Girls & Sex Read online

  Dedication

  For my one daughter, my eight nieces, my two nephews,

  and all the girls and boys I’ve met along the way

  Contents

  Dedication

  INTRODUCTION

  Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Girls and Sex (but Really Need to Ask)

  CHAPTER 1

  Matilda Oh Is Not an Object—Except When She Wants to Be

  CHAPTER 2

  Are We Having Fun Yet?

  CHAPTER 3

  Like a Virgin, Whatever That Is

  CHAPTER 4

  Hookups and Hang-Ups

  CHAPTER 5

  Out: Online and IRL

  CHAPTER 6

  Blurred Lines, Take Two

  CHAPTER 7

  What If We Told Them the Truth?

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Selected Bibliography

  Index

  About the Author

  Also by Peggy Orenstein

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Girls and Sex (but Really Need to Ask)

  A few years ago I realized that my daughter wouldn’t be a little girl much longer. She was headed toward adolescence, and honestly, it put me in a bit of a panic. Way back in preschool, when she was swanning around in her Cinderella gown, I took a deep dive into the princess industrial complex and came back convinced that its seemingly innocent pink-and-pretty culture was priming little girls for something more insidious later on. Well, “later on” was now coming at us like a Mack truck—a Mack truck whose driver was wearing five-inch heels and a micro-mini, and was checking her Instagram when she ought to have been looking at the road. I’d heard horror stories from friends with teenagers about how girls were treated in the so-called hookup culture; of girls coerced into sexting or victimized in social media scandals; of omnipresent porn.

  I was supposed to be the expert at decoding the mixed messages of girlhood. I traveled the country schooling parents on the difference between sexualization and sexuality. “When little girls play at ‘sexy’ before they even understand the word,” I’d tell them, “they learn that sex is a performance rather than a felt experience.” True enough. But what about once they did understand the word?

  It wasn’t as if I had any answers. I, too, was just trying my best to raise a healthy daughter at a time when celebrities presented self-objectification as a source of strength, power, and independence; when looking desirable seemed a substitute for feeling desire; when Fifty Shades of Grey, with its neurasthenic lip-chewing heroine and creepy stalker billionaire, was being hailed as the ultimate feminine fantasy; when no woman under the age of forty appeared to have pubic hair. Sure, as a girl I wore out songs such as “Sexual Healing” and “Like a Virgin,” but they were Disney Channel fodder compared to L’il Wayne’s “bitch” whose “strict diet” in the song “Love Me” consists of nothing but “dick”; or Maroon 5’s promise to hunt a woman down and eat her alive in “Animals.” (In the video, lead singer Adam Levine stalks the object of his obsession while dressed as a butcher wielding a meat hook, then has sex with her in a blood-drenched finale.) It’s enough to make me apologize to Tipper Gore for the way my friends and I mocked her in the ’90s. Meanwhile, study after study has revealed a shocking prevalence of sexual assault on college campuses; the problem is so dire that the president of the United States (himself the father of two teen girls) has become involved.

  Even as girls outnumbered boys in college, as they “leaned in” to achieve their academic and professional dreams, I had to wonder: Were we moving forward or backward? Did today’s young women have more freedom than their mothers to shape their sexual encounters, more influence and more control within them? Were they better able to resist stigma, better equipped to explore joy? And if not, why not? Girls now live in a culture where, increasingly, unless both parties agree unequivocally to a sexual encounter, there is no consent—only “yes means yes.” All well and good, but what happens after yes?

  I NEEDED, AS a mom and a journalist, to find out the truth behind the headlines, what was real and what was hype. So I began interviewing girls: engaging in in-depth, hours-long conversations about their attitudes, expectations, and early experiences with the full range of physical intimacy. I recruited daughters of friends of friends (and the friends of those girls, and their friends, too); students of high school teachers I had met. I would ask professors on campuses I visited to send out an e-mail blast, inviting any girls interested in talking to me to get in touch. In the end, I interviewed more than seventy young women between the ages of fifteen and twenty, an age span during which most will become sexually active. (The average American has first intercourse at seventeen; by nineteen, three fourths of teens have had sex.) My focus remained on girls alone because, as a journalist, writing about young women has been a passion, a calling: I’ve been chronicling their lives for over twenty-five years. Girls, too, continue to live with unique contradictions as they make sexual choices: despite the seismic changes in expectations and opportunity, they’re still subject to the same old double standard, the idea that a sexually active girl is a “slut,” while a similar boy is a “player.” Now, though, girls who abstain from sex, once thought of as the “good girls,” are shamed as well, labeled “virgins” (which is not a good thing) or “prudes.” As one high school senior said to me, “Usually the opposite of a negative is a positive, but in this case it’s two negatives. So what are you supposed to do?”

  I don’t claim to reflect the experience of all young women. My interview subjects were either in college or college bound—I specifically wanted to talk to those who felt they had all options open to them, the ones who had most benefited from women’s economic and political progress. They were also self-selected. That said, I cast my net broadly. The girls I met came from across the country, from large cities and small towns. They were Catholic, mainline Protestant, Evangelical, Jewish, and unaffiliated. Some of their parents were married, some were divorced; some lived in blended families, some in single-parent households. They came from politically conservative as well as liberal backgrounds, though most leaned somewhat toward the latter. The majority was white, but many were Asian American, Latina, African American, Arab American, or mixed race. About 10 percent identified as lesbian or bisexual, though most, particularly those still in high school, had not acted on their attraction to other girls. Two were physically disabled. While most came disproportionately from upper-middle-class families, there was some range of economic background—I interviewed girls from the East Side of Manhattan and the South Side of Chicago; girls whose parents managed hedge funds and those whose parents managed fast-food restaurants. To protect their privacy, I have changed all names and identifying details.

  At first, I worried that girls wouldn’t discuss such a personal subject with me. I needn’t have. Wherever I went, I had more volunteers than I could handle. They were not just eager, they were hungry to talk. No adult had ever before inquired about their experience of sexuality: what they did, why they did it, how it felt, what they hoped for, what they regretted, what was fun. Often in interviews, I barely asked a question. The girls would just start talking, and before we knew it, hours had gone by. They told me how they felt about masturbation, about oral sex (both giving and receiving), about orgasm. They talked about toeing that line between virgin and slut. They told me about boys who were aggressive and boys who were caring; boys who abused them and boys who restored their faith in love. They admitted their attraction to other girls and their fears of parental rejection. They talked about the complicated terrain of the hookup culture, in which casual encounters precede (
and may or may not lead to) emotional connection; now commonplace on college campuses, it was rapidly drifting down to high school. Fully half the girls had experienced something along a spectrum of coercion to rape. Those stories were agonizing; equally upsetting, only two had previously told another adult what had happened.

  Even in consensual encounters, much of what the girls described was painful to hear. Perhaps that seems like nothing new, but that in itself is worth exploring. When so much has changed for girls in the public realm, why hasn’t more—much more—changed in the private one? Can there be true equality in the classroom and the boardroom if there isn’t in the bedroom? Back in 1995 the National Commission on Adolescent Sexual Health declared healthy sexual development a basic human right. Teen intimacy, it said, ought to be “consensual, non-exploitative, honest, pleasurable, and protected against unintended pregnancy and STDs.” How is it, over two decades later, that we are so shamefully short of that goal?

  Sara McClelland, a professor of psychology at the University of Michigan, writes about sexuality as a matter of “intimate justice,” touching on fundamental issues of gender inequality, economic disparity, violence, bodily integrity, physical and mental health, self-efficacy, and power dynamics in our most personal relationships. She asks us to consider: Who has the right to engage in sexual behavior? Who has the right to enjoy it? Who is the primary beneficiary of the experience? Who feels deserving? How does each partner define “good enough?” Those are thorny questions when looking at female sexuality at any age, but particularly when considering girls’ early, formative experience. Nonetheless, I was determined to ask them.

  A number of the girls I met stayed in touch long after we spoke, e-mailing updates about new relationships or evolving beliefs. “I wanted to let you know that because of our conversation I’ve changed my major,” one wrote. “I’m going to study health with a focus on gender and sexuality.” Another, a high school junior, told me our discussion affected the questions she asked while touring college campuses. A third, a high school senior, confessed to her boyfriend that all her “orgasms” had been fake; yet another high-schooler told her boyfriend to stop pressuring her to climax; it was ruining sex. The interviews—with the young women themselves and with psychologists, sociologists, pediatricians, educators, journalists, and other experts—changed me, too, forced me to confront my biases, overcome discomfort, clarify my values. That, I believe, has made me a better parent, a better aunt, a better ally to all the young women, and the young men, in my life. I hope, after reading this book, you will feel the same way.

  CHAPTER 1

  Matilda Oh Is Not an Object—Except When She Wants to Be

  Camila Ortiz and Izzy Lang had heard it all before. They were seniors at a large California high school—with a campus of over 3,300 students—so this was their fourth September, their fourth “welcome back” assembly. They sat toward the rear of the auditorium, alternately daydreaming and chatting with friends as administrators droned on about the importance of attendance (“especially for you seniors”); the behaviors that could get you suspended; the warnings about cigarettes, alcohol, and weed. Then the dean of students addressed the girls in the crowd. “He was like, ‘Ladies, when you go out you need to dress to respect yourself and respect your family,’” recalled Izzy. Blond and blue-eyed, she had a dimple in one cheek that deepened as she spoke. “‘This isn’t the place for your short shorts or your tank tops or your crop tops. You need to ask yourself: if your grandmother looks at you, will she be happy with what you’re wearing?’”

  Camila, whose left nostril was pierced with a subtle crystal stud, jumped in, her index finger wagging. “‘You need to cover that up because you need to have respect for yourself.’ You need to respect yourself. You need to respect your family. That idea was just . . . repeated and repeated. And then he went from that immediately into the slides defining sexual harassment. Like there was a connection. Like maybe if you don’t ‘respect yourself’ by the way you dress you’re going to get harassed, and that’s your own fault because you wore the tank top.”

  Growing up in this very school system, Camila had learned the importance of challenging injustice, of being an “upstander.” So she began to shout the dean’s name. “Mr. Williams! Mr. Williams!” she yelled. He invited her to the front of the auditorium and handed her the mic. “Hi, I’m Camila,” she said. “I’m a twelfth-grader and I think what you just said is not okay and is extremely sexist and promoting ‘rape culture.’ If I want to wear a tank top and shorts because it’s hot, I should be able to do that and that has no correlation to how much ‘respect’ I hold for myself. What you’re saying is just continuing this cycle of blaming the victim.” The students in the auditorium cheered, and Camila handed back the mic.

  “Thank you, Camila. I totally agree,” Mr. Williams said as she walked back to her seat. Then he added, “But there’s a time and a place for that type of clothing.”

  This was not the first earful I’d gotten about girls’ provocative dress: from parents, from teachers, from administrators, from girls themselves. Parents went to battle over the skimpiness of shorts, the clingy V-necks, the tush-cupping yoga pants that showed “everything.” Why do girls have to dress like that? moms asked, even as some wore similar outfits themselves. Principals tried to impose decorum, but ended up inciting rebellion. In suburban Chicago, eighth-graders picketed a proposed policy against leggings. High-schoolers in Utah took to the Internet when they discovered digitally raised necklines and sleeves added to female classmates’ shirts in their yearbook photos.

  Boys run afoul of dress codes when they flout authority: “hippies” defying the establishment, “thugs” in saggy pants. For girls, the issue is sex. Enforcing modesty is considered a way both to protect and to contain young women’s sexuality; and they, by association, are charged with controlling young men’s. After the assembly, the dean of attendance, who was female, stopped Camila in the hallway. “I totally get that you’re trying to empower yourself,” she told the girl, “but it’s a bit distracting. You have male teachers, and there are male students.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be hiring male teachers that are focused on staring at my boobs!” Camila shot back. The dean said they could continue the conversation later. “Later” never came.

  That was three months ago, and Camila was still furious. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I wear,” she said. “Four out of five days going to school I will be catcalled, I will be stared at, I will be looked up and down, I will be touched. You just accept it as part of going to school. I can’t help my body type, and it’s super distracting to me to know that every time I get up to sharpen my pencil there’s going to be a comment about my butt. That doesn’t happen to guys. No guy has ever had to walk down the hall and had girls going, ‘Hey, boy, your calves are looking great! Your calves are hot.’”

  Camila is right. Addressing boys directly is the only way to challenge the assumption by some that girls’ bodies exist for them to judge—and even touch—however and whenever they wish. The previous year at the girls’ high school, a group of boys created an Instagram account to “expose” the campus THOTs, an acronym for That Ho Over There. (Every generation seems to invent a new Scarlet Letter word—strumpet, hussy, tramp, slut, skank, ho—with which to demonize girls’ sexuality.) They downloaded pictures from girls’ Instagram or Twitter accounts (or snapped one in the hallways), captioning each with the girl’s purported sexual history. All the girls singled out were black or Latina. Camila was one of them. “It was such a violation,” she said. “Part of the caption was ‘I dare you to go fuck her for a good time.’ I had to go to school with that out there.” When she lodged a formal complaint, she was placed in a room with four male school security guards who, she said, asked whether she had actually performed the acts attributed to her on the site. Humiliated, she let the matter drop. The Instagram account eventually petered out; the perpetrators were never caught.

  Whether online or IR
L (“in real life”), Camila’s was hardly an isolated case. Another girl, a high school junior in nearby Marin County, California, who played varsity volleyball, told me how boys from the soccer team gathered in the bleachers to harass her teammates during practice, yelling things like “Nice gooch!” (urban dictionary slang for perineum) when the girls lunged to make a shot. (There are, incidentally, hundreds of close-up, rear-view photos of underage girls in volleyball shorts on the Internet.) A senior in San Francisco described how, within days of arriving at an elite summer journalism program she attended in Chicago, the boys created a “slut draft” (akin to a fantasy football league), ranking their female peers in order of “who they wanted to fuck.”

  “The girls were pissed off,” she told me, “but we couldn’t complain because of all the implications, right? If you complain and you’re on the list, you’re a prude. If you complain and you’re not on it, you’re ugly. If you complain about it being sexist, then you’re a humorless feminist bitch and a lesbian.”

  I heard about a boy who, claiming to have “magic arms,” would hug random girls in his New York City public school hallway and then announce his assessment of their bra size; about a high school boy who sauntered up to a stranger at a party in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and asked, “Can I touch your boobs?”; about boys at dances everywhere who, especially after a few (or more) drinks, felt free to “grind” against girls from behind, unbidden. Most girls had learned to gracefully disengage from such situations if uninterested. Boys rarely pursued. Several young women, though, said a dance partner had gone further, pushing aside their skirts and sliding a quick finger into their underwear. By college, girls attending a frat party may not make it to the dance floor at all unless they passed what one called the “pretty test” at the front door, where a designated brother “decides whether you are accepted or rejected, beautiful or ugly. He’s the reason you better wear a crop top in subzero weather or you’ll end up home alone eating microwave popcorn and calling your mom.”