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Thoughts about fitness, consent, and pleasure

*Trigger warning: this post discusses issues around sexual violence and consent.

Regular readers of FFI know I’m an avid cyclist and sometime internet dater; what you may or may not know is that in my work life I’m a theatre scholar – I teach, write about, and regularly attend live shows of all kinds. It’s a huge privilege to be able to say, as I did on a recent Friday afternoon, “I have to leave my desk and take the train into town to see a play!”

That particular play is called Asking For It; is a piece of “verbatim” theatre – that is, theatre composed of interview material gathered, with full consent of participants, by the author and star of the show, Ellie Moon. Its jumping-off point was the media storm surrounding the now-disgraced CBC Radio host and popular member of Toronto’s arts community, Jian Ghomeshi, who between 2014 and 2016 was tried both in a court of law, and in the court of public opinion, for physical violence against women during sexual encounters. (I won’t go over the details of the case here, except to say that it turned out to be a textbook example of how the law treats women in situations like this one; if I had to send you to some sources for a primer, I would choose this one, and this one.)


The promotional image for Asking For It, by Ellie Moon (Nightwood Theatre at Streetcar Crowsnest in Toronto). The image shows a white woman (Ellie), both alluring and fierce, looking into the camera. Her long hair blows gently in the wind. Her neck bears a tattoo that reads “shocking to some”. The background is a sepia tone.

Moon was living in England when the scandal around Ghomeshi broke, but she was back in Canada as a jobbing actor when he went to trial. She found herself, as a result of the issues in the air, wondering about her own sexual preferences, those of others, and why we are not good at talking openly with one another about either sexual pleasure or sexual consent. The show asks: “How do we convey, and experience, sexual consent in 2017?” Using her interview material, transcripts from social media, and her own reflections (as a sexually active woman and a performer in the show) Moon creates a complex image of the ambiguities and ambivalences that shadow what we do and do not want to happen in private sexual encounters, and what we do and do not want to talk about afterward.

It’s a superb show, but why am I talking about it here?

For me, fitness isn’t just about building muscle, climbing hills on my bike, or stretching my aching hamstrings in yoga. It’s not only about eating yummy green things (and yummy chocolate things), getting proper sleep, and trying to drink less. It’s also about feeling safe, feeling joy, and feeling cared for in bed, when I’m not in bed alone. So while, as a theatre scholar, I was struck by the skill evident in Moon’s production and her adept use of the verbatim genre, as a woman interested in fitness and wellness (my own and that of others), I found the show struck some deeper chords.

Social messages these days try to make consent appear very clear-cut: no means no. And it absolutely does. But feeling consent, conveying consent, and expressing the shift from consent to non-consent when you’re deep into it can be a great deal more murky than the prevailing winds want to suggest – which can lead in turn to feelings of confusion and shame for men, women, and those who identify as non-binary alike. This is a large part of what Moon and her co-performers get into during Asking For It, and I found the labour of their honest reflection useful, moving, and also a bit of a relief.


A pink button against a denim jacket reads: “Ask First. Make it Sexy. Consent is sexy. consentissexy.net.”

What happens, for example, when we’ve having loads of fun, but then suddenly, for one partner, something shifts? Whose responsibility is it to stop? How do we stop and not make things “weird”? Why do some of us (usually, women) feel such a need to keep things “light” (rather than “weird”) – and at what cost?

I had this experience not too long ago: I found myself crying into my pillow while my partner was behind me. We had been having fun, and then, suddenly, I was not. I felt such shame; the tears followed. He was unaware of the tears; I was fighting them because I didn’t know whether or not I was still consenting to what was going on, and that was making me even more anxious. (Note: he did not do anything for which he did not have my permission.) I cared about his experience and I didn’t want to hurt him; I also knew he didn’t want to hurt me. Eventually I told him to stop and went into the bathroom; when I returned, we sat and talked it through. After that, everything was absolutely fine.

This is an example of consensual sex working very well indeed – we talked it through; everything was absolutely fine – but it’s also an example of the complexities consent always presents in the moment-to-moment-ness of sexual encounters in the real world. Was it my job to tell him to stop? His to check in with me? Mine to give him signs that problems were surfacing? I have no solid answers to these questions. I think ideally he would have checked when I stopped being responsive, and I would have demonstrated more openly that I was starting to experience discomfort. But I know for certain that neither of us wanted to hurt the other – both of us wanted to consent to pleasure in one another, and we had / we did.

I also have no doubt that I was able to express my growing non-consent, eventually though imperfectly, because I am in my 40s and I now have a strong sense of myself as an independent sexual subject. Had I been in my 20s, and especially myself in my 20s, I’m pretty sure it would not have gone as well.

Which makes me worry a lot about my students.

Then there’s the question of where each partner’s responsibility lies in the acts of asking for, giving, and receiving consent before we even get going. Yes, in heterosexual situations men typically hold the balance of power, and so should always ask to make sure consent is intended (rather than simply assumed on their part). After all, violence in relation to sex is about power: social, historical, and physical.

But power does not always break down along expected gender lines, even in heterosexual situations.

In the sexual relationship I have with the man in the anecdote above, power is surprisingly balanced; we weigh similar amounts and are similarly strong, and our personal identifications (based on gender, ethnicity, race, and class) mean that in some key ways I am culturally more privileged than he is. Further, I initiate our sexual encounters at least as often, if not more often, than he does. Given these factors, I consider it my responsibility to ask his consent before I move too far forward; we do this playfully, thanks to a rapport built up over time (and thanks to our mutually compatible senses of humour).

About three quarters of the way through Asking For It, Moon and fellow actor Christine Horne recreate, for the audience, an encounter from Moon’s research between her and a friend: after a boozy dinner they are on a Toronto bus. Horne’s character tells Moon she should be approaching strangers as well as friends for her project of collecting material for the play, and so Moon goes over (rather reluctantly, and bashfully) to the only other passenger on the bus, a man played by Steve McCarthy. She asks him to talk into her phone about his experiences of asking for and receiving consent; he asks her if she is coming onto him. She says no; she explains the play project and asks again for his feedback. He becomes angry, though not hostile; he is obviously frustrated and feels blindsided. Moon then admits she’s “a little bit drunk”, and he says, “can you imagine if the situations were reversed?” If he approached her on the bus, asked to talk about sex, and admitted to being tipsy? Moon is taken aback; she gets it – that image represents the opposite of the safe situation they are currently in, and they both know it – but she also, at least a little bit, gets the difference. “But I asked you,” she says quietly.

She opened with a request for consent.

I find myself thinking about these issues as a 43-year-old woman who wants to enjoy sex but also to stay safe and healthy and happy in my sexual life. I also find myself thinking about these issues as a feminist, and as a feminist teacher.

I am often asked to explain feminism to others; I don’t mind doing it, because I’ve had a lot of practice. To me, feminism means appreciating and recognizing the privilege our sex and gender identities afford in relation to others, and in conjunction with other forms of privilege or non-privilege our bodies bear.

For me, as for Moon, “feminism” is a word that means “equality”‘; sadly, “equality” is a complex concept, and we seem to be living in a moment that jettisons complexity, too frequently, in favour of the superficial. A lot of the talk around consent is actually fairly superficial: no means no, dammit! Just follow that mantra and you’ll be fine. A lot of the men in Moon’s play know this mantra, but are struggling: they think that checking in, or making sure to ask, is the sum total of their responsibility. OR, they are angry and frustrated that, in the consent game, girls seem to be getting all the joy and none of the struggle.

Yes, no means no. But can everyone say no, really?

What these guys (and, frankly, what a lot of us) miss is that it’s really not that easy, for any of us. Understanding consent as more than a word or two – understanding it as a factor of power imbalances, historical privilege, and the challenges and joys that have arisen as women have become more culturally and economically powerful players in the public sphere – means coming to grips with consent as something that needs to be constantly negotiated between sexual partners, and something that needs to be fulsomely (not superficially) expressed by both parties.

It means recognizing that some of us have more vocal power than others. That some of us feel more free than others to express what it is we want. That some of us fear speaking out, ever, about sexual feeling, because the consequences can be catastrophic.

It means talking through power and privilege, even as we talk about consent.


12 thoughts on “Thoughts about fitness, consent, and pleasure

  1. This is such a great post. I’ve also been thinking a lot about consent and when things change “midstream”. These questions about responsibility are so important and so difficult. Most of all I think (as you say of your 20 year old self) women especially have been taught to keep it polite and congenial and pleasing for others. My latest theme on consent is exactly what you’re talking about here: just because I said yes last time, earlier, a minute ago doesn’t mean I (or you) can’t change my mind now. A few years back I made a conscious decision that I was no longer going to have sex I didn’t want to have (I was thinking of the “obligatory” kind not the coerced kind, which i has already become good at refusing). Even as a committed feminist and strong woman this caused me a lot of angst and emotional upheaval (even guilt sometimes). It’s been instructive and extremely satisfying to pay attention to this. It requires clear communication and also reassurance on both sides, and can actually trigger insecurities and such. And that’s with a regular partner. Differently challenging with new partners or more casual encounters but equally complicated even if there may be less at stake. Women’s sexual agency is so important. Thanks for this excellent post. ❤️

    Sent from my iPhone


    1. Thanks Tracy! I’m with you on all of this. And I think women also need to bear in mind that men can’t always hear or notice what we don’t say – we need to help younger, less confident women find their voice for exactly these kinds of purposes, the purposes of expressing clearly their shifts in consent, even if it risks “killing the mood”. And here’s where the role of the feminist teacher really comes in. I’ve started to use the superb Fleabag, a British show created by Phoebe Waller-Bridge, in classes; I encourage everyone to check it out.

  2. I think it’s important in these discussions to separate out sex that’s wrong because it’s rights violating, because it’s rape, and debates about what makes for good sex. It seems to me there is an awful lot of mediocre but non-rights violating sex. It’s not rape but it’s not good sex either. Often women agree to sex that isn’t particularly satisfying for a wide range of reasons. Not all of those reasons are bad reasons. Imagine if you’re trying to conceive and the ovulation window is tonight and you’re not in the mood but really want a child. You very well might have sex anyway. But good sex, great sex requires ongoing and enthusiastic consent. And not just for external reasons. Great sex requires robust sexual agency on the part of all involved. I think it’s okay to set the bar high and not have sex that isn’t good sex. Consent is a minimum standard. I think about this when I read about the orgasm gap between women who have sex with men and women who have sex with women. Anyway, great post. Lots to think about.

  3. Excellent points, Sam. One of the issues in the Ghomeshi case was that the women he hurt typically consented to sex with him at one time or other, and contacted him afterward. Clearly there had been consent to some sexual experience with him – but not to the violent acts he visited upon the women. Lots of stuff in there: potential pleasurable sex, potential unpleasurable sex, clear rights violations, clear abuses of power, clear violence. Unless we parse these different kinds of sexual experience and the underlying power issues that shape their differentiation, we end up in the situation the women in that case were in: their one-time or two-time consent translated into consent to all things for all time, somehow.

    Thanks for this important clarification!

    1. To be clear, I think the Ghomeshi case was a clear case of assault. The women didn’t consent. But even if men always listen to our no’s and there are no more cases of assault (a girl can dream) I think hard questions remain about when we ought to say yes and when we ought to say no, questions about good sex and agency. The difference between sex that’s just okay and sex that’s terrific is something we ought to think about and talk about openly. Thanks for contributing to the dialogue. I keep thinking about this post. Appreciate your sharing.

      1. Agreed on all counts. ‘Consent is sexy’ Is a great campaign but it’s targeted at men. It means: getting her consent is sexier than raping her, dude! That’s an important message but it’s not the whole message, not by a long shot.

        We need one that goes something like, you don’t need to say yes just because. Say yes if you want to. Say no if you don’t. Insist your partner hears your voice. Your sexual pleasure is in your hands.’

  4. Such food for thought in this post, thank you. The whole #MeToo movement just had me reflecting back on sex I had with a boyfriend when I was in my early 20s, when I sometimes really didn’t want to… and then other experiences of wanting to slow down/stop altogether when I was slightly older. Even as a horny single mid-40s woman having sex with men or women, I sometimes changed my mind, and didn’t always feel comfortable to articulate that (& I am a very empowered, feisty, caring, intelligent woman, though I say it myself). I agree completely with the other commenters that our sexual agency is paramount; and what a goddamn social mess we are continuing to head into, with porn, US Presidents, and rape culture in colleges so rampant!

    1. Thanks for this! So true that this is a scary, but essential, moment to be talking about this stuff with one another.

  5. Excellent post with a lot to consider. What it stirred most for me as a survivor of sexual abuse, harassment and an isolated incident of rape, is that healthy sexual expression is really about emotional maturity. After my divorce (complex trauma led to choose the wrong partner first haha) I had to re-learn how to date which offered the opportunity to set sexual boundaries as an adult. What I discovered is we live in a culture with few boundaries and an ocean of unmet needs. Thankfully I had enough healthy experiences to keep hope alive and after close to a decade of recovery work and healing, married an amazing, thoughtful, human being. But yes, overall I’d say we could do with increasing our love and respect for all living beings.

    1. So true. It sounds simple, but it really is about basic respect! Alas, we are in a moment when this is in short supply, which makes honest conversation about the first principles behind consent especially urgent. Thanks!

  6. I don’t have the time to properly respond to these ideas right now, so saving the post to blog about later. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your open and thoughtful discussion here.

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