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

Design by Serena Shen

Design by Serena Shen

