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“Thappad se darr nahi lagta sahab, pleasure se lagta hai”

Queer Rights

By Avali Khare

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with sex.

In October 2021, The YP Foundation and Agents of Ishq organised the Love, Sex and Data conference to advocate for a pleasure positive approach in research, programmatic interventions, or artistic work with young people. After three days of being behind the scenes and in front of screens talking about all things pleasure at this conference, I lay next to my partner in bed – mildly inebriated and deep in thought. As a masculine person attracted to women and feminine persons, my questions about pleasure and sex are similar to those of cis-het young men and boys – How do I pleasure my partner sexually? What do women like in bed? Can women have multiple orgasms, and if yes, how can I help?

As a sexuality educator, I’ve observed that young men’s concerns about their partners’ pleasure are often intimately tied to concerns about the status of their own masculinity. For instance, in male friendships and peer networks, the ability to pleasure cis-female sexual partners is traded as useful currency to establish their own status and popularity. Alternatively, if young men are not sexually active, desirable, or good in bed, they stand to lose respect, power, and authority. In this context, articulating one’s desires and needs – especially if they deviate from mainstream (read: patriarchal) norms of masculinity is totally unacceptable.

But it’s not just about cis-het boys. This relationship between masculinity, pleasure, and power can leave all masculine persons wholly confused and unprepared to deal with often conflicting experiences and thoughts on sex and desire. There is no space for  socially frowned upon sexual desires – like receiving anal sex – without experiencing some form of stress, anxiety, bullying, or violence for young men in this context. But this could be particularly egregious for young transmasculine persons like myself, whose identities and desires are barely addressed, whether in conversations among “men” or in development or sexuality education interventions. Spaces for transmasculine persons to articulate their own relationship to masculinity and pleasure are either mired in stigma or completely absent.

So, that fateful night when my partner turned to me in bed, stroked my cheek, and gently asked me, “what brings you pleasure?” I began to think.

…

As a transmasculine person, I find pleasure in sexual interactions that affirm my gender and masculinity. Therefore, whenever I find myself unable to “fit into” dominant masculine norms and expectations, I become anxious. For instance, a casual remark by a partner about my lack of interest or initiative in sex recently sent me into a depressing spiral. I worried that my lack of interest in sex would mean that I was not masculine enough in a culture where men are always and highly sexual. Combined with my trans* identity, this would further lead to a devaluation of my self determined gender in the eyes of others. These dominant notions of masculinity around sex and pleasure – while already problematic – are particularly harmful to marginalised masculine persons like myself. My relationship with sex and pleasure is complicated by experiences of bodily discomfort and incongruence which can often discourage enthusiastic participation in sexual activities. So while there is a  need to challenge dominant masculine notions around sex and pleasure within cis-het masculine spaces, having conversations on pleasure and desire within trans* spaces – which may or may not relate to sex or sexuality at all – is also highly urgent.

But why pleasure? Pleasure is diverse and expansive. Even as I write about my own experiences of sexual pleasure, I recognise that pleasure is neither a homogenous experience tied to sex, nor is transmasculinity a monolith. I spent years looking for resources on sex and pleasure which would support me in navigating my sexual interactions and experiences of pleasure. What I found was either too alien from my own context, not pleasure-affirming, or only focussed on transitioning and STI/STD related information – which, although life-saving and important – does not and cannot encapsulate the diversity of transmasculine experience and desire. Transmasculine persons are not homogenous; and the more space we accord to sharing diverse experiences of sex, sexualities, and pleasure amongst transmasculine persons, the more space we can make for challenging and questioning mainstream discourses of masculinities that focus only on trans* trauma and deny our pleasures, happiness, and humanity.

…

While the inability to fit into dominant masculine norms depressed me, the dovetailing of sexual pleasure that I experienced within dominant masculine notions also, excuse the metaphor, left a bad taste in my mouth. After years of engaging in feminist politics, I felt guilty and anxious that my sexual desire seemed to replicate models of “toxic” or “bad” masculinity in bed. This is why, when I tried my first strap-on after ample encouragement from a partner, I felt liberated and conflicted at the same time. The years of trying to unlearn that only penetration is pleasure caused a rift between what I experienced in my body and what had espoused in my mind. Am I being toxic if penetrating my feminine partner is the only thing that gives me pleasure? As a transmasculine person, must I subscribe to the same kind of reflection and unlearning that is expected out of cis-het men? Is that the only way to move towards more affirming and enjoyable sexual relationships for all genders? How do we even define affirming and enjoyable relationships? Is penetrating by virtue tied to dominance and power, and subordination and receiving to a lack of agency? Is that even fair, or accurate? I continue to reflect on these questions, even as I write this piece, and even as I firmly believe that penetration is not central to sex and that penetration is not a pre-requisite to being masculine in bed. It has also prompted more careful introspection on my part into the balance that I, as a transmasculine person, need to have between my relationship to – and internalising of – dominant understandings of masculinities, as well as the acknowledgement of my own vulnerability and marginalisation.

But most importantly, this rumination has led me to ask myself – isn’t pleasure inherently feminist? And if it is, then what would applying a pleasure-affirming lens to self acceptance as a trans* person mean to me? Is it possible to make space for experiences of pleasure like mine, that both challenge dominant notions of masculinity, but also escape prescriptive ideas of what one is supposed to or allowed to enjoy as feminists or people committed to the goal of gender equity? Ultimately, what does it mean to have #PrideInPleasure?

…

I remember the first pair of boxers I ever bought. I touched them at the store, felt them against my skin, and thought about the shape they would take on my bedroom floor when I would take them off. I remember the first time I got a haircut that affirmed my gender, that enhanced my sexual confidence, and led to a barrage of selfies I took to put up on my shiny new Tinder profile. I remember the post-orgasm tingling I felt in my toes, the way I giggled in excitement for weeks, looking at my own reflection in the mirror. I remember the first time I had sex, and wondering later whether it even counted as sex, and knowing I had to do it again and again, just to be sure.

I remember these moments as my moments of pleasure.

 

This article was written as part of TYPF’s digital campaign for Pride Month in 2022. The #PrideInPleasure campaign highlights experiences of pleasure that do not find representation in mainstream media, and amplifies queer voices from the margins.

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