What You Really Really Want (34 page)

No one needs to be told that it's immoral to lie in order to get what you want sexually. In theory, we all know it's wrong to lie. In practice, it's a little messier. Because as we grow up, we learn that there all kinds of circumstances in which it's actually okay to lie, or when it's even considered polite or kind. We learn to say, “I mailed it yesterday” as we're scrambling to the post office. We tell our old coworker how happy we are to see her when we run into her at the grocery store, even though “never seeing her again” was high on our list of things to celebrate when we left that job. And so we get used to the idea that actually, some lies are okay. If no one finds out, no one gets hurt.

However, when coupled with sex, lying becomes more complicated. If your partner doesn't have all the relevant information, they can't enthusiastically consent to what's going on. And that means lying can lead to some serious boundary violations.
But what's “all the relevant information”? And how much is it your responsibility to offer it?

Let's do the easy part first. If your partner asks you a question that's relevant to your sexual interactions and you actively lie—that is, you give an answer you know to be untrue—in addition to proving yourself untrustworthy, you have absolutely voided their ability to enthusiastically consent. So if your partner asks if you have any STDs, and you do but you say that you don't? That's straight-up bad. Same goes if your partner asks if you're cool with this relationship being casual and you say yes, even though you really want something deeper or longer-lasting. And if you offer false information without even being asked . . . ? Yeah. You get the idea. Just as you deserve to know the truth of the situation, so does your partner. Without truthful communication, your partner can't make good decisions about what they do and don't want to do with you sexually.

The “no lying” rule applies to emotional manipulation as well. If you invent a crisis, exaggerate your feelings, withhold affection, deliberately flirt with other people in front of your partner when you know that gets them jealous, or basically do anything devious in order to get a particular kind of attention from your partner? That's lying, too, and it's only going to create mistrust and hurt between you in the long run.

(There are some caveats here. If you're lying to your partner because you fear for your safety by telling the truth, that's different. If your partner asks if they look good, and you know they put some effort into looking attractive for you, even though you really hate that color on them? Lying can be kind in that situation, too.)

But what about lies of omission? What about the stuff you don't say that you're pretty sure your partner really would care about if they knew, that might even endanger their safety, but that you'd just as soon not say because you'd be less likely to get what you want?

The most obvious example of this is cheating. Simply put: It's not nice to cheat. (Yes, duh.) Unless there are extenuating circumstances (your partner is in a coma), if you find yourself irresistibly drawn to someone else while you're in a monogamous relationship, you really have to 'fess up. Your partner deserves to know ahead of time that you no longer want to be in a monogamous relationship, so that they can make decisions of their own. This is never easy. You may not want to lose them, and you may want to avoid hurting them. You may have children together, and you don't want to risk breaking up your family. But telling before succumbing to temptation really is the decent thing to do. If you don't, you're voiding your partner's ability to enthusiastically consent to the terms of your relationship (which will no longer be as they seem). Beyond that, if you know you're being untrustworthy and your partner doesn't, you'll begin to wonder if your partner is doing the same to you. All this does is undermine the agreements on which your relationship is built, and with them, any trust or intimacy between you.

Even if you're not thinking of cheating, another very common lie of omission is simply neglecting to tell someone you're not into them. Whether your feelings have changed or were never there in the first place, you may think you're doing
them a favor by “not hurting them.” Unless there's a specific, short-term reason to hold off delivering the bad news (they're studying for their finals, they're about to have surgery, etc.), the only person you're favoring is yourself—by avoiding guilt over hurting them. Ultimately, you're putting off the inevitable, and in the meantime, you may be sending your erstwhile paramour some very confusing (and possibly hurtful) mixed signals, all the while building up stress and anxiety for yourself and shortchanging your own needs to avoid potential hurt feelings. A terrible, toxic cocktail. Don't drink it.

There are other examples of omissions, however, that are much less clear. You can't be expected to know everything your partner wants to know in order to consent to sex. Here I'm talking about things like your sexual history, or whether or not you're sexually involved with anyone else at the moment. It could also be your gender or sexual identity, or your political or religious beliefs, or how much money you make, or how old you are. These are all things that some people may care about and some people may not, but it's on them to ask if they want to know.

When deciding when to withhold true information, the Buddhists have a more positive spin on the question, a useful idea called “wise speech.” In order to be considered “wise speech,” something must be not just true, but also kind and helpful. If you're omitting something true because it would be both unkind and unhelpful, you're probably doing the right thing. For example, not telling your partner that his voice grates on your nerves sometimes is a good omission, as, since he can't do anything
about the sound of his voice, telling him would clearly be both unkind and unhelpful. If something is true and helpful but not kind, like the bad kissing we discussed in chapter 8, you've got to balance how helpful it might be (to you and them) against how unkind it is.

As you surely know by now, there are a lot of challenging things about being female and sexual. So it can feel tempting to some of us to take advantage of the few privileges it affords us, especially if our partners are men or masculine-identified. And that's all well and good if you and your partner are both into it and the privileges are symbolic: door-opening, dinner-buying kind of privileges. (Though even there, it's not a bad idea to check in to see if your partner enjoys these gestures or feels obligated to do them.)

But there are other kinds of sexual advantages that can come with your womanhood that I encourage you to do your best to reject, such as letting your partner make the first move—or all the moves. Why do I suggest that you give up that position of luxury? Because it may well suck for your partner. They may not want to have to do all the work and take on all the risk. And even if they don't mind, it can keep you passive about your desires and instead make you a screen onto which your partner's desires are projected.

Of course, whether or not you're expected to make the first move depends on characteristics beyond being female. What are the sexual proclivities of the people you're sleeping with? Do others see you as more masculine, feminine, genderqueer, androgynous?

Avory, who identifies as genderqueer, knows all about this dynamic:

If you're the type of woman who's been socially conditioned to be sexually passive, it's so very tempting to let your partner make all the moves. It's so much less emotionally risky than taking the initiative yourself. Not to mention all the stigmas that can come with being perceived as a “sexually aggressive” woman, a label that's slapped on most of us if we dare to become actors on behalf of our own desires.

But if you don't try to make things happen for yourself at least some of the time, you're telling both yourself and your partner that you're a passenger on this ride, and not a pilot. That's going to make it much harder when it comes to getting what you really really want. It's also incredibly inconsiderate to your partner, who in all likelihood is just as nervous as you and will eventually grow to resent having to do all the heavy lifting.

Think about it another way: Women are often expected to do the emotional work in a relationship. Do you ever tire of being the one who has to bring up emotional issues? Wish your partner would initiate those conversations some of the time?
Well, if you let your partner initiate all the sex, they're going to wind up feeling the same way about you. And that's not going to be sexy for either of you.

(A caveat applies here: If you're in a sexual partnership with someone who genuinely likes being the sexual aggressor, and it makes you both hot to have one of you always be in charge of starting things and the other always responding, by all means, have at it! But don't assume that's true without checking with your partner first.)

We've already talked about what it feels like to be fetishized or “othered” by a partner. But it's worth saying directly how important it is to avoid doing this to someone else. Attraction is a funny and fickle thing—you may be attracted to someone for any number of random or specific reasons. You may have a “type” (in terms of appearance or personality), or you may not.
But there's a difference between finding caramel-colored skin hot and having that be the consistent deciding factor for whom you'll want to get with and whom you'll reject.

There are three main components to fetishizing, and so there are three levels to making sure you're not doing it. First and foremost, you'll want to check your intentions. Are you reducing your lust objects to one or two defining characteristics, or is there an interactive combination platter of factors that mix and match to spark an attraction? (In other words: Is that caramel skin all it takes, regardless of any other characteristics? Or is it the skin mixed with their nerdy
Doctor Who
obsession mixed with the way they dress or their taste in music that lights your fire?) And while you're checking in, ask yourself further: Is it the characteristic itself that makes you hot, or what it represents (that you're “hip” or “open-minded” for dating this person, that their “hot-bloodedness” reflects well on your ability to satisfy in bed, etc.)? Is it about the two of you getting together in private, or is it more about being able to tell your friends about it later?