— It turns out every part of the narrative we’re taught about how desire works is not merely wrong, but wrongheaded
By Emily Nagoski
When I first began having long(ish)-term sexual relationships during my college years I believed an old-fashioned narrative about how desire works. We’re told it’s all passion and “spark” early in a relationship, and that lasts a couple of years maybe. Then we have kids or buy a fixer-upper house or generally get busy with work and life, and the spark fizzles out, especially after 50, when apparently every hormone we ever had floats away on a sea of aging and we’re left, sexless and neutered, to hold hands at sunset.
Our options, we’re told, are either to accept the fizzling of our desire for sex or to fight against it, to invest our time, attention and even our money in “keeping the spark alive”.
Well, it turns out every part of that narrative is not merely wrong, but wrongheaded. A lot of books about sex in long-term relationships are about “keeping the spark alive”, and they too are wrongheaded. They’re so 20th century, with their rigid gender scripts and cringingly oversimplified ideas about sex and evolution.
I call this mess of wrongheadedness the desire imperative. The desire imperative says:
- At the start of a sexual and/or romantic relationship, we should feel a “spark”, a spontaneous, giddy craving for sexual intimacy with our (potential) partner that might even feel obsessive.
- The sparky desire we’re supposed to feel at the beginning of a relationship is the correct, best, healthy, normal kind of desire, and if we don’t have it, then we don’t have anything worth having.
- If we have to put any preparation or planning into our sex lives, then we don’t want it “enough”.
- If our partner doesn’t just spontaneously want us, out of the blue, without effort or preparation, on a regular basis, they don’t want us “enough”.
The desire imperative puts desire at the center of our definition of sexual well-being. It says there is only one right way to experience desire, and without that, nothing else matters. And so people worry about sexual desire. If desire changes or it seems to be missing, people worry that there’s something very wrong. It’s the most common reason couples seek sex therapy.
Here’s the irony of the desire imperative: does all that worry about “spark” make it easier to want and like sex? On the contrary, worry mainly puts sex further out of reach.
But there’s an alternative: center pleasure.
Desire is not what matters. Not “passion”, not “keeping the spark alive”.
Pleasure is what matters.
Center pleasure, because great sex over the long term is not how many orgasms you have or even how enthusiastically you anticipate sex, but how much you like the sex you are having.
Spontaneous desire v responsive desire
A simple place to start changing how we think about desire and pleasure is understanding what sex researchers and therapists say about desire. They call the “spark” of the desire imperative “spontaneous desire”, and it is one of the normal ways to experience sexual desire, but it is not associated with great sex in a long-term relationship.
They also describe “responsive desire”, which is not a “spark” feeling but rather an openness to exploring pleasure and seeing where it goes. It often shows up as “scheduled” sex, where you plan ahead, prepare, groom, get a babysitter and then show up. You put your body in the bed, you let your skin touch your partner’s skin, and your body wakes up! It says: “Oh, right! I really like this! I really like this person!” Where spontaneous desire emerges in anticipation of pleasure, responsive desire emerges in response to pleasure.
Both are normal and neither is better than the other … but it’s responsive desire that is associated with great sex over the long term.
Not “passion”, not “spark”, but pleasure, trust and mutuality. That’s the fundamental empirical reason to center pleasure over spark.
Pleasure is sensation in context
Pleasure is the measure of sexual well-being – that is, whether or not you like the sex you are having.
So, what even is pleasure?
Well. Does a sensation feel good? How good? Does it feel bad? How bad?
That’s the whole thing. Pleasure is the simplest thing in the world, in the sense of declaring whether a sensation feels good or not. Next time you’re eating your very favorite food, notice what that pleasure is like – the food’s appearance, its texture, aroma and flavor. Notice what pleasure does to your body. Pleasure is simple …
But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. We’ve been lied to about the nature of pleasure, just as we’ve been lied to about the nature of desire. We’ve been told that sexual pleasure is supposed to be easy and obvious, and if it’s not easy and obvious, then there’s something wrong. For some people, experiencing pleasure is like finding Waldo: so frustrating that you start to wonder why you’re even looking.
We’ve been told that pleasure comes from being touched in the right place, in the right way, by the right person, and if that touch, in that place, by that person, feels good some of the time but not other times, that’s a problem. These lies show up in movies and romance novels and porn, where the main characters may be running away from the villain or even just exhausted and overwhelmed by life, but Partner A touches the magic spot on Partner B’s body and it doesn’t matter what else is going on, Partner B’s knees melt and their genitals tingle.
If that’s how pleasure works for you, cool.
For the rest of us, pleasure isn’t about the right place on your body touched in the right way. It’s the right place, the right way, by the right person, at the right time, in the right external circumstances and the right internal state. In short: it’s sensation in the right context.
“Context” means both your internal state and your external circumstances.
A simple example of this is tickling. Tickling is not everyone’s favorite (though it is some people’s favorite!), but you can imagine a scenario where partners are already turned on, in a trusting, playful, erotic situation, and Partner A tickles Partner B and it feels good! But if those same partners are in the middle of an argument about, say, money, and Partner A tries to tickle Partner B, will that feel good? Or would Partner B feel more like punchin’ somebody in the nose than snuggling?
Any sensation may feel good, great, spectacular, just OK or terrible, depending on the context in which you experience it.
Pleasure is a shy animal. We can observe it from a safe distance, but if we approach too fast, it will run. If we try to capture it, it will panic. You have to build trust with your pleasure before it will allow you to observe it closely.
Pleasure happens when we feel safe enough. Trusting enough, healthy enough, welcome enough, at low-enough risk. Everyone’s threshold for “enough” is different, and it changes from situation to situation. But when we create that safe-enough context, our brains have the capacity to interpret any sensation as pleasurable.
Pleasure is not desire (though desire can be pleasurable)
Pleasure and desire are different systems in the brain. At the level of the emotional, mammalian brain, desire is known as “wanting” or “incentive salience”, and pleasure is discussed as “liking” or hedonic impact.
“Wanting”, in the brain, is a vast network of dopamine-related circuitry that mediates how motivated we are to pursue a goal. “Liking”, by contrast, is a set of smaller “hedonic hot spots” where opioids and endocannabinoids mediate how good a sensation feels.
Pleasure is stillness, savoring what’s happening in the moment. Desire is forward movement, exploring to create something that doesn’t currently exist.
Pleasure is a perception of a sensation. Desire is motivation toward a goal.
In a sense, pleasure is satisfaction and desire is dissatisfaction, because pleasure is enjoying an experience, while desire is motivation to pursue something different.
Consider the “wanting” involved in continuous, joyless scrolling on social media. You’re searching for something you can’t name, maybe for the reward of, at last, finding something that makes you feel good or that even confirms your worst fears. You want … something. But you’re not enjoying it, you’re just following the urge to keep looking. Desire without pleasure.
So far, so simple.
Where it can get muddy is in how desire feels. Pleasure, by definition, feels good. Desire per se is more or less neutral; it’s the context that makes it feel good or bad. I think people confuse desire for pleasure because desire sometimes feels good. Once we recognize that desire can also feel bad, we begin to understand both how desire and pleasure are not the same thing and why pleasure is the one that really matters.
How sexual desire feels
Anticipation, expectation, craving, longing – these are all ways of experiencing desire that can feel delightful and even ecstatic. But anticipation, expectation, craving and longing can also feel frustrating, irritating and annoying. Desire can be hope and optimism, but it can also be anxiety and fear.
Whether desire feels good or not depends on the context. All pleasure depends on the context.
If you have experienced desire, stop and recall a moment when it was pleasurable. Probably, the object of your desire, whether it was a lover or a new gadget or a tasty snack, seemed within reach, maybe you felt in control of whether or not you got what you wanted, maybe your desire was grounded in a promise someone made that filled you with anticipation.
The pleasurable version of spontaneous desire is, I think, why people get confused about the difference between pleasure and desire and why we might be convinced that “spontaneous” is the good, right, normal kind of desire. After all, it was “easy” – or at least, it happened out of nowhere – and it was fun.
But spontaneous sexual desire can feel terrible, too. Suppose you can’t figure out how to get closer to your object of desire, or the object of your desire is entirely out of reach or, worse, actively rejecting you, pushing you away. In that context, your ongoing desire can feel like a form of torture.
If you’ve wanted to want sex, you’ve experienced a different uncomfortable desire. Many people who struggle to let go of the “ideal” of spontaneous desire know how awful it feels to want something you can’t get, which is why it’s so important that we remind ourselves that it’s responsive desire, not spontaneous desire, that characterizes great sex over the long term. If you enjoy the sex you have, you’re already doing it right, and you’re allowed to stop trying to create spontaneous desire.
If we think only about the pleasurable experiences of desire, we end up using the words “pleasure” and “desire” more or less interchangeably. But they’re different; we know they’re different because of the brain science. And if pleasure always is pleasurable but desire is only sometimes pleasurable, doesn’t it make sense to center pleasure, and allow desire to emerge in contexts that maximize the chances that the desire will feel good?
Are you still worried about spontaneous desire?
If I wanted to spark controversy, I’d say there’s no such thing as a sexual desire problem, and all the news articles and think pieces and self-help books and medical research focused on a “cure” for low desire are irrelevant. The “cure” for low desire is pleasure. When we put pleasure at the center of our definition of sexual well-being, we eliminate any need to worry about desire.
But I’m not here for controversy, I’m here to make your sex life better. So I’ll just say: don’t sweat desire. If you’re worried about your partner’s low desire, ask them about pleasure. If you’re worried about your own low desire, talk to your partner about pleasure. Desire can be a fun bonus extra; it’s as important as simultaneous orgasms, which is to say, a neat party trick but not remotely necessary for a satisfying long-term sex life.
And yet. In my unscientific survey of a few hundred strangers, some people reported that what they want when they want sex is spontaneity:
“I hate talking about having sex before I have sex. Like if it can’t happen naturally, I kinda don’t want it.”
Oof, that word. “Naturally.”
If the idea of talking about sex, or making a plan before you have it, feels “unnatural”, I am here to acknowledge the reality that talking about sex might deflate spontaneous desire, but also to ask you to consider the possibility that planning sex can be part of the pleasure and that talking about sex is not just natural, it’s part of the erotic connection between you and a partner.
Maybe every sexual experience you’ve had in response to spontaneous desire has been better than any sex you’ve ever had in response to a plan. But did you really not plan before any of that great “spontaneous” sex? When you’re in a new or emerging relationship, do you not spend time daydreaming about a hot date, making plans for dinner or an adventure together, exchanging flirtatious texts, emails, phone calls, whispers? Hot-and-heavy, falling-in-love horniness is often accompanied by a lot of planning and preparation and, yes, even talking about sex in advance. Do you not spend time getting ready for it, grooming, dressing carefully, making sure you smell good?
Is that … “natural”?
The myth that the “natural” way to have sex is for it to be spontaneously borne of mutual horniness, without having to talk about it or make a plan? That’s the desire imperative. The desire imperative insists that without spontaneous desire, we don’t want sex “enough”. If we have to plan it, there’s a problem.
But consider what our lives are like. We schedule large portions of our days, often weeks or even months in advance. We fill our calendars with work and school and family and friends and entertainment. We fill our bodies with stress and a sense of obligation to others and to ourselves. We impose modern exigencies that don’t even create adequate opportunity for natural sleep, much less unplanned yet mutually enthusiastic sex.
I don’t expect you to believe me right away. I know you’ve been taught to worry about desire. It might even feel troubling or problematic to say that desire doesn’t matter. Maybe you’re thinking: What could you possibly mean, Emily, to not worry about not wanting it and just enjoy it instead? Are you telling me to enjoy sex I don’t want???
On the contrary! I’m saying: Imagine a world where all of us only ever have sex we enjoy. And anything we don’t enjoy, we just don’t do! We don’t do it, and – get this – we don’t worry about not doing it! When we put pleasure at the center of our definition of sexual well-being, sex we don’t like is never even on the table.
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