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Outlander's Sex Scenes Are More Than Hot—They're Genuinely Feminist

My Outlander habit started because it looked like something my husband and I would be able to watch together. I like historical fiction, he’s got a thing for kilts and bagpipes (and can trace his own ancestry to the Cameron clan); so when a coworker described it to me about three episodes after the premiere, I paid little attention to her telling me how “hot” it was and more to the 18th-century Scotland bit.

Then, of course, 11 minutes in, Claire was initiating sex with Frank in Mrs. Baird’s creaky bed and breakfast. Later on a countryside tour, she enticed Frank to get down on his knees and please her as she sat on the table in a room we would later learn would be Claire’s surgery as a healer.

At the time I hadn’t read any of the books—I’ve since listened only to audio books one and two; Davina Porter is a fantastic narrator—so I had no idea what steaminess was coming next. And I don’t mean the full-on naked sexiness that has become synonymous with the show, I mean the wonderful, obvious, repeated references to consensual sex and female pleasure.

PHOTO: Neil Davidson

First there was Claire and Frank, where she felt free to kick things off whenever and wherever in prudish post-war 1945. The examples continued to pile up in season one: Before the wedding, Jamie doesn’t slut-shame Claire for being more experienced in bed; he seems happy about it. “You don’t mind that I’m not a virgin?” she says, after MacDougal has arranged the marriage. “Not so long as you don’t mind that I am,” he replies. “I reckon one of us should know what we’re doing.” It’s like sexting in 1743.

Soon after, in the biggest fight of their young union, Jamie follows Scottish tradition and punishes Claire for not obeying him. Claire stands up to the domestic violence, and when they get around to the make-up sex Jamie won’t proceed until he gets Claire’s go ahead. “I want you Claire. I want you so much I can scarcely breathe. Will you have me?” he asks. She doesn’t just grab him or pull him to her, she gasps, “Yes.” Clear, audible sexy-as-hell consent.

While it’s fun to watch, portraying sex this way matters. “It’s incredibly important to show sexy, consensual sex on mainstream and popular shows,” says Jean Kilbourne, creator of the Killing Us Softly film series, media critic, and feminist activist who has studied how women are portrayed in advertising and media. “In this #MeToo era, it seems that some men are confused about what consensual sex is. Really guys?” It’s also important to show female pleasure and desire. Seen together it’s a magic cocktail, she says, “it helps people understand that consent can be sexy, and can be part of the whole experience—rather than an interruption of it. Consent can and should be enthusiastic!”

Rewatch the sex highlights (admit it, you’ve done it) and there are plenty of reminders. In episode 110, Jamie may have a chance to clear his name. He’s waited years for this information, and his very life may depend on it. But when Murtagh is banging on the door to tell him all the details, Jamie will not give up going down on Claire. He ignores the thundering racket until she climaxes. Oral and an orgasm? When was the last time you saw that, even on cable?

That wasn’t a one-off. The night before Claire returns to her time through the stones, Jamie pleasures her so he can watch; her pleasure is more satisfying and important than his own. “They are two equals. Neither is on a pedestal,” Sam Heughan told Glamour about the consensual sex. “He always puts her first, but he listens to what she has to say. … he’s always seen her as his equal. I think that is probably what makes their relationship work.”

Season two—as everyone bemoaned—was largely a dry spell, even as Jamie frequented a brothel with the bonnie prince. (Though Jamie’s initial reaction to the Parisian approach to grooming is worth noting: “Claire, what have you done to yourself? Your honey pot is bare,” he says. As Claire points out she waxed her legs too, he continues: “That’s bad enough, but to rid yourself of such a lovely forest!”)

Season three followed largely the same sexless trajectory with the two cross-century love birds trying to find their way back to each other.

But with season four, the Easter eggs are back. (Spoilers ahead if you aren’t up to date.) In 1970, when Brianna rebuffs Roger’s proposal, she points out his hypocrisy that he’s slept with other women without marrying them, but she can’t do the same. In the New World, as Mr. Myers explains the ways of the Cherokee as he guides Jamie, Claire, and Ian to their plot of land, he says “Cherokee women choose who they marry. And before that who they bed with,” as if consent were an act of honor as old as time. (Ian’s treacly, “I love this land!” almost kills the moment, but wouldn’t we all love to live in a world where consent is a given?)

And then, when a bear-like creature haunts both the Frasers and the Cherokee, we learn that it’s actually a former member of the tribe. “One year ago, he lay with [his woman] against her wishes, and that is not our way. So he was banished to live alone in the woods,” a Cherokee explains. “He did not accept this. He returned to us again and again. But we would not see him.” The man was once a great warrior and leader in the tribe, but there was no “hey Louis C.K., you’re welcome back any time” here. (It’s worth noting that this is different than in the book, where Jamie defeats a real bear; hat tip to the writers and producers for making this bit a little more relevant to modern day.)

The series is best when Jamie and Claire are in Scotland, but season four may bring back some of that ruggedness in a new world on the cusp of revolution. (There are signs of strain, though, particularly over major issues like slavery and the theft of Native American lands. Claire and Jamie were willing to try to rewrite history—to murder Dougal even—to save the Highlanders. But they aren’t willing to do anything to try to save the lives of millions slaves or Native Americans?)

But as all good streaming relationships go, my husband and I are now watching episodes at our own pace. He petered out before Jamie and Claire even set sail to the west. But for now, I’m sticking with this season for the sex—the consensual, feminist sex. How revolutionary.

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I’m Tired of Feeling Bad About Genuinely Liking Anal Sex

I was in high school when Sex and the City premiered and, like many women of my generation and the generations that followed, that show taught me a lot about sex. Like, a lot: Things I didn’t even know existed were introduced to me every Sunday night—and one of those things was anal sex.

At the time, anal between straight couples wasn’t even on my radar. I knew that gay men engaged in it, but I held on to some pretty old-school notions when it came to why straight women would do it. Namely, as Charlotte put it so eloquently in Sex and the City’s “Valley of the Twenty-Something Guys” episode, “Men don’t marry Up-The-Butt Girl. Whoever heard of Mrs. Up-The-Butt?” Back in 1998, I agreed—and that statement was the first thing that came to mind when my college boyfriend suggested we do the deed a few years later.

Even though I was determined never to become Up-The-Butt Girl, I was in love for the first time and figured one encounter with anal wouldn’t put me in whatever category a future Mrs. Up-The-Butt might reside. The experience was, for lack of a better word, awful. It was painful, uncomfortable, and as I would tell my boyfriend afterward, it felt like I was “taking a backward shit,” if that were even anatomically possible. But on top of the physical discomfort, I also felt ashamed. It was humiliating that this was what he wanted and humiliating that I consented. What did this say about me? What other so-called “deviant” things would I consent to in the name of love? I didn’t even want to imagine.

Even throughout my 20s, when I stopped taking such a hard line on what sex said about my character, I still didn’t really enjoy the few times I had anal sex and figured it just wasn’t really my scene. But then something happened in my early 30s. Perhaps it was the confidence that came with age and sexual experience, but I found myself having anal sex with someone I was dating and loving it. Really loving it. Though there was still shame—this time about enjoying it, rather than just engaging in it. It went back to what liking anal sex said about me as a woman. Was I dirty? Deranged? Had I been dropped on my head as a child and this was the outcome of it, manifested decades later? It didn’t matter how many times I watched that Sex and the City episode in which Samantha praised anal—I couldn’t come to terms with it.

Though up to 25 percent of heterosexual men and women have tried anal sex, the taboo around it is often louder than the praise. It doesn’t matter how many stats come out on the topic, like how women who have anal sex have more orgasms (it comes with an orgasm rate of 94 percent, compared to the 65 percent from vaginal sex). It also doesn’t seem to matter that the majority of women who do engage in anal sex are well-educated with higher levels of income—information one might think would nix some of the negative stereotypes associated with women who enjoy anal sex. But, sadly, it does not.

There are plenty of reasons a woman might feel guilty about enjoying it. Just this summer, when Teen Vogue published a piece titled “Anal Sex: What You Need To Know,” the backlash was swift. Although writer and NYC-based sex educator, Gigi Engle (who, full disclosure, is a Glamour contributor), wasn’t suggesting girls run out and have anal sex—merely introducing it as an option, with information on how to do it safely—there were some alarmingly conservative, potentially homophobia-tinged responses. It didn’t take long for the hashtag #pullteenvogue to make its way onto Twitter, or for articles and videos to pop up condemning the magazine for what ultimately should have been a conversation-starter and a healthy eye-opener.

Despite the alarmism, women who have anal sex are making their way into mainstream narratives.

“Much stigma exists around anal sex, but for some women it is their arousal and favored erogenous zone,” explains Clarissa Silva, behavioral scientist and author of relationship blog You’re Just A Dumbass. “For women who know that they like anal and express it, we should [remind her] why she shouldn’t be shamed. She is simply making a decision for herself that she is interested in having better sex.”

And despite the alarmism, women who have anal are slowly but surely making their way into mainstream narratives. Lars von Trier’s 2012 film Nymphomaniac was the rare theatrical release that included anal sex (actually, there wasn’t much it didn’t include, sexually speaking), which seemed like a small but important step. Then, in 2014, both The Mindy Project and Broad City had episodes about the act. In 2015’s I Smile Back, Sarah Silverman’s character has anal while cheating on her husband. This kind of exposure just solidifies that this is a sex move that people are engaging in, even if it’s still hard to talk about it sometimes.

With this in mind, I have been suggesting it more on my own accord to get more comfortable with the fact that I like it. My partner and I did it the third time we slept together, in fact, because it was important to me that I fully embrace my sexuality—especially the parts I was once ashamed of, and which still remain taboo by society’s standards. I wanted to be the one who initiated it, thereby owning it and the fact that I enjoyed it. I’m starting to understand now that I shouldn’t allow archaic thoughts about how a woman should have sex (which typically means vaginal only), or the narrow-minded thinking of people who condemn it to take up space in my mind.

While I don’t need other people or pop culture to validate my feelings on the matter, it does help in some ways to feel a sense of solidarity. It forces us to realize that human sexuality is complicated and there’s no “right” way to be aroused or to get off. Similarly, not being into anal sex doesn’t make you a prude or somehow less sexually adventurous.

It’s definitely not for everyone, but for those of us who do enjoy it, for far too long, it felt like it needed to be a secret. Now I know how ridiculous a notion that is. A woman’s sexual proclivities don’t define her—knowing what you want is all that really matters.

More:

—Glamour’s 2017 Sex Toy Awards

—How Do I Help My Partner Understand What Gets Me Off?

—Fidget Spinner Butt Plugs Are Here for Some Seriously Twisted Anal Play

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