This in-depth, thoughtful guest piece by Lena Gunnarsson explores how consent unfolds in the relational, affective and ambiguous terrain of real sexual encounters. Her analysis resonates strongly with the Safe Uncertainty framework, which argues that relationships and intimacy cannot be reduced to fixed rules or binary scripts. In both educational and practice settings, young people – and adults – need support to navigate the shifting interplay of desire, influence, vulnerability and expectation, including the dynamic and relational dimensions that this blog so clearly illuminates.
Rather than offering reassuring certainties (“always do X”, “never do Y”), Safe Uncertainty encourages educators to hold space for the very complexities this blog describes: moments when desire changes, ambivalence is hard to name, emotions shape decisions, and relational needs influence actions. It also helps practitioners work with the relational and cultural contexts that shape young people’s sense of agency, comfort and constraint.
This blog invites readers to consider consent as not just a boundary but also a dynamic, relational process that requires emotional literacy, attunement and reflective conversation as much as legal clarity.
Guest editor biography
Lena Gunnarsson is an associate professor in gender studies, Örebro University, Sweden. Much of her research deals with how gender structures sexuality and intimacy. In her recent book, Dynamics of Sexual Consent: Sex, Rape and the Grey Area In-between, she explores the complexities of consent and provides a multifaceted analysis of why the line between consensual and non-consensual sex is not always clearcut.
Introduction
A common definition of consent is voluntary participation. But what qualifies as voluntary? The ideal of consent is based on the notion that human individuals have a will of their own, a will that it is ethically wrong not to respect during a sexual interaction. But what happens to this idea if we accept that a person’s “own will” is in some sense never entirely their own, given that this will is continuously shaped by the person’s relationships with others?
There is a positive side to our human “affectability” – our liability to be affected by other people – be it our nearest and dearest or the broader social contexts that we inhabit. This affectability is what makes us able to connect with and take pleasure in one another, a capacity that is perhaps most accentuated in the peculiar experiential realm of sex. For sex is normally not about two (or more) persons bringing their respective desires and wants fixed and finished to an encounter. Rather, sex is a process of being continuously influenced by what the other person wants, feels and does, in an ongoing interplay, such as when a person becomes aroused because the other person shows signs of sexual arousal. Therefore, we could surmise that there is no neutral, unaffected internal state to be either violated or respected, because being affected by the other is to a large extent the very point of sex.
This does not mean, however, that there is nothing within us that deserves protection. No matter how relational and plastic we are, we retain an inner core, a sense of distinctness and integrity that makes possible the very experience of feeling violated. And here, our beautiful human malleability has a darker side; other people’s influence on us – as well as the impact of normative ideas and expectations surrounding sex – can become a negative force: it may be that I do not really feel like having sex but nevertheless agree to it to avoid my partner becoming dissatisfied. I maybe do not really feel good about having “rough sex” but still agree to it – or maybe even actively initiate it – because I think this is expected in a sexual relationship. Or I maybe have sex despite not feeling like it, because I feel this is expected from me as a man and don’t want my partner to feel unattractive. The pressures involved in these hypothetical situations stem both from our interpersonal relationships with concrete people and from what Nicola Gavey has termed ‘normative coercion’.
None of these situations can be classified as nonconsensual in the qualified legal sense, since there is an important sense in which the partly unwilling person does agree to the sex. Still, these situations are problematic and potentially harmful. They are examples of experiences in the grey area between consensual and nonconsensual, which are in focus in my book Dynamics of Sexual Consent: Sex, Rape and the Grey Area In-between. In the book I analyse the experiences of 20 Swedish women and men of various sexual orientations, focusing on why it is not always easy to draw a clear line between wanted and unwanted sex. While it has become commonplace to speak of sexual grey areas, it often remains unclear why this grey area exists – and whether it may come in different forms. In the following I describe four different types of grey area situations and discuss how they relate to our relational constitution and the ambiguities and vulnerabilities it entails.
When no becomes yes
How much respect should one have for another person’s signals of unwillingness during an initial sexual approach? Is it acceptable to continue trying to seduce the other person, or is that not compatible with the principle of consent? From a strict or simplified consent perspective, which treats any expression of reluctance as an uncompromisable and uquivocal no, the answer would probably be in the negative. However, my research shows that a certain degree of “insistent” seduction is not always perceived as problematic by the person subjected to it. It may even be experienced as an appreciated part of the sexual dynamic. Stina’s experience illustrates this:
“When I say no sometimes, I might say no because I don’t want to, but if the guy then continues, you can still get the urge [laughs] and start wanting to. And my first no was actually a real no – like I’m not in the mood or whatever – but then you’ve been persuaded by the foreplay and you get the desire to anyway. And that’s a question, because my first no was actually a real no, but then it turned out that I wanted to do it myself.”
This is often how seduction works – an initial no is transformed into a genuine yes, by way of how we are sexually affected by the actions of the other person trying to seduce us. But the fact that this is often how seduction works sits uncomfortably with the orthodox kind of consent approach that seeks to erase risks of boundary-violations through treating any sign of unwillingness as absolute and non-negotiable. We certainly do not want to end up embracing seduction practices that revolve around “breaking down” the other person’s resistance. At the same time, it seems impossible to safeguard ourselves from such murky terrains by simply condemning seduction practices that lean towards the insistent. Stina is not alone in feeling that when a partner continues their attempt at seduction despite an initial no, this can make her feel desirable in a way that enhances the quality of the interaction. This experience is markedly gendered in the sense that in a patriarchal culture women derive much of their worth from their heterosexual desirability. However, my research shows that the mechanism is also present in men’s experiences and that it is an important part of some forms of BDSM sex. Rather than denying – or moralising about – the allure of being so desirable that the other person cannot control themselves, we should highlight and reflect on the tensions and risks that it entails, so as to make people better equipped to dealing with them in their own unique sexual practices.
When yes becomes no
An initial yes can also turn into a no. A problem surrounding many grey area situations falling into this category is that even when consent is clearly present at the outset, it is not always clear precisely what sexual interactions are included in that consent, or that the consent will remain throughout the encounter. Sexual scripts dictating how sex “is done” mean that initial consent to sex is often taken to imply consent to a range of different sexual acts that are considered natural parts of sex. While it is impossible to obtain consent for every small step in a sexual interaction, this is not a problem if we see consent as a continuous process of reading and adapting to how the other person responds to our own actions. However, strong assumptions about what can be expected in a sexual interaction may stand in the way of such present-moment attunement. It may also make it appear unfeasible to verbalise one’s unwillingness some way into a sexual interaction that is not considered complete. This is something Stella has experienced several times when she’s had sex with women:
“I have several times – both in and out of relationships – wanted to have sex but then after a while wanted it to end. I want to be done, now I don’t think it’s so fun anymore, but there’s still a long way to go before my partner is done. … I’ve probably faked an orgasm once or twice too [laughs], just to make it end.”
Until the interview, Stella, who otherwise upheld quite strict standards of consent, did not think of these experiences as instances of non-consensual sex, since she wanted the sex in the beginning. This is the kind of blind spot produced by the many things that we unreflectively take for granted when it comes to sex. Such blind spots can be put into light by nurturing increased awareness about how normative scripts about what a sexual act should include may obscure our ever-present right to change our mind from yes to no.
Doing it for the other person
Having sex against one’s will constitutes a sexual violation according to consent-based ethical and legal standards. However, all sex that people engage in unwillingly cannot be unequivocally classified as nonconsensual. I think here of the very common situations where a person feels unwilling in one sense while being willing in another sense. A person may, for example, lack sexual desire but still want to – or at least choose to – have sex for other reasons, most often to accommodate the desires of a partner. It is important to note that such experiences are located on a spectrum that encompasses both positive sexual experiences and very damaging kinds of sex bordering on assault. Thomas’s experience with his then-husband illustrates a kind of accommodating sex that contains significant elements of unwillingness, while nevertheless being characterised by a deeply felt sense of agency and willingness.
“Being the bottom, I can only let someone do that if I like him very much. […] It’s very intimate for me. There aren’t many people who have done it – my husband and maybe one or two others. When I love someone and like him a lot and he loves me, then I can put up with sexual things, for the sake of the other person. Just because that person enjoys it and wants it. I never do anything I don’t want to do, but being topped is not my favourite.”
By contrast, Stina’s experience with her then-boyfriend represents a much more negative form of ‘consensual-nonconsensual’ sex, bordering on sexual assault:
“I so badly wanted him to be happy with me, so I did it [gave him oral sex]. Because I really wanted something back, so it was my way of trying to get something from him. I absolutely didn’t want to do it, but I did it because I thought then he would…well, kind of love me.”
Both Stina and Thomas adapt to their partner’s desires, while compromising with their own most immediate wants and needs. However, Thomas does not feel that this “costs” him much; his sense of autonomy remains intact, and the sex is couched in a relational context characterised by love and care. What makes Stina’s experience much more destructive is that, although she does in a sense choose to give her boyfriend what he wants, the backdrop of this choosing, as recounted by her in the interview, is a deeply unloving and dysfunctional relationship, where Stina’s constant efforts to win her boyfriend’s love are exploited by him as a way to have his own way, in a power dynamic that damages Stina’s integrity and dignity.
When it is not clear what one wants
While the above situations are characterised by a conflicted will, people may also feel unsure about what they actually want at all. For some people, this is a common experience and my research shows that when a person’s own desire or lack of desire does not make itself clearly heard – even to themselves – they become more liable to follow both other people’s wishes and cultural templates for how one “should” behave sexually. The experience of not really knowing what one wants sexually was more common among the female interview participants, aligning with the patriarchal dynamics of heterosexuality which encourage women to accommodate men’s sexual desires rather than focusing on their own, as well as with constructions of femininity as other-oriented. Cecilia explains what having poor contact with one’s own sexual desires – and with one’s wants more generally – may be like:
“I could meet people and have sex, but it was very much based on other people showing interest. Sure, I could take steps myself to make us have sex, but it was very much based on others showing that they wanted to. I didn’t have much contact with my own desires … Before my last relationship, I probably had a worse sense of what I wanted. So, I was probably very passive and all that, so then it had to be when the other person wanted. … I think that I haven’t had much practice in recognising what I want myself.”
Experiences of not knowing what one wants highlight the limitations of a consent discourse that assumes people’s desires are self-evident and transparent. Efforts to promote sexual integrity also need to focus on providing people with tools to get better in touch with their own desire and will – both in its yes and no versions. Also, awareness should be raised that wanting and not wanting are not always an either/or matter, and that consent communication therefore does not have to be about saying yes or no, but can just as well involve expressing one’s ambivalence and uncertainty.
Human affectability for good and bad
What characterises all the types of grey area situations addressed above is that they challenge the dualism between willingness and unwillingness that structures many discussions about consent. Willingness and unwillingness can coexist within a person at the same moment, and it may be unclear even to themselves exactly where the line between “want” and “do not want” lies. Furthermore, the dynamic processual nature of sexual interactions means that someone’s willingness or unwillingness has the potential to shift into its opposite at any given time. This is a reality that discussions and education about consent need to take seriously, so that not only yes and no but also ambivalence, ambiguity and change become things people are encouraged both to express and to interpret.
The reason why it is often difficult to draw a sharp line between wanted and unwanted sex has very much to do with our relational nature: the fact that our own will and desire do not exist in a social vacuum but continuously emerge in in interaction with other people. In my research, interpersonal emotional dynamics, and the vulnerabilities that they entail, often emerge as a key barrier for clear communication about one’s own needs in sexual situations. Discussions about consent should, therefore, focus much more than they currently do on such emotional aspects, which stem from our dependence on and care for one another.
Even when we talk about the force of broader cultural norms and scripts relating to sex, this force always gets its fuel from our desire for approval, acknowledgement, love and belonging, or from our care for others’ feelings. It is when we are too acutely dependent on others’ love or approval, or too fearful of others’ disappointment, disapproval or hurt, that we risk sacrificing our own needs for the sake of the other. Often, dependency needs that become too difficult to handle may also stand in the way of accepting another person’s unwillingness. Rather than reducing the problem of consent communication to a matter of understanding or misunderstanding, we need to pay attention to how feelings – such as a desperation for connection or a fear of rejection – may stand in the way of sensing and taking in another person’s no.
Overall, my research suggests that sex is about so much more than sex. It is also about our longing for love, recognition and connection. Hence, discussions and awareness raising about consent and sexual grey areas would gain much from being couched in a broader reflection on human neediness and vulnerability and how they open us up towards others in a way that both makes us vulnerable to damage and receptive to pleasure and enjoyment.
Bringing these insights into RSE: Safe Uncertainty in practice
Gunnarsson’s analysis shows why consent education must address the relational and emotional realities of sex, not only the legal thresholds. Her discussion of “insistent” seduction, for example, highlights that young people may sometimes feel both genuinely drawn in and simultaneously at risk, which entails an ambivalence that cannot be resolved through simple prohibitions or moral absolutes. Responding to such ambivalence, Safe Uncertainty provides an approach that neither normalises harmful patterns nor denies the complexities of desire, influence and interpersonal attunement.
The blog also underscores how uncertainty about one’s own wants limits consent discourses that assume clarity and self-transparency. Gunnarsson emphasises the need for tools that help individuals recognise, articulate and legitimise ambivalence, which is an aim that aligns directly with Safe Uncertainty’s commitment to making space for fluctuating feelings and partial knowledge in intimate encounters.
Finally, the piece reminds us that broader cultural scripts gain their force from emotional needs: approval, belonging, fear of disappointing others. These dynamics can compromise a person’s ability to voice reluctance or to register and accept someone else’s unwillingness. Safe Uncertainty brings these relational pressures into view. It encourages educators to work with – not against – the feelings that shape decision-making: longing, anxiety, attachment, self-worth and vulnerability.
Together, the blog’s insights and the Safe Uncertainty framework point toward an RSE approach that:
- Normalises ambivalence and change, helping young people recognise and articulate uncertainty rather than masking it behind scripted answers.
- Attends to relational dynamics, including the desire to please, fear of disappointing others and the influence of intimacy, care and attachment.
- Examines normative scripts, encouraging critical reflection on gendered expectations, sexual templates and the pressures of reciprocity.
- Builds emotional and interpretive skills, supporting students to read situations, check in, pause and communicate evolving feelings.
- Creates dialogic, trusting environments, where shame is reduced and young people feel able to express the ‘messier’ aspects of sexual experience.
Safe Uncertainty helps educators hold both truths at once: that consent must be clear and respected, and that human relationships are rarely straightforward. Making space for grey areas – without normalising harm – is, we suggest, essentially for helping young people develop the confidence, reflexivity and relational skills required for ethical, mutually satisfying intimacy.