Writing My Own Rules For Hookup Culture

This article was inspired by, and written in response to, Hidden Brain Episode 61: Just Sex, a conversation with Lisa Wade, author of American Hookup: The New Culture of Sex on Campus. While it is not necessary to listen to the podcast or read the book to have full context for this article, I highly recommend them both for a fascinating continuation of the discussion on hookup culture.

In a surprising and unplanned twist of fate, I found myself at twenty-six years old, emotionally exhausted, sexually deprived, and a newly-single law student. It was something I never thought would happen: I was back on the market, but this time, as a divorcée.

It was fall, and balmy -- oh so balmy -- in Columbia, South Carolina, as I stood in front of my mirror in my dusty, 1930’s duplex that had suddenly become all mine. I was naked, examining myself in the mirror. To my amazement, my face was still smooth and fresh, save for a few lines stretching across the span of my forehead. My body was soft and feminine. My breasts full and lifted. My blonde hair fell just below my shoulders. I still closely resembled the youthful girl of my single days that felt almost forgotten, despite not being far in the past.

Notwithstanding what people’s gasps and pitiful reactions suggested about how I should be feeling about my new relationship status -- mostly, devastated and mourning my loss -- I was relieved, even excited, about this new chapter in my life.

Up until this point, I’d spent most of my existence in a big hurry to grow up. Does it get more “grown-up” than being divorced at twenty-six? My decisions had been calculated, meticulously planned out, and always made sense on paper, which is to say, I would have known better -- if only I listened to my gut. As a result, my marriage ended up being a lesson in what I didn’t want for my life. And, while I wasn’t completely sure of what I did want, I knew without a doubt I needed some time to figure it out. In short, I was not looking for a relationship, at least not at this point.

I didn’t want a boyfriend. I certainly didn’t want a husband. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to date. I had amazing friends, one in particular, who filled so many of my emotional needs, including my basic desire to have a partner to do mundane and ordinary life stuff with: everything from working out, to grocery shopping is more fun with a buddy. No rule says that buddy has to be a romantic partner.

Which leads me to the things I knew I did want. I wanted to explore my body, a body that had been left unattended for years during my marriage. I wanted to feel desired, sought after, and adored. I wanted to flirt. I wanted to tease. I wanted to kiss, touch, and be touched. I wanted sex. And, I wanted a lot of it.

While I posed and twirled in the mirror, looking at this angle and that, taking in my physical form, making silent evaluations about whether or not I still had it, I decided: if casual, exciting, unattached, sexual intimacy was what I wanted, that is what I would allow myself to enjoy.

As luck would have it, law school was rife with willing participants. There was hardly any difference between college and graduate school, as I learned. While everyone’s emotional capacity and sexual experiences had matured, the insatiable desire to get it in was ever-present -- and equally fueled by cheap beer and fruity shots.

“Hookup culture” is often described as the social phenomenon that encourages brief, casual, uncommitted sexual encounters between individuals who are not in romantic or committed relationships. As Lisa Wade, author of American Hookup: The New Culture of Sex on Campus explains, there are well-established norms that are expected to be recognized while operating within the confines of hookup culture. One of the most important rules is that the sex (or other intimate behavior) is completely meaningless. Because this rule often operates as the hallmark of hookup culture, its successful performance becomes paramount for participation. For example, after hooking up with someone who may have been a friend prior to the encounter, many people will act unusually distant, even standoffish or rude, to prove that the encounter meant nothing. The goal is to be the participant who cares the least. This cold-hearted charade of being devoid of human emotion plays directly into the braggadocious component of hookup culture that sees the each sexual conquest as a way to prove a person’s desirability within their social circle.

A one-night stand with a stranger, while posing obvious risks to personal safety, offers one of the seemingly easiest “no strings attached” sexual rendezvous. Safety concerns aside, there are other pitfalls to this approach. I speak from experience when I say sex with a stranger is usually sloppy and unsatisfying in the “Oops, no. A little to the left. No, to the right. Just forget it.” kind of way. To be honest, the anticipation, flirting, and playful banter that unfolds over the course of an evening before the carnal act ever takes place is usually the actual climax of the experience. Once the lights come on and the mechanics of sex come into play, it is all downhill from there. Knowing how to physically please me isn’t necessarily instinctive -- a lesson I learned quickly.

As I navigated hookup culture and the single scene, I realized I can easily appreciate sex for what it is: sex. I do not need strong romantic feelings, or love, to enjoy sex with someone. Conversely, sex does not necessarily cause me to experience strong feelings of love or attachment. Wade, however, acknowledged something that I also noticed -- that the majority of women do not report sexual satisfaction from one-night stands. And sexual satisfaction, my own pleasure, something I that had been ignored for some time, was my goal. So, I sought to figure out how to achieve that.

While casual sex doesn’t always result in enjoyable sex, neither does a relationship. Having recently ended a marriage, I was intimately familiar with the fact that stability does not precede pleasure. This realization was freeing. It freed me to enjoy a different kind of sex -- consistent sex with men who I generally liked, as friends, who I found attractive, smart, and could build trust with. We established a sexual rapport without the expectation of a traditional relationship. I was not trying to achieve some type of “gotcha,” sneak-attack, boyfriend-girlfriend status with them. More importantly, this arrangement allowed me to safely explore my sexuality without giving too much of myself to them. I didn’t want commitment or jealousy. I didn’t want the mutual responsibility required of a relationship. I wanted the cliché “friends with benefits.”

My ability to compartmentalize my feelings and desires not only allowed me to amicably participate in, but also greatly enjoy, some version of casual sex. Contrary to what hookup culture requires, that sex be completely meaningless, I learned that sex and its participants have meaning and value without the necessity for a committed monogamous relationship. No need to “put a ring on it.”

Ultimately, the prioritization of my pleasure and freedom to explore my wants and needs helped me to be more discerning about the men I allowed in my romantic life. So many lessons were learned along the way, leading to the current meaningful, satisfying, trusting relationship I have with my husband. That’s right -- today, I’m married. Who’s grown-up now? A lot has changed since that balmy fall day in the mirror, but one thing remains the same: I live by my own rules.

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Samantha Shapin is an attorney and co-founder of Bonded Magazine. She is most at home when it snows, and almost unbearable to be around during the summer heat. She loves to cook, snuggle her fur-babies, and DIY her way through life.

You can find her on Instagram @Imsocooked