Are we really having a slutty summer?

I'm not convinced.

A few months before the pandemic began, I went to a queer sex party with a fair mix of cis and trans women.

Normally, I find T4T is one of the most seamless sexual experiences I’ve ever had; the anxious dancing around the topic is gone, the uncertainty and fear of being “too much” isn’t present. Trans fems tend to hook up with each other at lightning speeds.

But something was a little different at this party. The more I tried flirting with other trans girls, the more I picked up the vibe that a lot of other dolls came there to hook up with cis girls. This party served as an intersection where cis-trans lesbians could meet, and so hooking up with another trans girl was sort of missing the point. The role expectations were changed due to the setting and the circumstances.

But the changes also called into question the very concept of T4T for me. Is TF4TF always “T4T,” or is it sometimes “T4T-until-I-get-my-hands-on-some-cis-girl-pussy?” And the ramifications of that answer have a terrible effect on both you, as well as the other trans fems you’re hooking up with. Sexual roles and expectations tend to have a contagious effect.

Ana Valens (Fair Use) —> From timuryorkarl(?). As seen in Gramercy a few months back.

We, similarly, are at a change in role expectations on a collective scale. All last year, the first post-vaccination months were supposed to be a wild and crazy party where we all threw down, drank ourselves silly, and fucked our genitals off. This wasn’t just the vibe on Twitter and TikTok, it was the expectation across the media landscape, especially once shots started getting into arms. As the vaccine rollout hit the U.S., the L.A. Times wrote of Shot Girl Summer. Glamour argued "the Summer of Love will have nothing on summer 2021." The New York Post reported on public sex between straight couples and declared “New York is back.”

Is Slutty Summer upon us? I don’t think so, and other sex experts are similarly changing course. Vox argues people are eager to get back to having a ton of casual sex, but quarantine's trauma, an increasing desire for romantic connection, ongoing fears about exposure to COVID, and "lingering pandemic-induced social anxiety" are all obstacles to a bacchanalian summer. Autostraddle has since suggested “conflicting reports of the collective horniness this summer.”

"It seems like people’s biggest concern is when life opens back up and they’re finally able to pursue these connections, ‘What if I get rejected or things go wrong? What happens if disappointment strikes?’" Indiana University Kinsey Institute’s Amanda Gesselman told Vox.

Having kept an eye on the post-vax-summer media stories over the past few months, I’ve found myself increasingly frustrated with the expectations and FOMO put out to keep up. It may bring hope or peace to assume the post-vaccination months will be a break from the pain of the last year, but that’s not a realistic expectation. Writing for The Atlantic, Ed Yong warns trauma's worst moments are often after a crisis, not during it.

“People put their heads down and do what they have to do, but suddenly, when there’s an opening, all these feelings come up,” Trauma Stewardship Institute director Laura van Dernoot Lipsky told The Atlantic. “As hard as the initial trauma is, it's the aftermath that destroys people […] I don’t know anyone who looks to the U.S. as a model for grieving and mourning. We don’t talk about loss. By and large, it’s all about consumption to help numb you out.”

As someone who is dying to get back to casual sex and hookups, I wish I had a hot girl summer to look forward to. I’m staying optimistic, but I don’t expect I’ll be having as much sex as I’d like. I experienced some serious losses during the past year. My friend circle changed over the course of the pandemic, and so did my standards for hookups. My social anxiety is still off the charts, and some days it’s a struggle to get out the door. My apartment is still in work-from-home mode, and I’m not exactly ready to bring anyone back to it. Then there’s the question of my changing relationship with my body, and how I’ve gained enough weight to make throwing on a pair of jeans anxiety-inducing, let alone showing a stranger my larger body.

I’m still seeking out hookups, but the pressure to have a good summer, and to have a ton of sex before the colder weather hits, is particularly stressful for me. What if my friends and I just aren’t ready for that yet? Am I less of a sexual being, and am I less sexually valuable, if I’m not having as much sex as other people? What I’m describing is a pervasive problem I’ve dealt with all my life, something Allison Moon calls “cuck-shaming.”

“To be cuck-shamed is to be perceived as ‘unfuckable’ due to a lower number or atypical sexual preferences,” Moon writes in Getting It. “As with slut-shaming, cuck-shaming isn’t based on reality, but what people perceive to be out of the ordinary.”

Moon warns how some people may use sex-positivity as cover “to bully people into having sex they don’t really want.” But I also think cuck-shaming can operate on a far more subtle level, just like its equally insidious twin slut-shaming. This can look like the pressure to have sex or be sexual even when you are not able to, whether due to a lack of circumstances, a lack of desire, or, yes, an abundance of trauma.

Ana Valens (Fair Use). I can’t think of many over photos to include for this blog, so here is me.

The loss and pain of the past year will be gradually erased as writers, anchors, and influencers push out more and more stories encouraging Americans to get back to normal. But take stock of those around you. What is life like right now? The queer sex parties are still gone due to COVID risk. Many people aren’t ready to do indoor nor outdoor dining, let alone take off a mask while walking outside. The intimacy that sex requires may be too much for people who have spent a full year alone and grieving. And all of this isn’t even factoring in desirability politics and which bodies are more likely to be seen as ideal for hooking up with, for building those perfect “summer 2021” memories.

After I went to that pre-pandemic sex party, my relationship with sex changed in ways both good and bad. On the one hand, it definitely solidified my interest in leather and made me realize I was desirable to cis women, not just other trans women. On the other, I also walked home with a lot of transmisogyny because of the rejection I experienced due to the social expectations of the evening, i.e. that trans women were not going to fuck other trans women if they could get their hands on cis women.

My fear with the overemphasis on having a ton of sex this summer is that we are going to similarly embed expectations that are not right for people. Just as it is OK to mourn through sex or to celebrate through it, it is also OK to not have sex right now, or not have sex at all. The pressure to have sex, and the value that sex brings to some bodies while tarnishing others, isn’t helping. It forces people to hedge their value based on whether they are correctly meeting social expectations. And if they do not, they experience shame.

Things are not going to be “normal,” and that’s the reality of something as highly traumatic as the pandemic. The next few months call for resiliency in the face of this, of managing expectations, and of learning how to deal with the sexual frustration that may arise.