Years ago, I had an uncomfortable sexual experience. As much as I wanted to surrender to bliss, nothing felt good, and the other person did not pick up on my nonverbal signals: my tense body, my blank face, my silence. He assumed my experience was a positive one.

Most of us think we’re smart enough, poised enough and experienced enough to do the “right” thing in scenarios like this. We think we’ll be able to identify why we’re uncomfortable and voice our concerns in a strong yet sensitive, yet casual tone. But in that moment, I couldn’t speak up. It wasn’t until later that I could name the cause: I’d wanted to be polite. Overwhelmed by the physical sensation, I had unconsciously prioritized his experience over mine. (Apparently he and I had that in common.)

As I started to examine all the things that had led up to this moment of self-imposed silence, I was struck by a need to immerse myself in the sexual experiences of others. I spent years collecting women’s stories surrounding orgasm and sexuality, which eventually became the book Moan: Anonymous Essays on Female Orgasm. I was striving to create something that explored
the spectrum of female desire, both the joys and the frustrations. Digesting all those stories, and the reader reactions they inspired, led to the deceptively simple conclusion that touch is about way more than touch.

We’ve all seen the articles filled with tips on the best angles to hit the right points to have the best orgasm of our lives! And though I support anything that helps us zero in on feeling good, it’s myopic to talk about sex as though it were an exercise class, where the most important factors are form and reps. Perhaps now more than ever, our sexual health—our sexual morality— demands that we consider the abstract forces informing our
most enveloping of physical faculties.

Touch is Cultural
Here’s an exercise: Make a list of all the ways the country has changed in regard to sex and gender since the time you first had sex. (This won’t work as well if you lost your virginity yesterday, but in this insane, 24-hour news cycle–nightmare from the depths of hell, it could still apply!)

What’s on your list? Maybe it cites medical advancements such as the HPV vaccine, the FDA approval of PrEP or the overthe-counter liberation of Plan B. Maybe it dips into the advent of social media, which has nurtured cyber-harassment, revenge porn and the incel movement. Maybe it includes #MeToo, the growing media representation of LGBTQIA people, the latest threats to abortion access or the fact that our president has 17 (at press time) allegations of sexual misconduct against him.

The backdrop of our sex lives is under constant construction, and so is our relationship to touching and being touched. We’re contending with new information, attitudes, language and laws, all of which can affect levels of physical sensitivity. While these anxieties may manifest in different ways during sex, a good starting point is the acknowledgement, shared by all partners, that it’s not always possible to drop these concerns at the bedroom door.

Simply put, if politicians were crusading against sugar cones, it would probably be harder to enjoy your ice cream. And if you were to invite someone to your favorite parlor, it would be helpful to discuss how that hard-line anti-cone agenda might impact your enjoyment.

Touch is Emotional
Emotion lives in our bodies. Whenever we encounter situations in which we want to cry, scream or simply speak out, we tense up. We clench our jaws, raise our shoulders and squeeze our hands into fists. Years of layered-on tension impact our bodies and our minds: We store the things that happen to us inside ourselves, and even if we’re doing the work to exorcise our demons, we’re all carrying around a lot of shit—especially when it comes to something as powerful as sex.

Getting touched can arouse feelings ranging from ecstasy to terror, and we may not be intellectually able to name those feelings in the moment; the message can be as primal as “This feels good” or “This feels bad.” But however schematic the emotional language may be, it’s important to be tuned in to it. When we disregard our feelings or pretend complex emotion isn’t possible or allowed during sex, we’re setting the stage for miscommunication, or worse.

Touch is Individual
Here’s the simplest takeaway of all, reinforced constantly over the four years I spent collecting people’s sex stories: The same shit doesn’t work on everyone. We all have different offerings—and allergies—on our sexual menus. It can be maddening to discover that the thing that drove your last partner wild with pleasure disgusts your current bedfellow, but remember that there’s joy in the endless variety and potential for experimentation, and that touch can expand and evolve.

Now, I’m not insisting that we over-analyze every erotic insecurity and awkward moment. I’m merely suggesting that we have some baseline compassion and conscience—that we enter sexual scenarios (and, ideally, the spaces that come before them) with the awareness that they take place within a dense ecosystem of personal, cultural and, of course, biological forces.

It’s my hope that this awareness will help us all find two things: our voices when touch is uncomfortable, and the freedom to explore all the pleasure touch can bring.

Read the Rest of The Playboy Symposium: On the Five Senses

I See What I Hear by Sacha Jenkins

Taste Takes Time by Marina Tweed

Chlorine and Brunettes by Colman Andrews

Bring on the Vomit by Paul Feig