Sex, in its many forms, is experienced universally in some way or another, yet it remains the most sensational facet of the primordial and modern human experience alike. Everyone in a college bubble exists one degree apart: Sex is never between two people, and, despite how terrible this sounds, we all relish in it.
I have always known about sex. Without stigma or shock, it existed in my head as a fundamental, mechanical process, just like the leaves turning red at the end of September. I covertly watched “Orange is the New Black” as a 9-year-old, deleting and remaking my Netflix account so my parents would never know. In the show, sex was a tool of manipulation, freedom, pain, happiness and other things I couldn’t quite articulate as a child. All I knew was that sex was powerful beyond being a means of reproduction, and somehow, people around the world were all in on it.
Anya Neeze, former sex columnist for The Cornell Daily Sun’s “Sex on Thursday” wrote, “We need to read about sex to feel something. To think about our place in the world. It is the reason for all storytelling.” The sex column is sweeping in influence, delight, perturbance and mystique. I believe any form of communication showcasing nuances related to intimacy, love and desire is emblematic of the cultural phenomena that is the sex column. It encompasses both the technical definition and more radical incantations – from this very introductory essay to instances of political slander. This very belief operates on the notion that sex can refer to the physical act itself, as well as everything but it.
Here are a couple of major reasons why I’m writing a sex column. One: The Emory Wheel has never had one. Two: It is a presidential election year. Being a registered voter in Georgia makes me incredibly invested in reproductive politics, and I really am sick of consuming watered down liberalism disguised as journalism. Three: I have always been drawn to literature, classes and conversations on sex. As a 9-year-old, I felt like I had discovered something mystical and untapped, and as a 20-year-old, I believe an understanding of the erotic bestows liberty, power and tangible mechanisms for thinking about how we move through the world.
I could go on, but for now, I will invoke reason number four, which is what I call the pendulum problem.
This phenomenon was conceived in December 2023 on a New England liberal arts campus. Two of my best friends, Ana and Nick — pseudonyms for the sake of this article— had FaceTimed me, giddy with news (as all good stories begin). Ana was excited about Jay, someone Nick had come to know through a friend of a friend. Jay was tall and attractive, studying a STEM discipline, and could maintain relatively witty banter — you can’t really ask for more of a straight man. And yet, before he had even officially asked Ana out, Nick had revealed, with a bit of guilt and a characteristically wide smile, that somewhere along his 19 years of living, Jay had mysteriously lost a testicle.
Take a second. Gasp. Giggle. Breathe in deeply. Exhale.
Enter the pendulum problem: the parasocial relationship between you and your peers’ sexual and romantic exploits, and therefore, the underlying foundation of gossip, sexiling, sloppy seconds and every other proximal practice college students hold near and dear.
After texting Ana for a follow-up, she reported the cause of the lost testicle as “surgically removed for an unknown or forgotten reason.” Nick knew this sordid fact from a friend who had been hooking up with Jay previously. Quickly, and unbeknownst to Jay, the missing testicle became a source of humorous contention amongst us. Ana and Jay went on one date. Ana liked him — a lot. They texted constantly during their separation. It was the type of back and forth that makes your mom ask you why you’re smiling at your phone. And yet, as the return to school grew closer, conversations about Jay would boil down to the same inquiry: To address the pendulum problem, or not?
We wondered how the conversation would come up, what expression Ana would have to feign upon the reveal and, most scandalously, if it would change anything sexually.
Spoiler alert: Ana and Jay never did anything below the belt. While that decision was due to a lack of genuine connection after returning back from break, the pendulum problem became a philosophy for me, applied to all college-related sexual and romantic endeavors, whether it involves two testicles or just one. Whether it’s a kinky preference or a story from an ex, you will come to know a salacious, private detail about a potential hookup before knowing their favorite color (Ana never came to know Jay’s).
Iconic filmmaker Nora Ephron once said, “everything is copy,” relaying that whatever happens to an artist is fair game for material. As a writer, I have always been the most intrigued by personal narratives. Narratives like the pendulum problem offer both sensation and thematic relatability. In this column, while I plan to use my various interests as vehicles for inflection, I seek to heavily rely upon the stories and insights of those around me — with permission. Constantly, people show me that engaging in sex is not half as fun as sharing about it. While I am apprehensive about including stories from my friends at Emory, maybe you’ll find some recognition, solace or humor in the folds of these pieces.
A brilliant friend of mine asked this past weekend why we can be so vulnerable in academic spaces but are frowned upon when we bring up anecdotes related to romance and relationships. Audre Lorde, author and activist, asserted “[the erotic] has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, the plasticized sensation … For the erotic is not a question only of what we do; it is a question of how acutely and fully we can feel in the doing.”
I want to question, critique and stretch your understanding of sex. I want to invoke the erotic in opposition to this trivial, plasticized sensation, and I think there is no better space to do so than a college newspaper.
Everyone is connected, and everything is erotic. Emory simply exists as a case study.
Saanvi Nayar (26C) is from Marlboro, N.J.
