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When faced with the question “What turns you on?” almost all of us have the same answer: I’m turned on by someone who’s smart, funny, well dressed, creative, successful, blah blah blah. And sure, all of those things are stimulating, but that’s only half the story—frankly, the really boring half. But I stick with the stock answer, because saying some version of “I’m turned on by intelligence” sounds way less scary than the reality, which is that I’m mostly turned on by a weird genre of faux surveillance porn where teen girls are caught shoplifting and then blackmailed into giving security guards awkward blow jobs. Is that bad? For some reason, what I admire in someone and what actually turns me on often bear no relation. I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe that anyone’s ever come thinking about how their boyfriend is a good listener.
A century ago, Sigmund Freud famously threw up his hands when confronted with female desire. “The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my 30 years of research into the feminine soul,” Freud wrote, “is ‘What does a woman want?’” Bro seemed to be confused about a lot of things lady-related, but I’m with him on this one. It’s roundly acknowledged by now that female sexual arousal is more complex than that of our male counterparts: Basically, guys are just happy to see body parts, whereas female sexuality is a messy tug-of-war between the body and the mind. We want romance, and yet we fall for guys who ignore us. We identify as straight, but we’re turned on by lesbian porn. We want security, but we also randomly have rape fantasies (admit it). Have our vaginas gone rogue?
On a daily basis, I’m more often turned on by random stimuli than by actual human beings. The vibration of the subway. A whiff of trashy Axe body spray, which always reminds me of high school hand jobs. I recently saw an advertisement for breast implants, and while attempting to be offended by it, I accidentally got horny—I guess because it reminded me that boobs exist? Lingerie billboards always get me. I’m currently in the process of Invisalign, and I have this cheesily hot orthodontist who’s constantly sticking his fingers in my mouth and it’s amazing. As of late, my masturbation fantasies have mainly centered around tooth alignment.
Evolutionary biology tells us that what we find “sexy” is ultimately indicative of what’s best for the survival of the species—meaning that being fit, having clear skin, and sending well-crafted emails are all qualities that evoke health and competence, which in turn make someone more fuckable. But can evolutionary biology explain my gang-bang fantasy? I guess the Darwinians would argue that sleeping with 10 guys at once makes you 10 times more likely to get pregnant (survival of the fittest genetic material?), which is all part of my inherent desire to procreate. But I kind of don’t buy that. All I know is that in order to come during sex, I usually have to close my eyes and focus extremely hard on the idea of being violated by a gang of meathead bros. And I also know that I’m not the only one.
In 1972, Nora Ephron published “Fantasies,” an essay detailing the sexual fantasy she’s had since the age of 11, in which she’s “dominated by faceless males who rip my clothes off,” adding, “It’s terrific. In my sex fantasy, nobody ever loves me for my mind.” (You may remember that in Ephron’s film When Harry Met Sally, Sally has the same fantasy; though to underline the character’s neuroses, there’s no big sexual release—it ends after she’s been stripped.) The essay provoked some outrage, particularly by certain people within the women’s movement who thought the fantasy was not-so-feminist. Come on—talk about perv shaming! Surely, our fantasies—and our bedrooms, ideally—are places where we should feel free to explore the darkest and most deviant corners of our mind. And on that note, I don’t think we need to file all of our actions under “feminist” or “not feminist”—especially since consensual sex kind of exists in a political vacuum: It’s pretty much the one place that we can just do things and move on, no angry think-piece needed.
In my mind, there are two types of guys: There are the guys who will only go down on you immediately after you shower, and then there are the guys who will literally lick your butt after you get home from the gym. I try to avoid the former. Over the years, I’ve learned that people who aren’t squeamish about bodies are so much hotter in bed. Being with someone who really wants to consume you—all of you—makes you so much more prime to reciprocate. I once had a guy tell me that he doesn’t go down on women because he’s a germaphobe. Are you kidding me? How am I supposed to relax and feel good about myself after you basically called my vagina dirty? It’s so much more of a turn-on to be with someone who’s kind of gross—someone who wants to smell my dirty underwear and lick my teeth and spit in my mouth. Like, I’m in my 30s now—I’m too old to date a guy who won’t kiss me after I give him a blow job. Once you date a guy who will go down on you while you’re on your period, you’ll never go back.
I have this friend—she’s a polyamorous molecular biologist who’s into extreme BDSM (obviously). Recently, she told me that she regularly masturbates to the idea of men having sex with animals. Despite being generally prepared to hear something extreme come out of her mouth, I was still pretty shocked when she said that. But her explanation of the fantasy made sense to me. She told me, “It’s not that I’m into animals. Rather, I’m turned-on by the idea that a man is so horny, so compelled by the power of his sexuality, that he would literally fuck anything—even a donkey.” And that is something I get.
As women, we’re told that being objectified is bad. OK, fine. But there’s a time and a place for everything. And I personally can be very turned on by a skilled objectifier. It’s no secret that women are often turned on by being wanted—not as in “I want to take care of you,” but more as in “I want to bend you over my desk.” Of course, when I’m dating someone, I want them to value me for my ideas and accomplishments and humor or whatever. But when I’m fucking someone, I want them to value my lack of a gag reflex. Within the context of a relationship or a hook-up with someone who respects you, being treated like a sex toy can be really hot. Like, I don’t always want to be a whole person. That’s exhausting. Sometimes I just want to be my boobs.
And objectification goes both ways. I remember, in middle school, my mother told me that there are three things I should look for in a partner: He should be loyal, he should be handsome (but not too handsome), and he should be able to fix things around the house. She specifically noted that it’s very important to find a man who can fix the sink when it’s broken. I remember thinking, “Mom, you’re basic.” But now I get it. It’s not about the convenience of having an in-house handyman. It’s about the simple fact that seeing a man hit something with a hammer is really hot. (Female gaze, anyone?) Sure, it’s a gendered cliché, but there’s truth in it—seeing a man be “manly” in a Don Draper, motor-oil-under-the-fingernails sort of way can be like porn. I guess everyone is basic at heart.
There’s a quote that I love from the British philosopher Alain de Botton’s book How to Think More About Sex. De Botton writes, “Tame it though we may try, sex has a recurring tendency to wreak havoc across our lives: It leads us to destroy our relationships, threatens our productivity, and compels us to stay up too late in nightclubs talking to people whom we don’t like but whose exposed midriffs we nevertheless strongly wish to touch. Sex remains in absurd, and perhaps irreconcilable, conflict with some of our highest commitments and values. [...] Perhaps we should accept that sex is inherently rather odd instead of blaming ourselves for not responding in more normal ways to its confusing impulses.”
In other words, we should give ourselves a break for being idiots about who we want to fuck and why and how. The more we get to the heart of what turns us on, the more evident it becomes that sexual arousal is not often logical, politically correct, or “clean.” Maybe the fact that I’m even thinking about these things is a testament to my Catholic upbringing, which has added a healthy dose of shame to most of my sexual impulses. But sex and shame can—and do—make quite interesting bedfellows. In the words of the legendary John Waters: “I thank God I was raised Catholic, so sex will always be dirty.”