent is an imperfect tool that requires a healthy interpersonal dynamic to work well, which on its own is not a particularly original idea. But beyond that, I think there are several ideas within consent culture that deserve critique:

There needs to be an “enthusiastic yes”.

There are so many reasons why someone might express genuine desire in a less intense way: they may feel shy when being direct about their desires; they may express uncertainty while trying something new; they may want to do something that’s not their favourite because of how much their partner will enjoy it; they may be tired from working or parenting but they still want to get it on; they may just find sex to be awkward before it becomes pleasurable; they may get off on being bratty or initially withholding.

When a “yes” is less than enthusiastic, it’s a good idea to double check and give the other person an opening to change their mind. But a shy, timid, tentative, quiet, monotonous, or nervous yes is not a no! Attempting, or being expected, to mind read is unreasonable—we are responsible for saying how we feel, and for trusting that others are doing the same. It’s not reasonable to require everyone to say yes in the exact same way. If your partner’s yes is nuzzling their face into your armpit, so be it.

Every type of interaction requires consent.

Did you hear about the Australian club that implemented a rule that you needed to seek verbal permission before looking at someone from afar, at risk of having the police called? This is an extreme example that drew widespread ridicule; however, it does illuminate the legitimate concern that we are running the risk of outlawing flirting. Not in the legal sense of course, but in terms of social norms. What if people come to feel harassed simply for having someone express interest in them? What about coming on too strongly or quickly during a date? It might sound like I’m being alarmist here, but it seems that many people have come to experience awkward attempts at flirtation as harassment, even if it is done in a social setting, and even if the person backs off as soon as they receive a no. These new norms have the potential to turn dating into even more of a minefield, and to make it even more unlikely for people to meet someone in person. We need to retain a tolerance for respectful inquiries—keyword respectful—even when they are unwelcome.

Consent prevents harm.

Consent can reduce the chance of a painful encounter, but it cannot eliminate it. Hurt does not only arise from violent, malevolent or reckless encounters. Everyone involved can try their best and it can still end in frustration, disappointment or regret. Treating consent as a cure-all can cause people experiencing difficult emotions after sex to decide they must have been violated; something must have been done to them, when perhaps they didn’t communicate well, or they were sexually incompatible, or they didn’t feel cared for in the way they wanted. Giving young people the impression that they can have a completely satisfying sex life without any complicated or hard feelings if they only implement consent is a false promise. Intimacy without risk does not exist.

Consent discourse has given us an important set of tools to improve our sex lives, but we should be free to discuss its limitations. Sex always has, and always will have, the potential to be fun, boring, exciting, disappointing, satisfying, and mysterious. A crucial part of being an adult is embracing this mess.