Can ethical feminist sex exist in romance books? Should it?

I’ve been following this kind of revolving-door conversation about ethical feminist sex in the romance reading community for years now.

No, people don’t specifically call it “ethical feminist sex”, but when readers debate if an author has explicitly portrayed consent or whether characters have conversations about contraception on-page, this is what they’re essentially talking about.

Generally, there’s an amorphous idea haunting these conversations that if a romance author is going to portray harm, it needs to be addressed or resolved in a way that is satisfactory to the reader.

Perhaps there’s even an expressed preference that rather than portray the harm, the author should avoid writing about it in the first place?

There are also instances in which on-page consent or conversations about sex isn’t enough, and the character needs to “grovel” in the eyes of the reader to redeem themselves in terms of the narrative, though this is a more complex issue.

I think a lot of this conversation, these demands for explicit on-page consent and conversations around contraception in fiction, come back to how the media we consume is seen as a kind of signifier of who we are, what our reading preferences say about us.

Let me explain.

I have a few questions about this whole conversation.

The first of which is: do the people asking for these things actually want them in the books they read?

One part of this answer is: yes.

There’s a fan for everything, and some readers want to read explicitly cosy, feel-good romances where these things are a part of the conversation and relationship of the characters on-page.

And there’s nothing wrong with wanting this, but I don’t think it benefits anyone, least of all the narrative, to have this as a blanket demand across the board.

Because I think another part of the answer is: publicly asking for these things may make people feel like a better person (and this tells us more about them than it does the author).

There are many ways to write consent into a book, more explicit and less explicit – it’s a style choice that each author makes for each story.

When authors write in these explicit conversations, not because they naturally fit the world, characters, narrative, or reflect the author’s own desires, they can come off as finger-wagging lectures about morality, inadvertently directed at the reader.

Different genres relate to this differently.

Dark romance readers are more flexible in what they’ll read when it comes to sexual encounters and how they interpret consent (to be clear, by “dark romance reader” I don’t mean someone who explicitly reads dark romance, but a reader who is drawn to darker themes as well, rather than explicit reading the more cosy end of the spectrum).

This begs the question: is this demand is more strongly present in contemporary romances?

If yes, is it because genres such as dark and monster romance require a stronger suspension of disbelief to begin with, keeping “contemporary” ideas of what ethical sex looks like at more of a distance?

Or is it because there’s an expectation that romance should be didactic and informational, and the more it resembles our real life, the more didactic and informational it should be?

Secondly, how do we define “good, ethical feminist sex” anyway?

One thing that quickly becomes obvious in conversations about sex, especially among women, is that there is the sex that you have and the sex that you believe you should be having.

This gap of what you do and what you think you should do is significant, because I think it’s largely shaped by how well your sexual activities conform to heteronormative standards (and whether that’s the yardstick you’re measuring your own sex life against).

This chasm is occupied with guilt and shame, not only because this is the fundamental nature of ‘shoulds’, but because mainstream media has long pushed ideas about the kind of sex we should be having. (It sells, so they keep doing it.)

Magazines are full of advice about having “better” sex, “helpful” instructional illustrations and diagrams, and comparisons to some statistical average about what is an acceptable amount of sex per week is.

It’s all packaged in cute, harmless-looking formats, like quizzes and bucket lists that look like they’re just good fun, but can have a profound impact on those consuming them (especially, in quantity and when this starts at a young age).

And this isn’t even taking into consideration the fact that most content, whether in a print magazine or on a website or on social media, has a main goal of selling you something – or at the very least capturing your attention for as long as possible – rather than empowering you to make informed choices (sometimes this overlaps, and when it does, it’s wonderful, but this isn’t the majority of the corporate-driven content landscape online).

Speaking of corporate, the really classic versions of consent – what it is and what it looks like – are created by corporate interests, and designed to mitigate risk in a corporate environment (aka safeguard against litigation and expensive payouts).

This definition of consent isn’t designed to give individuals the tools to advocate for themselves in sexual encounters or make informed decisions about sex.

So, is this demand for ethical feminist sex in fiction then an outsourcing or distancing yourself from that guilt?

The, perhaps subconscious, reasoning being that if you’re unable to reach those high ethical standards in daily life yourself, then at least you can choose to consume media that portrays explicitly consensual sex and has open talk about contraception (and so responsibility) on-page.

The act of choosing to consume media that portrays no harm and has no ambiguity then signals to yourself (when consuming in private) and to others (when consuming in public) what you wished were true of you, but perhaps is not – or, at the very least, supports what you think is true about yourself.

And I have to wonder, is there a guilt about having sex in general, or maybe having sex with cis-het men that underlies the slipperiness of defining feminist sex?

I mean, “ethical feminist sex” is a bit of an odd one to try to nail down in terms of whether or not people want it, since it requires knowing what both the author and the reader want that to mean to begin with.

There’s no reason “ethical feminist sex” can’t exist in dark romance, but it’s going to look different from how it will in some other genre.

A quick note on the stories we tell ourselves.

I have one written-in-stone rule about fashion when it comes to my offspring: under no circumstances will I allow children to wear clothing that tells an unflattering story.

As a t-shirt designer and formerly having had a career in kids’ retail, I’m well aware of how the messages we choose to put on ourselves and insert into our lives have a gradual effect on us.

And most children’s clothes are designed to be funny.

But usually funny at the expense of punching down.

You know the kind of things I’m talking about; brightly coloured shirts that read “Wild Child” or “Little Troublemaker” or “Beware: Learning Bad Words” or “All I Want In Life Is Pancakes”.

While these can seem funny to adults, I don’t want my kids to walk into a room and be greeted with, “Oh, here comes the little troublemaker!” or “Look out for the wild child!” or have to hear “Oh, I thought pancakes was all you needed to be happy?”, because especially if the attention is positive (makes the adults laugh and joke around), it can have a profound and negative impact on the children.

How many times would they have to hear that to start believing it?

And how many more times before they act on it?

The stories we tell ourselves matter. The words we use to describe ourselves make a difference.

And when you get used to a story about yourself, when you hear it over and over again, you forget that it’s a story rather than a fact.

Once it becomes enshrined as a fact in your mind, you forget that you write your own story. You can change it at any time.

For example, if you often wear a shirt that says “I’m a hot mess”, even if you do it sarcastically, it’s going to affect you on some level (at the very least, it affects how those around you see, approach and treat you).

But, at least, as an adult, you have the ability and maturity of brain to distance yourself from that message, and accept its meaning ironically.

Children are still learning that until their brain fully matures at around 25 years old, and are incredibly impressionable up to that point (and beyond if they don’t learn to self-regulate).

But I digress.

“Ethical feminist sex” isn’t about checking off a list of set expectations.

It’s about supporting you in understanding your agency in the fluidity of sexuality and the experimental quality of sex, when had with a partner who is willing to experiment with you and co-construct that experience.

So, question #3: are authors obligated to represent ethical feminist sex?

And if yes, why?

I think contemporary romance authors (not necessarily authors of contemporary romance) are communicating ideas of how power and safety work in an intimate dynamic, regardless of whether or not these things are explicitly addressed on-page.

When the sexual encounters in the narratives are more ambiguous, it requires the reader to do more interpretive work in order to understand what’s being communicated. (Just like in life, hey?)

Media literacy is the tool that will help any reader parse meaning and nuance from any story, but it’s in woefully short supply in online discourse.

Romance, as a genre, is uniquely positioned to explore, represent, and capture the difficulties and miscommunications that humans have in intimate situations and relationships.

When it comes to sex in the real world, communication around it can be fraught under the best of circumstances. Humans are not perfect communicators in daily life, and it only gets more complicated when it comes to sex.

And expecting romance to not tussle with any of this ambiguity and, instead, present this perfect model of ideal sex is a bit strange.

Not in the least, because that will make a book boring materially.

But, as I said, this comes back to this idea that romance fiction should be teaching young women how to be good, moral contributors of their sexual society – and if romance books don’t do that, what’s the point of their existence?

And what are the second- and third-level implications beyond the immediate impact of this?

I feel like this is a question that doesn’t get asked enough. Often, the conversation is happy to conclude that fiction is not the same as educational materials, and leave it at that.

But I’m curious to explore a little further.

If we impose this demand on romance, to be didactic and informational, then what?

Well, authors can feel pressured to conform to specific moral guidelines (these are usually patriarchal and heteronormative moral guidelines), which can lead to homogenisation, which stifles creativity and limits the diversity of stories and experiences represented in romance fiction.

Because when you impose a specific moral framework on creative works, you marginalise and exclude narratives that don’t fit within that framework – such as LGBTQIA+ relationships, non-traditional family structures, or explorations of complex, morally ambiguous characters and dynamics.

As readers develop a narrow expectation of what romance fiction should be, they miss out on potentially richer, more varied literary experiences. This leads to the widespread rejection or suppression of works that don’t conform to these expectations. (Sounding familiar yet?)

And those are just the second-level implications.

Third-level implications (aka taking it a step further still), include things like:

• contributing to a cultural homogenisation where diverse cultural expressions and narratives are suppressed in favour of a dominant moral narrative, eroding cultural diversity and reducing the richness of literary traditions,
• publishers prioritising books that fit this moral mould, affecting what gets published and promoted, marginalising innovative or unconventional authors and impacting the overall health of the literary market,
• literary criticism and academic studies increasingly focusing on the moral and didactic content of romance fiction, potentially overlooking other important literary qualities such as narrative innovation, character development, and emotional depth.

Just like young men are affected by what they see in porn, young women’s ideas and expectations are shaped by the fiction they consume.

If romance fiction is expected to serve a didactic function, it reinforces certain societal norms and expectations, limiting progress towards more inclusive and diverse understandings of relationships and sexuality.

Young women can internalise the lessons from romance fiction (see documentary: Romantic Comedy and video essay: Millennial Women May Never Recover From The Romcom), shaping their self-image, behaviour and expectations in ways that conform to these moral teachings.

This influences personal relationships and self-perception, leading to conflict when the lived experience diverges from these ideals presented in fiction.

Not to mention the elephant in the room…

Yep, the patriarchy.

Because the idea that romance fiction should teach young women how to be good, moral contributors to their sexual society is indeed intertwined with societal values and norms that historically have been influenced by patriarchal structures.

Literature written by women for women, such as romance fiction, has long been undervalued and dismissed as less serious or important compared to literature written by men. (The mere categorisation of fiction into “fiction”, written by men, and “women’s fiction”, written by women, already tells you a lot.)

This devaluation stems from patriarchal biases that prioritise male experiences and perspectives.

And this expectation that romance fiction should teach morality reflects a desire to control and shape the narratives available to women, ensuring they align with traditional patriarchal values.

This control limits the scope of women’s stories and reinforces traditional gender norms.

And it extends into fiction, where a gendered expectation for women, including female characters in literature, says they should embody and promote moral virtues at all times.

This is rooted in seeing women as moral guardians of society, responsible for upholding social and sexual norms.

By insisting that romance fiction must serve a moral purpose, even if this is subliminal, there is an implicit restriction on female agency, both for writers and readers.

Women are not free to explore diverse narratives and complex characters that do not conform to prescribed moral standards (whereas men are free to explore narratives and characters that exploit women and others in horrific ways with little judgement).

The focus on morality marginalises authentic female experiences that involve ambiguity, moral complexity, or non-conformity, limiting the representation of the full spectrum of women’s lives and experiences.

But romance can do so much more.

It’s fiction, and not intended to offer up perfect models and instruction on how to have good, ethical feminist sex.

There are many books that are messy, have characters who experience miscommunication and hurt each other, that are written by sharp authors who are great at their craft.

But many readers will pass up on reading those books, because they’re not fit for that pedestal of perfectly depicted feminist sex.

Because they’re not “moral” enough.

So, I think we can all ask ourselves, how much flexibility do I have as a reader? Do I enjoy fiction that is didactic and instructional? Can I discern nuance and implied context?

Are we driven to consume more ethically out of guilt?

When we view media as an indicator of character, yes, I think so.

And I don’t think this is limited to romance, or even books, because people tend to view the media they consume as an indication of their quality as a person (that’s those moral values with their yardsticks cropping up again).

It’s this idea that if you consume “bad” media, you’re also “bad” by extension.

But we all have our trash pocket stuff that we absolutely love, and this world would be lesser if it did not exist (because we enjoy it).

And this thinking extends to: if you choose to consume “unethical” media, you’re automatically endorsing it.

I can concede that this can be the case when you’re knowingly reading or brandishing your book in public (potentially more for clout than actually out of an interest in reading it).

If a celebrity posts themselves reading a book, that would automatically read as an endorsement, because they are very unlikely to say something negative about the books they read, since they need to keep bridges intact rather than burn them with unfavourable opinions.

But if you read a controversial or downright problematic book – think Darkness Embraced or November 9 – book, it doesn’t mean you automatically endorse what’s in the book.

Let’s remember that depictions of unethical behaviour always happen in context.

For example, a book where characters experience racism, isn’t an automatic endorsement of racism.

This is a critique I see levied at dark romance a lot, since the genre’s full of unethical behaviour, morally questionable themes, and problematic characters.

Like I said, dark romance readers aren’t at the forefront of demanding “ethical feminist sex” and will often be judged for the kind of books they choose to read.

And yes, the dark romance/BookTok community gets really loud sometimes and, at times, overbearing – to the point of crossing some morally questionable lines on social media, such as objectifying real people and embracing their fantasy of something over the reality (e.g. see the Kraken thing and the murderer thing).

But just because some in the community can’t separate reality from fantasy, doesn’t mean the rest of us endorse or do it.

I think we all need to separate reality from fantasy, because those two things are wildly different.

And it’s because of stunts like the ones mentioned above the community does get a bad rap, and it only fuels the fire of romance being lesser than literary fiction, and fiction written by women being lesser than fiction written by men.

So, perhaps as usual, I’ve got more questions than answers, and can offer musings on this topic, but few hard answers. (When do I ever do that, anyway, right?)

I think it’s an interesting question to consider, and a jumping-off point for further exploring how we consume media, on a societal as well as individual level.

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