I like rough sex, does that make me anti-feminist?

“I think there’s empowerment in being able to celebrate the strength of someone else when you feel safe to do so.”

Laura Roscioli is a sex writer based in Melbourne. She feels passionately about making sex (and the conversations around it) more accessible, approachable and open. She also believes that the best learnings come from lived experience, and she’s here to share hers with you each fortnight on FJ alongside other musings, experiences and questions. You can follow Laura on Instagram at @lauraroscioli.

The first time I had sex and it felt really good was with my first boyfriend. I remember being nervous as he took my clothes off by the fireplace of my friend’s house while everyone else was asleep. But the more he touched me, the more my body wanted him to. I’d never experienced that before, a true yearning for someone else intimately. It made me want to grab him tightly, on his arms, his hips, around his neck.

We dated for just over a year and it was my first introduction to good, connected sex. With him, I learnt that I liked elements of strength in sex. I learnt that I love my upper thigh firmly grabbed, I love my butt to be held while I’m being fucked, I love my hair being grabbed passionately, I love an unexpected slap and I love a light choke.

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I wasn’t able to be overly communicative with him about sex, because our relationship was a little unstable logistically. He’d already planned to go back to the country (and woman) he fell in love with there, before we’d met. But that’s a whole other story.

We had sex that didn’t need to be talked about because it felt intuitive, safe and educational in a way that sex had never felt to me before. I learnt things about myself each time we would have sex. I’d feel new feelings, experience new things I liked, cross boundaries I didn’t think I’d ever cross – and enjoy being on the other side.

Exploring sex and power

My first love prepared me for the world of sexual pleasure I launched into exploring in my early twenties. I was more open to newness, less scared about getting naked and I knew the things I wanted to explore more deeply in heated intimate moments.

My ‘sexploration’ era was about understanding control. Sex is a weirdly liberating place to explore how much control you want or don’t want and how that makes you feel. In my sexual experiences in my early twenties, I found a level of power that surprised me. I hadn’t expected to feel so powerful in casual sex. It was like I could take my clothes off and conquer the world, my way. It felt like the key to unlocking so many inner parts of myself and other people. It both intrigued and excited me.

A big part of that empowerment was the way I was engaging in sex. I wasn’t emotionally vulnerable. I’d had my heart broken before, but I was physically open, explorative and without judgment. I indulged in my desires and the desires of others. If something felt good, I’d do it. If it did at first and then didn’t, I’d stop. If it didn’t at all, I’d question why and unpack it with the person it was happening with. Or with myself.

I had all kinds of sex with all kinds of people. Highly communicative rough sex with a successful businessman in hotel rooms. He’d just split from his partner and wanted to explore his relationship with power and control, both in action and in conversation.

Hungry sex in the bathroom of a bar I worked at with a chef. He never spoke to me much but he tore my clothes off like he hadn’t eaten for weeks. I always thought it was ironic given his job. A girl I fell in love with in the space of 30 seconds purely because of her piercing eye contact. I told her she was “so beautiful” and I’d never felt more exposed in my entire life.

Sometimes I’d play with the power of sex without having sex at all. Like with a man who fell in love with me at a coffee shop because he wanted an excuse to not move interstate with his girlfriend. Or the bar manager at a local favourite who was always a little rude to me – insecure sexual tension on his part, I think – but would always give me the best seat in the house.

In each of these experiences, there was an element of power, some emotional and some physical, but all rooted in the power of sexual attraction.

Is it because of the patriarchy?

In classic kink lingo, there’s a ‘submissive’ and ‘dominant’ player in each sexual experience and usually, people prefer one or the other. But through my years of exploration and right up until now, as a 28-year-old in a monogamous relationship, it feels like a fluid position to me.

Sometimes, I like to be the one in control. The one on top, the one with the strength, the one controlling the motion, timing and positions. The one calling the shots. Other times, I like to be told what to do. Manoeuvred into positions and held there, grabbed tightly so I couldn’t move. Often, I like to be both. Switching from dom to sub within the same sexual experience is something my boyfriend and I do all the time and it’s probably my favourite.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about what physical strength means to me. Why do I like it so much? Why is it that every time I feel close to orgasm, I want my boyfriend to grab me tightly – whether it be around my throat, on my thighs or across the excess squishy bits on my hips?

It feels pretty typical to chalk it down to the patriarchy. Yes, I grew up in a house with a disciplined Italian dad and yes, I think our society still subconsciously encourages men to be ‘strong’ and women to be submissive. It could be true that a part of me likes to feel powerless in the eyes of men because that’s what the overarching societal message still is, especially when it comes to sex. Maybe it turns me on in this weird philosophical way.

But to be honest, I don’t feel that way consciously. I feel pretty damn powerful on my own. I know the difference between being rough in a communicative, playful and consensual way versus in a way that makes me feel unsafe. The strength that I like in the bedroom comes from a conscious, empowered and educated decision that I’ve made for myself, having experienced both negative and positive experiences with roughness in intimacy.

The dangers of sexual strangulation

Still, my love of strength in sex is something I’ve been thinking about. When I first started dating my current boyfriend he was really careful with me. He didn’t want to just grab me when I asked him to. He didn’t want to hurt me or do it wrong. At first, I was a little frustrated. Just do it, I thought. I know what I like. But upon reflection, perhaps his instinct was right.

A recent study by researchers from The University of Melbourne Law School and The University of Queensland found that over 57 per cent of young people (18 to 35 year-olds) had engaged in sexual strangulation at least once and many without an understanding of its potential harm.

While most of the surveyed group found out about sexual strangulation through porn (61 per cent), others said they were encouraged to try it after seeing it in films (40 per cent), talking about it with friends (32 per cent), sources on social media (31 per cent) and through discussions with current or potential partners (29 per cent).

“On average, young men see porn three years before their first sexual experience, with one in six using it daily,” says Maree Crabbe, director of It’s Time We Talked. “[This gives] porn an opportunity to form their norms and expectations before being able to explore them with an actual human.”

According to Maree, we can choose to associate things with orgasm based on repetition. For example, if we watch a woman get strangled multiple times on-screen, it makes sense in our brains that strangling them in real life will elicit the same response. However, porn can’t properly educate us on how to do the thing properly.

While we often see pleasure documented in storytelling, we don’t see the mechanisms of how to get there safely. We don’t see the protection used, words of consent spoken, or techniques used to do something in a way that’s guaranteed to not cause harm.

“They’re mimicking something they’ve seen, re-enacting a hybrid version they’ve internalised from what they’ve seen. But it feels like they’re choosing it because they don’t know any different,” Maree says.

When it comes to strangling, experts have said there’s no safe way to do it. According to Maree, no one can describe a way to do it safely that doesn’t cause long-term, cumulative damage.

“Often there’s no visible sign of danger. Even if you feel you’re doing it ‘safely’, you’re likely doing damage to your brain without noticing,” she explains.

This makes me think of all the times I’ve been strangled, slapped and held in forceful ways during sex. If I’m being completely honest, there were plenty of times I didn’t like it. Times that felt like the dominant person involved was trying to prove a point, to get something out of me, to pleasure themselves. Most of these times were with men.

“There are elements of society that have benefitted from the story that men are more powerful and women should be subservient – it’s told in porn, advertisements, brand influencers etc – and it sells to people who aren’t reflecting and thinking critically about the storyline,” says Maree.

Navigating sexual communication

In my experience, those times have lessened because I’ve learnt how to navigate sexual communication and trust my instincts better. I’m not negating the negative impact those experiences have had on me in some ways, but overall I feel that they’ve taught me to ask for the things I need, in the way I need them.

While I’ve had many positive intimate experiences, I’ve also had many disconnected sexual experiences where the other person feels like they’re on autopilot. However, these experiences haven’t made me fearful of strength in sex with men. I still like to be choked and slapped and held tightly, but I’ve thought about the why. And the how.

For me, I like the feeling of being able to let go and that the other person can handle me. That I can let myself go in their arms and they’re strong enough to hold me while I experience pleasure. I feel this is represented in the physical strength they display, but it’s a certain type of strength.

It’s not aggressive and defensive and bossy. It’s considerate and calm. It comes along with an “Is this okay?” or a “Tell me what you like” or “Put my hand where you want it”. It’s not forced upon us without care. It’s a “Tell me how best to hold you”.

Stable and healthy masculinity isn’t afraid to be submissive at times too, so when I feel elements of masculinity come out in myself, my boyfriend celebrates that too.

Sometimes I like someone else to take control, with confidence and strength. I think there’s empowerment in being able to celebrate the strength of someone else when you feel safe to do so.

If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault you can call national sexual assault counselling service 1800RESPECT, or head to its website for support and advice.