A few weeks ago, I found myself having the best sex of someone else's life.
Listening to the enthusiastic noises of my partner and watching him indulge himself in the opportunity to have a naked girl in his bed, I began to feel as if I was voyeuristically observing someone else's private fantasy.
While I went through the necessary motions of feigning good sex (and undoubtedly still enjoying the effect this caused), I momentarily wondered how two people could be participating in the exact same activity and extract entirely different results.
However, instead of coming to any profound conclusions, my mind started to wander as I thought about the fact that I could be watching more interesting people have sex on Gossip Girl or eating the leftover take-out in my fridge, both of which held greater appeal than my current pursuit. I plotted the most discreet route back to my dorm and considered whether I could fit my bra in my purse.
And then I found myself suddenly growing reacquainted with the real world of the lofted bed and my hastily strewn-about clothes as the mildly inebriated guy in front of me asked, "Was that fun?"
If I surveyed the general collegiate population and asked them why they liked sex, I doubt the list of responses would vary widely: "Because... it feel's good. And it's fun."
At the center of all the chaos of sexual politics, gender balances, health risks and moral standards, sex's core appeal is defined simply by the fact that it is (usually) more enjoyable than playing foosball or watching videos on YouTube.
So why have conversations about sex become so serious? You don't have to look hard to find public outlets for discussing feminism, hook-up culture and the hazards of sexual activity, but if you want to embrace your sex life and consider frank questions that are actually relevant to your average post-Shooters encounter, all you'll find is mostly silence.
For example, while formal sexual dialogue questions whether insecurity and social pressures prevent adolescents from using protection, most of my friends seem more interested in determining whether there's an actual difference between "twisted pleasure" and "dual pleasure" condoms, not the societal struggles they have in using them.
Or in all the frenzy surrounding gender politics, the most pressing issue appears simply balancing out the arithmetic in the oral sex equation. Nursing hangovers at Sunday morning brunch, few students are bombarding their friends with questions regarding the social implications of their nighttime activities.
Although there seems to be a lot of concern over the lack of sexual openness on campus, the reality is sexual conversation dominates a significant portion of student life yet is often dismissed as trivial, lewd or insignificant.
Conversely, public champions for sexual dialogue are certainly asking a lot of questions, but generally not the right ones.
And so the reason I'm writing this column about sex, and not about something else like eating or sleeping (both of which are activities I also generally enjoy), is because sex raises a lot of interesting questions that never get asked except after a few (or many) tequila shots amongst a rowdy group of friends.
Most of these questions are just as significant and considerably more relevant than the condescending and vague reservations that have thus far dominated the conversation. And most importantly, the discussions we should be having about sex shouldn't lose sight of the bottom line: that sex, at its best and at its worst, is fun.
Brooke Hartley is a Trinity sophomore. Duke, Horizontal will run every other week in recess.
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