Beyond Consent: Exploring Bi+ People’s Experiences of Negotiating Sex Through a Queer Phenomenological Framework

ABSTRACT

This article explores sexual negotiation beyond dominant consent frameworks that have centered on heterosexuality, responding to and preventing sexual violence, and the pursuit of autonomous, free choice. Building on the work of feminist theorists, I challenge the prevailing emphasis on individual responsibility and autonomy in understanding sexual violence and consent and urge a deeper consideration of how bodies and choices are shaped by social, cultural, and historical contexts. Drawing on 32 in-depth interviews, I examine how bi+ individuals in Australia negotiate sexual encounters with partners of diverse genders. Using a queer phenomenological framework of comfort and discomfort, I focus on experiences where participants felt they have been able to negotiate sex well. This framework acknowledges the complex interplay between sexual negotiation, gendered norms and sexual scripts, and subjectivity. I argue that hetero and queer norms and scripts both constrain and give possibility to sexual negotiation, and I propose that queer bodies and queer sex can disrupt normative constraints in ways that positively impact sexual negotiation. I conclude by advocating for a deeper understanding of the nuanced ways our choices are shaped during sexual encounters and suggest that we must look beyond heterosexuality and violence prevention going forward.

KEYWORDS:

• Queer theory
• sexual scripts
• sexuality
• sexual consent
• bisexual

Introduction

Dominant understandings of sexual consent communication are deeply heteronormative and cisnormative. We have primarily understood sex and sexual violence – and thus issues with consent communication – as occurring between heterosexual cisgender men and women (Mortimer, Powell, and Sandy 2019). This focus on heterosexuality has brought attention to the normalisation of sexual violence and coercion in heterosexual relationships. However, in doing so, understandings of sexual violence and consent have become synonymous with critiques of heterosexuality. The focus on heterosexuality has continued in empirical studies on consent communication. Research has primarily focused on heterosexual people, examining how hetero-gendered norms and roles shape consent communication and interpretations of sexual experiences. For example, men may feel pressure to engage in sexual encounters due to the male sexual drive discourse where men are positioned as ‘active and desiring subjects’ who always want sex (Setty 2022, 524). This gendered norm can also obscure men’s violence against women as their persistent pursuit of sex is deemed to be natural and justifiable (Jeffrey and Barata 2019). Meanwhile, women face conflicting expectations of being both passive and pleasing to men while also responsible for their sexual safety. These conflicting norms can create challenges for women in understanding and expressing their desires (Burkett and Hamilton 2012). These gendered pressures shape what decisions people make about sex and can often lead to engaging in or justifying unwanted sexual experiences. As such, some researchers have begun to argue that addressing sexual violence requires looking beyond clear communication and addressing the negative impact of heteronormative understandings of gender and sex on consent communication (e.g. Burkett and Hamilton 2012; Fenner 2017; Jeffrey 2022).

This understanding of consent communication as shaped by gendered norms must be contextualised within the canon of feminist and sexual violence research, which aimed to highlight the systemic patriarchal violence of cisgender men against cisgender women. Feminist theorists in the 1970s and 80s redefined rape as a pervasive and systematic form of violence against women, challenging the perception of it as an isolated incident or the result of individual deviance (Brownmiller 1975; MacKinnon 1983). One key aspect of this theorising was the idea that heterosexuality itself is shaped by power dynamics and domination-submission relations. Feminists argued that sexual violence exists along a continuum of normal heterosexual practice, rather than being a deviation from it (Gavey 2005; Kelly 1988; MacKinnon 1983). They challenged rape as solely the result of individual deviance or criminality and exposed the systemic ways gender inequality and patriarchy perpetuate sexual violence. Scholars examined how socially constructed heterosexual gender roles enabled women’s experiences of unwanted sex and coercion, and that acts previously considered ‘just sex’ could be forms of sexual victimisation (Gavey 2005; Kelly 1988).

Despite understanding that sexual violence is more complex than individuals clearly communicating consent, sexual assault prevention programs and sexual consent frameworks continue to emphasise the importance of unambiguous communication. They teach phrases like ‘no means no’ and ‘yes means yes’ to encourage young women to assert their boundaries and men to respect them (Fenner 2017). There has also been a shift towards affirmative consent standards in legal and institutional frameworks, which require a clear indication of agreement to sexual activity without coercion (Angel 2021). Advocates argue that affirmative consent can empower women to assert agency and encourage men to actively seek consent rather than assuming entitlement to sex. However, critics argue that affirmative consent standards may reinforce a transactional view of sexual communication and fail to address the underlying issue of gendered norms shaping sexual communication (Gilbert 2018; Halley 2016). For example, affirmative consent expectations may create a ‘stop-and-ask’ norm that still reflects traditional gender roles, where men are seen as sexual proponents and women as gatekeepers (Gruber 2016). As Gilbert (2018) has argued, affirmative consent standards are based on a ‘fantasy’ of repairing heterosexual relations as they assume that merely informing women of their right to freely express their sexual desires will override the pervasive gendered expectations that restrict them from doing so.

Whilst research on sexual consent and non-heterosexual people remains limited, some studies have found that affirmative consent frameworks that focus on explicit communication fail to capture the complexities and nuances of sex and sexual negotiation for queer people (e.g. Beres 2022; Richardson 2021). Another significant gap in the sexual consent literature, aside from the almost exclusive focus on heterosexual people, is limited exploration of positive constructions of sexuality and sexual communication (Beres 2022; Wodda and Panfil 2018). As understandings of sexual consent are so intimately tied to addressing sexual violence, there is limited scope for understanding what fosters people’s ability to negotiate sex well beyond rape prevention.

In this article, I contribute to these two key gaps in our understanding of sexual consent by examining 32 in-depth, semi-structured interviews with bi+ people in Australia. The research explored how participants negotiated sex, with a focus on experiences where they felt they were able to negotiate sex well. By examining the stories of people who have sexual experiences with people of multiple genders, I explore how sexual negotiation is impacted by both hetero and queer norms. Throughout this article, I use ‘sexual negotiation’, rather than sexual consent communication to recognise insights from participants’ stories suggesting that there is a need to look beyond the moment/s of communication. Rather, develop a better understanding of the complex ways interpersonal, social, and cultural dynamics shape how comfortable people are to explore their sexual options and express their wants, desires, or boundaries during the process of negotiating sex. These findings challenge the notion of sexual consent as an autonomous and individual act. Instead, I adopt a queer phenomenological perspective which allows me to explore how sexual negotiation is both limited and facilitated by gendered norms and sexual scripts, but also how queer bodies and sex can disrupt these norms in ways that open up alternative sexual possibilities. This article builds on the insights of feminist theorists who advocate for a broader understanding of sexual violence and consent, considering how the body is shaped by social and cultural norms (Alcoff 2018; Cahill 2001). I build on these feminist perspectives by putting them in conversation with queer theoretical perspectives which examine the transformative possibilities of living outside of ‘normality’ (Butler 2004; Halberstam 2011; Jeffrey, Heaphy, and Donovan 2001; Weston 1991). In the following section, I will further explore the connections between feminist sexual violence scholarship and queer phenomenology, which then serves as the framework for analysing participants’ stories.

From Autonomy to Queer Phenomenology

Feminist and sexual violence researchers have criticised the focus on individual choice and autonomy in understandings of consent and sexual violence, which neglect the social pressures, gender norms, and power dynamics that shape sexual decision-making and can restrict full autonomy (Alcoff 2018; Burkett and Hamilton 2012; Cahill 2001). Dominant conceptualisations of consent are rooted in the belief that for sex to be socially and legally acceptable, it must be a free agreement based on one’s autonomous, voluntary, and free choice. For example, in NSW criminal law, consent means a ‘person freely and voluntarily agrees to the sexual activity’ (Crimes Act 1900 Sect 61HI). However, as Kukla (2021) argues, compromises to autonomy are actually the norm in sexual negotiation, as various factors are always shaping our sexual decisions, which are never based on some autonomous choice outside of any influence. Full autonomy is unattainable and impractical, as our autonomy fluctuates in different contexts, and we typically act with partial autonomy (Kukla 2021, 270).

Moreover, scholars have argued that consent alone does not necessarily reflect genuine desire, will, or pleasure in sexual encounters (Alcoff 2018). For example, individuals may consent to sex for reasons unrelated to their personal desires, such as avoiding violence, participating in sex work, or maintaining a relationship (Bay-Cheng 2015; Cahill 2001). On the other hand, someone may consent to sex and desire it, but they may still feel traumatised if their will was compromised, such as engaging in sex outside of their religious beliefs (Alcoff 2018). The idea that consent reflects a person’s uncomplicated wants and free choice, independent of external influence, overlooks the impact of gendered social norms and pressures that shape decisions about sex, which can be overlooked or rendered unspeakable when the focus remains on individual choice (Angel 2021; Fenner 2017). As Waling (2023, 155) argues, there is an assumption that each person in a sexual encounter is a fully formed and rational being whose sexual desires are ready to be extracted through sexual communication.

Phenomenology is a theoretical framework that has been used to explore how embodiment – the interaction of the body with the world – shapes subjectivity and the ways that our embodied interaction with the world is shaped by our social, cultural, and historical location (Alcoff 2018; Cahill 2001; Merleau-Ponty 1962). Phenomenology highlights the inseparable connection between our bodies, the meanings ascribed to them within our specific socio-cultural location, and our understanding and expression of gender and sexuality. Ahmed’s (2007a) queer phenomenology is an approach that allows the exploration of the lived experiences and embodied subjectivities of queer individuals. By understanding how queer bodies navigate and interact with the world, we can examine the ways that queer bodies disrupt and rearrange social norms. Whilst phenomenology has primarily been interested in describing the way bodies are shaped and limited by the social in feminist literature, queer phenomenology allows us to explore the ways that queer bodies can also disrupt and reshape the social. This approach follows a history of queer scholarship which examines the new possibilities that are generated by queer people’s failure to conform to mainstream ideals. Rather than seeing failure to conform as a source of marginalisation, queer scholars have viewed this failure as an important tool for resistance and transformation (Butler 2004; Halberstam 2011; Jeffrey, Heaphy, and Donovan 2001; Weston 1991).

In this article, I argue that a queer phenomenological framework may help in better understanding the complex relationship between scripts and norms and sexual negotiation. While phenomenology has been under-explored in the analysis of sexual negotiation, feminist scholars drawing on phenomenology have critiqued the limited scope of sexual consent in capturing the embodied nature of sex and sexual violence (Alcoff 2018; Cahill 2001). Philosophical discussions have also argued for a phenomenological understanding of sexual consent, recognising the embodied nature of sexual consent as an ‘intercorporeal phenomenon that emerges within a shared world of perception’ (Anderson 2022, 21). However, to date, there is a gap in research that applies phenomenology to empirical accounts of sexual negotiation.

In this article, I employ a queer phenomenological framework, drawing on Ahmed’s (2007a; 2007b; 2017) concepts of comfort and discomfort, to examine how queer individuals navigate and negotiate sexual experiences. Comfort, according to Ahmed, refers to the feeling of fitting in with the norms of a space or encounter, where one’s body seamlessly aligns or ‘sinks in’ with its surroundings. Heteronormativity, for instance, functions as a form of public comfort, providing a sense of familiarity and ease for bodies that conform to a heterosexual orientation (Ahmed 2017, 123). Comfort, however, whilst facilitating ease of movement and communication is not necessarily a positive experience, as it can be driven by the compulsion to conform to limiting orientations. Conversely, discomfort arises when one’s body does not conform to the dominant norms. For bodies that are not ‘extended by the skin of the social’ (Ahmed 2007a, 20) they have a lack of residence which can lead to restricted mobility in the social world. For instance, queer bodies may feel uncomfortable in heteronormative spaces as their bodies do not ‘sink in’ with the norms of that space, which may restrict their ease of movement and communication in those spaces.

Ahmed’s queer phenomenology prompts us to consider not only how norms shape experiences, but how the discomfort that comes from not aligning with norms can also be transformative, disrupting accepted norms and allowing for new perspectives and possibilities for sexual engagement. Discomfort can bring what is in the background and accepted as the norm ‘back to life’, it can give us a different viewing point, ‘disorientat[ing] how things are arranged’ (Ahmed 2007b, 163). I argue that, by challenging and disorienting the familiar, queer bodies and queer sex can bring to light taken-for-granted norms, opening up opportunities for reorientation and reconfiguring how we interact with each other during sex.

Methods

This article draws on 32 in-depth, semi-structured interviews with bi+ individuals in Australia which explored how they understand consent and negotiate sex, with a particular focus on experiences where they felt they were able to negotiate sex well. The aims were to understand the ways consent negotiation is impacted by the gender and/or sexuality of different sexual partners from the perspective of those who have sexual experiences with people of multiple genders. Ethics approval was obtained from the University of Melbourne Human Research Ethics Committee. Participants were recruited using purposive sampling methods. Recruitment materials were shared on relevant Facebook pages and social media channels. Recruitment was also facilitated through relevant LGBTQ+ community groups. Eligible participants were over 18 years old and had engaged in sexual experiences with people of multiple genders. The interviews were conducted over Zoom in 2020 and were open to anyone across Australia. Prior to participation, participants were provided with a plain language statement and consent form outlining the research purpose, the potential risks of participation, and contact information for relevant support services. The interviews ranged from 45 min to 1.5 h. Interviews were semi-structured, and questions followed the broad themes of: how the participant understands their gender and sexuality; how they understand sexual consent; their positive experiences negotiating sex; the differences they have noticed in sexual negotiation depending on the gender/sexuality of their sexual partner and; the impact of gendered norms and sexual scripts. All interviews were audio-recorded and later transcribed for analysis. Participants were able to choose whether they wanted to be anonymous, in which case a pseudonym has been used, or whether they wanted their real name to be used in any publications.

Participants were able to describe their own gender and sexuality labels. There was a diverse representation of gender across the sample, with approximately 32% of participants cis-women, 15% cis-men, 27% non-binary, 6% transmasc/transmasculine, with the remaining 20% of participants choosing other gender labels including questioning, transexual female butch, and fluid. Most participants identified their sexuality as bisexual, queer, or both, however, some participants chose other labels including pansexual, lesbian and gay. The age range was 21–49 years old. Fifteen participants were located in Melbourne, thirteen in Sydney, and one each in Perth, Adelaide, Brisbane, and the Gold Coast.

Both thematic analysis and narrative analysis were used to analyse the data. This dual approach facilitated the identification of common themes across participants’ data, while also recognising the unique ways in which normative ideas about gender, sexuality, sexual expression, and bodies shaped participants’ experiences of negotiating sex. For the thematic analysis (Braun and Clarke 2022), commonalities and differences within and between participants’ responses were identified. Special attention was given to variations in the data, particularly instances where participants expressed divergent or conflicting views. Coding of themes was done iteratively, refining themes and sub-themes as I progressed through the data set multiple times. I then used narrative analysis (Miller 2017) to examine the interviews, allowing exploration of participants’ personal stories and experiences which were often complex and messy and not always able to be neatly categorised into themes.

Throughout the following findings sections, I discuss participants’ experiences of negotiating both heterosexual and queer encounters. By heterosexual, I mean experiences where at the time the participant understood themselves to be a cisgender man or woman negotiating sex with someone of the ‘opposite’ gender. By queer, I mean experiences with someone of the ‘same’ gender or other queer gender. This language is imperfect, and I do not wish to reproduce the biphobic assumption that sexual experiences involving people of the same gender are inherently ‘queer’ while those with opposite-gender partners are ‘heterosexual’. However, for the purpose of this analysis, I use these terms to broadly capture the gender configurations and dynamics involved in the encounters, as described by participants.

The Comfort of Norms During Sexual Negotiation

During the interviews, participants were asked to recall experiences where they felt they were able to negotiate sex well and to articulate the factors they believed played a role in their ability to do so. Participants frequently made comparisons between situations in which they felt more able to negotiate sex compared to situations where they felt less capable. In these comparisons, some participants described clear and active communication as a contributing factor. However, all participants delved deeper than the moment of communication and discussed how the interpersonal, social, and cultural norms and scripts surrounding a sexual experience also played a crucial role in shaping how comfortable they felt expressing their choices, wants, and boundaries. In this section, I explore how norms and scripts can create a sense of comfort for participants by examining their experiences through a queer phenomenological framework. Comfort, in this context, refers to the experience of one’s body finding a place of residence within its social, cultural, and spatial context (Ahmed 2007b) which, in turn, facilitates ease of communication during sex.

While most participants viewed heteronormative sexual scripts and gendered roles as limiting and uncomfortable, for some, these norms served as useful frameworks that facilitated their ability to negotiate sex in certain heterosexual relationships. For these individuals, heteronormative ideas about men’s and women’s gendered roles provided a sense of comfort and ease in negotiating heterosexual encounters. The familiarity of these roles allowed for an immediate understanding of their position and the associated expectations:

… there were very specific scripts of what being a woman means … so to some extent, I kind of feel like when I was sleeping with men it would kind of be like, ‘Oh, I know what I’m supposed to do here’. (Anneke, 24, non-binary woman, genderqueer/bisexual)

… it was vastly easier for me to be intimate with men, like, a bit more accessible […] just because like it’s, as we said before, it’s a bit easier to find like, to find the language to use with men. (Lou, 23, non-binary, pansexual)

These individuals felt a sense of ease in negotiating sex with men in heterosexual contexts when they understood themselves as cisgender women as there are established gendered expectations that can reduce uncertainty. As one participant Gracie (29, cis-woman, queer/bisexual) said, sex with men is ‘ … really not that hard for me to negotiate, which also makes it enjoyable in some ways because I’m not thinking so hard’. Ahmed (2017, 123) says that ‘ … heteronormativity also becomes a form of comforting: one feels better through the warmth of being faced by a world one has already taken in’. These individuals sometimes felt at ease negotiating sex within heterosexual contexts because of the established language, roles and expectations for sex that were familiar and readily understood by themselves and their partners. Yet, it is essential to recognise that the comfort of heteronormativity does not negate the restrictive nature of these norms for many others. Using a phenomenological lens illuminates the coexistence of both comfort and discomfort within these norms, depending on how individuals relate to and inhabit them. Some participants found a sense of ease within heteronormative expectations, however as I explore in the next section others experienced a sense of dislocation and unease, feeling trapped by rigid gendered roles that hindered their expression of desires and boundaries. Indeed, whilst participants found comfort in engaging in these norms, they were not necessarily endorsing them or uncritically accepting them. Rather, it reflects their recognition of the ways these norms shape sexual experiences and the comfort that conformity can provide when navigating them.

In queer sexual encounters, some participants emphasised the significance of queer norms and scripts in helping them negotiate sex. They described that gendered norms in queer relationships and communities offered a space for individuals to challenge and subvert heteronormative expectations while maintaining a sense of recognition and belonging. For instance, Billie (23, non-binary, bisexual) highlighted the significance of gendered identities like ‘butch’ and ‘femme’, which originate from lesbian subculture and represent masculine and feminine gendered identities (Levitt and Hiestand 2005). In their experience, these roles allowed them to inhabit a feminine role in a recognisably queer way, whilst also forming a framework for negotiating sexual preferences in queer relationships. They described that taking on the label of ‘femme’ and the normative expectation that they will be more sexually submissive makes sexual communication more comfortable for them because they can ‘fit into a box’:

. … having those labels or having those words to throw in there makes it so much easier to discuss our wants and needs in sex. Roles such as ‘butch’ and ‘femme’, which I’m very much into, have definitely influenced expectations when it comes to sex, in a good way for me at least.

Several queer men expressed that adopting a submissive role in sexual relationships with other men played a significant role in their exploration of gender and sexuality. The boundaries for what is intelligibly masculine are broadened beyond heteronormative expectations within the context of queer sexual scripts. For instance, Matt (32, cis-man, bisexual/queer) described being able to explore submissive sexual roles in his queer relationships, whereas in heteronormative relationships he felt the pressure to always take on a dominant role:

I get sick being in charge, and it’s really nice when somebody else takes control, and just like takes, not takes the decisions out of my hands, but like, rather than saying, ‘what do you want to do?’, or you know, like, or just leaving it to me and letting me you know, call of shots … potentially saying, ‘Hey, I’m going to do this. How do you feel about that?’. … I find as somebody who is often in charge in a lot of parts of my life … I enjoy being a bit more submissive with [queer] sexual partners.

Being able to take on a submissive role in queer relationships means he is able to challenge the heteronormative assumption that he needs to always be in charge as a man. Submissive roles can be seen as limiting as there are normative expectations associated with them such as being more passive. However, this role simultaneously facilitated his ability to embody and negotiate non-heteronormative expressions of masculinity with his sexual partners.

Queer scripts and norms offered some participants the opportunity to experiment with sexual roles that are not always accessible within heteronormative sexual scripts. Having the opportunity to explore these roles within queer encounters allowed participants to challenge their own preconceived notions about gender and sexuality which could make them feel more active in sexual negotiation. Lou (23, non-binary, pansexual), for instance, shared how in heteronormative relationships they felt confined to a submissive role. However, with women and AFAB (assigned female at birth) non-binary partners, they were able to experiment with a dominant role, making them feel like more active participant, rather than passive recipients during sex.

… in the past when I was predominately having sex with men, I definitely took on more of a sub sort of role … whereas that completely changed me after I started being intimate with women and non-binary folk. I kind of came into my own power because I realised being an AFAB dom is something that I can definitely do. It definitely made me … a more active participant in creating those boundaries … being more dominant has definitely given me more of a voice.

Whilst still adhering to a somewhat normative dominant/submissive binary, inhabiting a dominant sexual role enabled Lou to expand their gendered and sexual subjectivity beyond heteronormative expectations, positively impacting their ability to negotiate sex well. It is important to recognise that whilst gendered norms and scripts have primarily been seen as limiting sexual consent communication (Burkett and Hamilton 2012; Fenner 2017; Jeffrey 2022), they can provide meaningful guidance and support in the exploration of sex, particularly in queer sexual encounters. Queer norms, with roles like ‘top’ and ‘bottom’ or ‘butch’ and ‘fem’, whilst gendered and normative, were often subverting or reshaping heteronormative understandings of sex and gender, masculinity, and femininity, creating different possibilities for doing sex and gender in queer relationships. Queer sexual scripts allowed participants to embody particular identities, with these scripts making their queer and gendered subjectivities possible. However, as the next section will demonstrate, norms and scripts could also make sex uncomfortable to negotiate when they limited, rather than facilitated sexual possibilities.

The Discomfort of Norms During Sexual Negotiation

Whilst norms and scripts could facilitate sexual negotiation when they support participants’ ability to express their gender and explore sexual roles, they can also limit sexual negotiation when they impose unwanted and restrictive expectations. As Ahmed’s (2007b, 161) phenomenological understanding of discomfort suggests, when bodies are not ‘extended by the skin of the social, bodily movement is not so easy. Such bodies are stopped … ’. When norms and scripts restrict, rather than extend possibilities for gendered and sexual expression, sexual possibilities outside of these normative frameworks can be difficult to negotiate.

Being bi+, participants had a unique vantage point to reflect on the impact of norms in both heterosexual and queer experiences. Some participants discovered their queer gender or sexuality later in life, allowing them to reflect on their earlier experiences of negotiating heterosexual encounters when they identified as heterosexual and/or cisgender. During these reflections, participants discussed how heteronorms and scripts shaped not only their sexual encounters but also their broader subjectivity and sense of identity as heterosexual cisgender men or women. These norms had a significant influence on their understanding of themselves, extending beyond just the specific moments of sexual experiences. In other words, understanding themselves as heterosexual individuals in a world shaped by heteronormative expectations, these norms were not merely external factors to recognise and either take on or resist, but these norms actively worked to shape their gender and sexual subjectivity.

For example, Feather (32, non-binary, bisexual/queer) described how, when living according to their assigned gender at birth, they felt unable to say ‘no’ to particular sexual acts or negotiate other ways of engaging in sex because they understood their gender and sexuality through heteronormative expectations around masculinity:

I felt really pressured around being in the active role and also submerged in the toxic masculinity of you need to want sex all the time and of course, you’re always up for it and you’re lucky to get sex, and also sex is really tied up in you having an erection and orgasming at the end and that that’s super important or even like you should really want blow jobs … being able to … say ‘I don’t want this sex act’ was really complicated by … the kind of gender constraints around me.

In another example, Bradley (35, transmasculine, bisexual) spoke about his experience of negotiating sex in his (at the time) heterosexual marriage when he was living as a cis-gender woman in a marriage with a cis-gender man. Bradley said:

I had very clear ideas of what a married relationship [should be] … I got brought up in a Christian schooling and had very archaic ideas of what marriage meant, what the role of a wife is, and all that kind of stuff. […] I very much had this idea of this is what marriage was, this is what you have to do when you’re married. And so, you know, it’s not like, [sex with their husband] wasn’t consensual but I think that I didn’t necessarily feel I could, could say ‘no’, or I was always worried about what are the consequences of marriage if you’re constantly saying ‘no’.

Both Feather and Bradley are describing that they understood themselves as men, women, and sexual partners through heteronormative discourses about gender, sexual performance and relationships. They had come to know themselves through these normative frameworks, meaning that saying ‘no’ to sex, or negotiating other ways of doing sex, was more complex than merely an autonomous choice. Saying ‘no’ entailed navigating the cultural expectations through which they had come to understand their sexual and gendered identity. Rejecting or altering heteronormative expectations during sex was not just a simple choice but was working against the ‘well-trodden path’ (Ahmed 2007a, 16) of heterosexual gendered norms. This underscores the intercorporeal (Merleau-Ponty 1962) nature of sexual negotiation. Sexual negotiation is not just about communicating some inner autonomous desire but is deeply entwined with external perceptions and societal constructs that shape our experiences and subjectivity. It can be deeply uncomfortable to challenge or resist these norms, as one’s sense of self has been formed in relation to them. As Vivien (32, cis-woman, queer) described:

… it is complicated to say ‘no’ when you’re a woman-identified person saying ‘no’ to a man … because of the power of the situation or the cultural expectation or the norm around sex and what you’re supposed to be doing.

These limiting norms were not exclusive to heterosexual experiences; participants also shared instances where norms and scripts in queer relationships made negotiating sex uncomfortable. For example, some participants described that gendered roles within lesbian relationships, such as the butch and femme roles we explored in the last section, were limiting. Rather than opening possibilities like they did for some, other participants found that they drew strict and inflexible boundaries around sexual and gendered expression. May (40, cis-woman, queer/pansexual), for instance, said in sexual relationships with lesbians she has struggled to communicate the full spectrum of her sexual desires because lesbian partners have made assumptions that she will take on a submissive and bottom role during sex based on her feminine appearance:

I have switch desires, I like to bottom and top, and I feel like I haven’t always explored my top energy because … in some relationships with lesbians it’s been viewed as, like, ‘No, I don’t want that’. … sometimes I find some lesbians, they really don’t like fluidity. […] I guess having a femme gender expression has influenced my experiences in the sense that my partners tend to want certain things from me.

Some participants also spoke about the norms in gay relationships or in sex between men as impacting their sexual communication practices. Andrew (49, cis-man, bisexual/pansexual/queer) discussed how there are scripted understandings of what ‘counts’ as sex in sexual relationships between men. For example, Andrew said he spent a long part of his life feeling pressured to engage in anal sex even though he did not enjoy it because anal sex is constructed as ‘real’ sex between men. Whilst these experiences of anal sex were not necessarily non-consensual, Andrew did not feel comfortable saying ‘no’ to anal sex or negotiating other sexual activities as this would be acting against the dominant construction of gay sexuality:

… this is one of my beefs with the gay community […] the whole, everything we do is around anal sex, it’s a stereotype […] there’s a lot of gay people that actually think anything other than anal sex isn’t really real sex. […] it took me a long while to [say ‘no’ to doing anal sex] … because I was going ‘well, I probably should’.

As one participant Elanor (27, cis-woman, bisexual/queer) said, whilst queerness may feel like you are ‘free of the social scripts’ of heterosexuality, in queer communities ‘you actually get a whole new set of social scripts handed to you’. As I explored in the last section, queer sexual scripts allowed some individuals to embrace particular identities which facilitated sexual negotiation within contexts where that identity was recognised and desired. However, for others, these norms restricted their gendered and sexual expression in ways they found undesirable. Ahmed’s queer phenomenological perspective emphasises the intimate connection between our bodies and social norms. When our subjectivities are not readily extended by these norms, discomfort arises, making it challenging to navigate sexual experiences beyond the expected frameworks, even within queer contexts. This analysis highlights the complex interplay between queer sexual scripts, subjectivity formation, and the negotiation of sex, underscoring the need for a nuanced understanding of the impact of norms on individual experiences. Each person’s experience of negotiating sex is deeply intertwined with their subjectivity, which is shaped by their unique social, cultural, and historical context. It is crucial to recognise that norms and scripts that may be empowering and facilitate sexual negotiation for one person can be constraining and uncomfortable for another. Hence, a one-size-fits-all approach to understanding sexual negotiation and consent is inadequate.

Queer Sex and Disruption

So far, I have explored how norms and scripts can facilitate or limit sexual negotiation, however, participants’ narratives also demonstrated that queer bodies and sex can disrupt norms and scripts in a productive way for sexual negotiation. As participants were bi+, they were often reflecting on the experience of negotiating both heteronormative and queernormative relationships. They often felt as though they existed ‘in-between’. As Pallotta-Chiarolli and Lubowitz (2003) have argued, bisexuality is often experienced as a type of ‘border existence’ – not seen as legitimately heterosexual or queer. Whilst this can be an isolating and exclusionary experience, they argue that this can open up space for experimentation due to the flexibility afforded by being outside of heteronormative constructs as well as dominant constructs of same-sex relationships.

Indeed, participants discussed how the experience of negotiating both heterosexual and queer sex made them critical of the norms present in different relationships, disrupting their gendered and sexual subjectivity being shaped by these norms. As Butler (1997, 92–93) argues, experiencing ‘convergence with other discursive regimes’ can ‘inadvertently produc[e] discursive complexity undermin[ing] the teleological aims of normalisation’. In other words, things that are taken for granted or experienced as ‘normal’ or ‘natural’ can be undermined or unsettled through the contradictions found in negotiating multiple spaces. This is where Ahmed’s queer phenomenology and understanding of discomfort not only help to explain the way our perception of the world is shaped by norms, but the way that this process of normalisation can be disrupted by the discomfort of not conforming. As Ahmed (2007b: 163) says, discomfort is not always negative, it can bring what is in the background and accepted as the norm ‘back to life’. It can give us a different viewing point and ‘disorientates how things are arranged’.

For instance, Vivien (32, cis-woman, queer) described how navigating both heteronormative and queer relationships complicated her perceptions of queer sexual roles. Vivien strives to keep open the possibility for versatility by refusing to be defined by a particular role or sexual position. This refusal is made possible by the experience of existing ‘in-between’ heteronormative and queernormative discourses, undermining the power of them to shape her subjectivity:

I’m very versatile and I, my previous partner was the kind of classic top. I just found it a bit, I didn’t like it, [it] made me feel too submissive or something. I think I actually actively resist those [roles] and that’s just something that works for me. I think also that has something to do with the fact that I have dated cis-men in the past. Like that time is over, I think, I don’t want to have to go and reinvigorate any of those old tropes. So, I think it’s much better for me to have a more equal exchange in sex.

Elle (33, cis-woman, pansexual/queer) described that refusing to take on a fixed sexual role means that she can challenge normative gendered assumptions such as that she will be passive during sex, which some people may assume based on her feminine gendered presentation. Therefore, not taking on a fixed sexual role allows her to resist normative ‘femme’ gendered expectations during sexual negotiation:

… It’s really funny because I identify as femme, but I’m also a switch … so people think that I’m the passive one and I’m like, oh, honey, I don’t want one position, I want all positions.

This ‘bumping up’ against norms and them not quite fitting opened the space to be critical of other normativities, not just as it pertains to sexual roles. One participant Ashleigh (27, cis-woman, bisexual) described this as ‘opening up the floodgates’ to questioning everything:

… if you have to go through the process of accepting that you are queer and you have different or non-mainstream desires … you sort of question other things as well. I’m like ‘oh I thought I was straight’ and then that turned out to not be true, like what else have I been doing wrong? … at least you turn your mind to it … It does sort of open that floodgate into questioning everything … 

Importantly, some participants demonstrated that their ability to be critical of and disrupt dominant norms surrounding gender, sexuality, and sexual expression played a crucial role in navigating discomfort during their sexual experiences. By existing within the ‘border-existence’ of multi-gender attraction, they became more adept at negotiating everyday feelings of discomfort, including those arising during sex. Their familiarity with discomfort and their skill in deconstructing heteronormative and homonormative expectations facilitated their ability to be critical of and resist unwanted and potentially harmful sexual practices because of gendered expectations. Vivien (32, cis-woman, queer), described this as a willingness to ‘sit in the discomfort’ when negotiating sex because her queer sexuality has given her the space to be critical of gender roles and sexual scripts. Therefore, when something happens in a sexual experience that threatens her gendered or sexual subjectivity, she is better able to sit with and negotiate this discomfort:

… I do think being critical of gender roles, traditional gender roles, has made my experience of giving and receiving consent, much more well-rounded … you’re willing to be critical and therefore you’re willing to know things about your own body and other people’s bodies that might be uncomfortable. But I think one of the things about being critical and knowing things about gender is that you’re much more willing to sit in that discomfort, right? Like the defense mechanism that we have, you know, goes up and then you go, ‘mmm I’ll just sit in this for a moment and actually think about it’, and if I can get through that feeling of going, ‘I am offended by you doing this’, you know, you come to know that it’s not a personal attack against you if someone doesn’t want to do something … in bed.

Laila (22, cis-woman, whatever floats my goat) similarly described that she feels more comfortable expressing what she wants during sex after deconstructing the normative expectations which used to shape and guide her behaviour and sexual communication practices:

I just think [being multi-gender attracted] definitely gave me, almost permission to explore my own sense of what pleasure is. Because prior to that, I had all these expectations of what pleasure was meant to be and I kind of just slotted into [normative] roles because I didn’t think there was any other option. And it wasn’t until I was able to branch out that, you know, suddenly, I felt more comfortable in expressing what I want … 

Participants demonstrated how the experience of being bi+ and having sexual experiences with people of multiple genders exposed the process of normalisation that occurs within particular relationships and communities. Some participants expressed that the absence of clear norms and positive representations of negotiating queer sex, particularly for bi+ people, could also present challenges as they felt they did not have clear frameworks to draw on. However, being bi+ simultaneously could have a positive impact on their ability to negotiate sex as the experience of not neatly fitting in meant they were more practiced at negotiating the discomfort of disrupting the norms that shape sexual interactions. As Ahmed (2017, 133) says, worlds can be opened up by ‘such ordinary feelings of discomfort, of not quite fitting in a chair’. This aligns with queer theoretical scholarship which has demonstrated the transformative possibilities of living outside of ‘normality’. Within these liminal spaces, queer people have crafted alternative pathways to intimacy and relationships that challenge and reshape conventional norms (Jeffrey, Heaphy, and Donovan 2001; Weston 1991).

Conclusion: Reimagining Sexual Negotiation Beyond Autonomous Choice

In most of the literature on sexual consent and communication, gendered norms and sexual scripts have primarily been understood as shaping sexual consent communication in negative ways because there has been a focus on heterosexuality and sexual violence. In this study, I explored bi+ participants’ experiences of negotiating sex, with a particular focus on experiences where they were able to negotiate sex well. The findings demonstrate that scripted conceptions of sex do not just constrain but can also give possibility to the ways in which people negotiate sex (see also: Hoppe 2011). As Butler (2004, 7) has argued, social norms provide the resources for understanding ourselves and making choices, as ‘one is dependent on this “outside” to lay claim to what is one’s own’. Butler, therefore, says that we cannot fully remove and live outside of norms, but rather there is a need to ‘distinguish [between] the norms and conventions that permit people to breathe, to desire, to live, and to love, and the conventions that restrict or eviscerate the conditions of life itself’. Heterosexual norms, for instance, may offer familiar scripts that make sexual negotiation more straightforward by delineating the roles and expectations associated with men and women. Whilst this can be limiting in many ways, some found these norms useful, or ‘comforting’ during sexual negotiation. Similarly, queer norms and sexual roles made queer subjectivities possible beyond the confines of heteronormative expectations. With this possibility, came greater ease with negotiating non-heterosexual sex. However, it is crucial to acknowledge that while some participants find emancipation from heteronormativity and possibilities for expression in queer norms, other individuals may find these norms constraining when they become obligatory and prevent the exploration of alternative expressions of gender and sexuality.

Understanding the complex ways that norms shape sexual decision-making is important for conceptualising sexual negotiation beyond dominant understandings of sexual consent which prioritise autonomous, voluntary, free choice. The current emphasis on affirmative consent standards in legal, institutional, and social settings perpetuates these unreachable ideals (Kukla 2021). While the emphasis on personal agency and freedom in the affirmative consent approach is well-intentioned, it falls short of fully addressing the intricate influence of social norms, power dynamics, and cultural expectations on sexual decision-making. Alcoff (2018) and Cahill’s (2001) work argues that the body is not a neutral entity in sexual encounters; rather, it is deeply intertwined with the norms and scripts that shape our experiences and subjectivity. Disregarding the ways our bodies and actions are shaped by our social and historical location, and reinforcing an unattainable ideal of complete autonomy and free choice only serves to ignore the mechanisms through which our choices are shaped. There is a need to turn our attention to how sexual agency develops under such constrained circumstances (Alcoff 2018, 93).

By placing feminist insights on sexual consent and sexual violence into conversation with queer theoretical perspectives and bi+ people’s stories, I have expanded understandings of sexual agency, sexual norms and scripts beyond heterosexual relationships. Through employing a queer phenomenological framework (Ahmed 2007a), I suggest that certain constrained circumstances can be ‘agentic’ in the sense that norms and scripts make certain sexual subjectivities possible and open up possibilities for taking up different sexual options and choices. However, I also suggest that the power of these norms and scripts to completely shape our choices can be disrupted by queer bodies and sex that challenge and resist normative constraints by generating discursive complexity in how we understand sex, gender, bodies, and relationships. As I have demonstrated, by looking beyond heterosexuality, violence prevention, and autonomous choice, a different perspective can be gained on sexual negotiation which goes beyond the moment/s of communication. Engaging with bi+ participants and exploring their experiences of negotiating sex well demonstrated the nuanced ways our choices and perspectives are shaped and how this is intimately linked to our gendered and sexual subjectivity. A queer phenomenological framework for understanding sexual negotiation could be further developed in the future by taking an intersectional perspective and having a more nuanced understanding of power. Whilst living outside of mainstream ideals can have a transformative impact, future scholarship should explore how access to that transformative impact is structured by other forms of structural power or oppression such as race, class, disability, and body size. Extending this framework beyond queer gender and sexuality would allow for a more nuanced understanding of sexual negotiation.

Disclosure Statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Additional information

Funding

The project has been supported by the Australian Government PhD scholarship program – the Research Training Program stipend scholarship.

Notes on contributors

Sophie Hindes

Sophie Hindes (they/them) is a Research Fellow at The University of Queensland and a Research Associate at RMIT University. Sophie’s research investigates sexual violence from queer, feminist, and critical criminological theoretical perspectives. They have published research on sexual consent, the #MeToo movement, sexual assault reporting, street harassment, and technology-facilitated violence.