Sex in the classroom
Though they both take up
space in our collective conscious-
ness, sexual encounters and aca-
demic spaces typically reside on
opposite ends of the campus spec-
trum. It’s what makes this 2006
Daily article about how to have sex
in the stacks of Hatcher Graduate
Library so entertaining. Though the
authors say it’s a rite of passage, the
article’s guide to “hav(ing) your ‘O.’
Right between the ‘N’ and ‘P’” has
seemingly been lost to time.
When we think about sex in
college, the last places we’re think-
ing of are the bustling stairways of
Mason Hall or the graffitied bath-
rooms of Angell. Sex, which for the
purposes of this article encompass-
es physical intimacy and attraction,
is not generally associated with the
academic experience. Sterile aca-
demic buildings and numbing class-
room pressures do a fantastic job at
squashing our libido.
B u t
for the ma-
jority of stu-
dents, sex is
a frequent
fold of the
social fabric
of
college
life.
We’re
used
to
h e a r i n g
about
the
trials
and
tribulations
of hookup
culture — a
social phenomenon (often associ-
ated with college-aged persons) in
which sexual intercourse and emo-
tional intimacy aim (and often fail) to
be entirely separate entities. It’s the
friend who spent a Thursday night
glued to their phone, waiting for a
text invitation to that North Campus
boy’s one-bedroom apartment. It’s
the roommate who keeps a sexual
partner despite not even finding
them pleasant to be around. Or
it’s your own realization that your
classmate’s dorm bed you’ve landed
in every Friday night for the past
month will most likely never care to
take you on a date.
Hookup culture is pervasive,
and it has real-time consequences
for those who don’t benefit from
it. Past Statement sex surveys show
stark disparities in orgasm fre-
quency and sexual satisfaction be-
tween men and women/nonbinary
respondents, this year as no excep-
tion. In every night out, every swipe
right or left, every hungover debrief,
the collegiate cultural expectations
of sexual encounters influence what
we do, who we do and how we feel
about it.
We know sexual intimacy is
often less than positive for Michigan
students. We know hookup culture
contributes to the ways we sacrifice
what we really want to act out the
social scripts we’ve been provided
with. But we forget to look further
than our experiences and those of
our social circles. We forget that
the heteronormative, rigid culture
surrounding sex at this powerful
university institution is, in and of
itself, also a powerful institution —
one that warrants critical study and
thinking.
Teaching sex
Classes at the University that
discuss the social and cultural in-
fluences of sex are relatively new.
The Women’s and Gender Studies
Department was born just about
50 years ago, in 1973. A biology
class on human sexuality was first
introduced in 1985. NURS/WGS
220: Perspectives in Women’s
Health, an introductory course
that dedicates significant time to
the female orgasm, made its course
guide debut in 1991.
Love notes from an asexual girl
There’s a succulent on my win-
dowsill. I’ve been trying to propa-
gate it for about a year now. But I’m
starting to discover a distinct lack of
green in my thumb.
When I was fresh out of high
school and looking toward the big
move to college — the first major
tectonic shift in my life — I felt like
bottled lightning. I was itching to
leave my small hometown on Michi-
gan’s west coast.
Sometimes, when electricity
fills my body to the brim, I feel like
I have to snap my fingers to let some
of it go. Snap. Finally, I’ll be intel-
lectually challenged. Snap. I’ll make
friends with people who are just like
me. Snap. Maybe I’ll finally meet
someone. Maybe I’ll fall in love.
Well, my freshman year of
college must have been made of
plastic; it deflected my energy at
every turn. Because of COVID-19,
I wasn’t really allowed to leave my
dorm room or let other people in.
There were no more than two meal
options in the dining hall either. I
waited on the edge of my seat for
years to be where I was, but after
arriving there I found my college
experience to be virtually nonexis-
tent. Needless to say, I was barely
meeting anyone, platonically or
romantically.
When I found the word “asex-
ual” during my sophomore year it
was through word of mouth and
YouTube comment sections. An
entire facet of my experience with
love thus far, or lack thereof, could
suddenly be communicated with
one word.
And I kind of thought finding
the asexual label and claiming it
would be the end of my needing to
figure anything out about my love
life. The discovery of sexual iden-
tity is a journey all on its own, and
I felt like finding a label that fit me
should be the end of it, maybe be-
cause I needed a break from analyz-
ing myself so much. I was definitely
wrong. Self-scrutinization doesn’t
take breaks.
Lately, I haven’t been able to
wrap my head around how I’m sup-
posed to know who I like if the sex-
ual attraction piece is missing. I feel
like a bat trying to fly without echo-
location. Or like I’ve been dropped
in the middle of the Sahara Desert
with a broken compass and a dream.
I’ll walk in circles forever, mutter-
ing, “Girls or guys? Or everyone?
Or no one?” till I die of heat exhaus-
tion. Or worse, die alone.
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
EMILY BLUMBERG
Statement Correspondent
DANIELLE CANAN
Statement Correspondent
3 — Wednesday, December 7, 2022 // The Statement
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Design by Serena Shen