Debate 2025 #4: Mahimahi / Sex

That’s Not What Sex Looks Like

Yeah, I’m handing over the sex editorial to Tashi again. Listen - I have spent the last three years aiming to make myself as unsexual as possible, and I’ve reverted my public persona in this magazine to a little stick figure without genitals, abs, breasts, eyes, or a soul. I intend to keep things this way. I have family, bosses, and co-workers that read these pieces, and way too much shame to bear the weight of introducing what is, essentially, a magazine dedicated to representing how students at AUT and young people throughout Tāmaki Makaurau view sex in 2025. Listen to what Debate Feature Editor and Certified Sex God Tashi Donnelly has to say about re-learning the way we approach talking about sex and discussing it within our culture. Not me though. I don’t have to talk about sex. Get off my back. - Liam

You up? Good, because we’ve got an issue for you. Welcome to the foreplay before the features. In keeping with last year's tradition, and relieving Liam from the daunting task of writing about filth (non-derogatory), it is I, your humble Feature Editor, writing a sexy editorial for you, our sexy readers. So, get in, loser, we’re talking about sex.

The topic of sex seems to exist everywhere—and somehow, nowhere. It’s still hard to talk about. Although it pains me, we are still, as a society, avoidant of open, honest conversations around this natural part of life. We might make jokes about it, whisper about it with our friends, or feel embarrassed bringing it up in a doctor's clinic. But beyond the cliches and chaos, sex is where a lot of us start figuring out who we really are.

I pride myself on being a radically sex-positive person—but there’s always more to learn, no matter where you are in life. Looking back, it’s wild how sex was presented to me as a teen: overwhelmingly heterosexual, penetration-focused, hairless, performative, and more often than not, choreographed for the male gaze. Consent? Optional. Pleasure? Implied, but not for everyone. No wonder my teen years were a mess of confusion and disappointment.

By my early 20s, I’d had enough. Something had to change. Luckily, the sex positivity movement had found its way online—and it wasn’t just horny Tumblr gifs anymore (RIP thirsty Tumblr, I miss you). The BDSM and kink community had emerged from the digital shadows, sharing experience, language, and knowledge with the masses. Although I don’t practice BDSM myself, I was fascinated by the intense communication it demanded. I didn’t want the spanking—I wanted the spreadsheets. Less Fifty Shades, more Google Docs.

It wasn’t just about aftercare (though who doesn’t love a snack and a cuddle?). It was the planning. The agreements. The shared understanding of roles, boundaries, and expectations. What a concept: talking about sex before having it. Revolutionary!

I wish someone had told me all this before I watched The Notebook and came away thinking sex was supposed to be spontaneous, passionate, and definitely never discussed unless someone was already half-naked in the rain.

It started with growing out my pubic and armpit hair—a feminist protest against the porn industry’s obsession with hairlessness. And although I still rock full bush on my crotch and underarms, it remains a deep insecurity. Because although we’ve made some progress, I’m still bom-

barded with hairless women in media. So I started reading books about sex and pleasure, trying to unlearn what I’d absorbed from porn, media, and whispered locker room myths.

For a long time, I thought I was broken. I didn’t feel much pleasure during intercourse and assumed I’d somehow ruined myself—too much masturbation, too much porn, too many awkward experiences trying to reenact scenes I thought I should like. It turns out that re-creating horny movie scenes is harder than Hollywood would like to imply. I would love to have steaming hot sex, but I simply do not have access to a luxury French automobile in the cargo hold of a sinking ship. And even though I’d probably hate it, I always thought that was what good sex should be like—urgent, cinematic, and suspiciously foggy. I started learning just how ridiculous it is that our culture treats penetration as the main event. Honestly, leave that to the breeders. I just want to orgasm.

I discovered that calling oral sex “foreplay” erases a lot of queer people's experiences of sex entirely. I learnt that I’m not broken—the clitoris is simply the star of the show, and the internal vaginal canal, ironically, is the least sensitive part of my genitalia.

It’s taken me a long time, but now sex feels less like a performance and more like a form of self-expression—albeit a more private one than my other creative outlets. It became a space to experiment, to play, and— eventually—to confront some of my deepest insecurities.

In this issue, our goal is to open the door to those deeper conversations. It's not much, but it's honest work. Whether you're having a lot of sex, no sex, weird sex, kinky sex, or still trying to figure out how you feel about sex, you're not alone. For students especially, navigating sex often means navigating shame, curiosity, boundaries, desire, and vulnerability—all while trying to pass your exams and make it to your multiple part-time jobs.

In this issue, we have stories about queer awakenings, online sex work, shifting gender and relationship dynamics, parental awkwardness (and surprising support), and the strange, often ridiculous ways pop culture has taught us what sex is supposed to look like.

I can’t claim this issue covers everything. We are but a humble student magazine. It does, however, offer a peek under the covers. A little snapshot of what sex can mean: a site of growth, confusion, empowerment, embarrassment, experimentation, insecurity, joy, and, ideally, laughter. We hope it makes you feel seen. It might make you cringe in solidarity. Maybe it’ll open up a little more space—for curiosity, conversation, and pleasure.

So go forth: read, reflect, and renegotiate your understanding of “foreplay.” And remember—if your sex life doesn’t look like a steamy scene in a 1912 Renault, that’s probably for the best.

Guest Editorial

By Tashi Donnelly (she/her) @tashi_ rd | FEATURES EDITOR

Illustration Collaboration : Tashi Donnelly & Stella Roper

Breaking It Down: STIs in Aotearoa

It’s estimated that more than half of New Zealanders will experience an STI at some point in their lifetime. Currently young people are at the highest risk of experiencing an STI, with 1 in 2 having contracted one before the age of 25.

Despite just how common it is to contract an STI, stigma around STI’s is still prevalent, leading to embarrassment and a fear of getting tested. To break down some of the stigma, we’ve sourced the numbers, and are going to start by breaking those down instead:

These numbers all reference the 2023 Family Planning Survey on Sexually Transmitted Infection (STI) Prevention via Sexual Wellbeing.

85

85% of people feel STI information should be included in relationships and sexuality education in schools.

63

63% of people said that their health practitioner had never discussed STI tests with them unless they had symptoms, or brought it up themselves. Despite having higher rates of STI, this number rose to 77% for 16-19 year olds.

47

47% of people said the only time they were proactively asked about getting an STI test was at a cervical screening. Cervical screening isn’t recommended until age 25.

37

37% of people hadn’t had an STI test in the past five years. 15% of these were too ashamed to ask about or get a test and 14% of these didn’t know where to go for a test.

33

33% of people said they didn’t have STI covered as part of relationships and sexuality education (RSE) at school or simply didn’t have RSE at school. The government has just released its draft RSE guidelines - the previous guidelines were scrapped nearly a year ago, and the updated guidelines aren’t yet in place. In this new draft, STI, testing and prevention is recommended to be taught from year 9 up until year 12. However, nothing in the guidelines is compulsory, and even if it is integrated into the curriculum, parents can opt their child out at any point.

30

People aged under 30 felt they didn’t have enough information about STIs. Young people aged under 29 are at particularly high risk of STIs.

18

18% of people said it was difficult to get a test. There were a

plethora of reasons for this: 59% of these said it was because it took too long to get an appointment. 45% said clinic times didn’t work for them, and 36% felt they would be judged by a health practitioner. 35% adding it was too hard to get time off work, school or study. 33% were concerned it would cost too much or didn’t know how much it would cost.

It’s clear that people in Aotearoa have a lot of questions about STIs and how to deal with them. The stats seem to say that we have a long way to go to fully open up the conversation about STIs, but in the hopes of making a start, we’ve answered a few questions below.

What STIs am I at risk of?

There are a number of different STIs that are prevalent in Aotearoa, but the most commonly diagnosed is Chlamydia. Majority of the time, Chlamydia doesn’t show symptoms, highlighting why it’s important to get tested regularly. Gonorrhea is also common, and again often doesn’t show symptoms with up to 50% of women and 90% of men not experiencing symptoms. Syphilis is another prevalent disease, which even more rarely shows symptoms. Other STIs include HPV, Herpes, Urethritis, Trichomoniasis and HIV.

How much does it cost to get tested for an STI and where can I get tested?

While it's true that STI testing can be expensive in certain places, such as a private doctor's practice, there are also accessible options. If you’re a student, take advantage of your university doctor, where you can get a free STI test as often as you need. If you’re not a student, there are other options. Operating in multiple locations across Tāmaki Makaurau, Auckland Sexual Health Services offer free and confidential sexual health care. Their West and South clinics offer walk in services. Sexual wellbeing Aotearoa offers free appointments to those under 22 and as well as cheaper appointments for those with a community services card. Many pharmacies also offer self testing kits, with the cost starting around $20.

How often should I be tested?

With so many STIs not presenting symptoms, it’s strongly recommended to get tested at least once a year. Even if you use protection and don’t have multiple partners, this applies to anyone who is sexually active, particularly those under 25. If you don’t use protection, have multiple partners or have a history of STIs you should be getting tested more regularly, such as every 3-6 months.

How do I treat an STI?

Treating an STI is generally super easy. Of course treatment varies depending on the STI, but more often than not it's just a simple course of antibiotics (and perhaps refraining from sex for a little while). The first step to treatment however, is getting tested.

Written By Evie Richardson

I Miss Spiritual Conception

Written By Hirimaia Eketone (they/them) @hiri.music

EDITOR

Kia ora e hoa ma, welcome back to Kotahitanga, your local column piece full of spicy tidbits and a plethora of Māori mana. While preparing for this issue I had to rack my brain for creative ways to address the issue of Sex in the Māori ao. So, instead of our usual Te Reo lessons, I opt for a more thorough in-depth look into Māori views of sexuality. A little disclaimernot every Māori person or tribe will agree with everything I say, so please take this little spiel as an opinion, not a blatant fact!

Ka tahi, I feel it is necessary to address my least favourite topic- the effect of colonialism on our culture and what it stripped us of. Before the arrival of the British along with Christianity, there was no Māori gendered construct, at least not in the terms we have today. Our culture celebrates spirituality,connection to the motu and our Ao, which was evident pre-colonisation. The idea of specific gender roles and fixed gendered terms was not introduced until Christianity came to Aotearoa. Ahakoa there are no gendered pronouns within the Māori language. Common nouns such as ‘tane,’ ‘kōtiro’ and ‘wahine’ were only deemed necessary for translation into English and are now often mistaken as representing some form of gendered reo within Te Reo Māori. When conversing, we focus more on the context of what or who we are describing - are we talking directly to someone? Do we have ownership over the object we ask for? ( more on this coming in future issues- we’ll get there). How far away is the object we are describing, right here, over there, out of sight, behind us? These context clues help out more than any form of gendered terms. To be completely honest, the gender of a person does not affect how we view or speak of them. So with that set up for us, let’s take a deeper dive into the Māori view on sex, reproduction, and autonomy.

Reproduction in the Māori ao is incredibly sacred, but not constrained to beliefs such as the Christian view of no sex before marriage. Whenever life is willingly conceived, it is beautiful, signifying the cycle of life beginning anew through the reproductive system of the parent. For this same reason, shedding blood each month as a part of your period is also considered sacred. You are expected to stop daily duties, chores, and responsibilities to rest and take care of your body. Each menstrual cycle is believed to represent steps through the cycle of life and is treasured. Due to these teachings, I learned to appreciate and love something that had caused me much dysphoria and embarrassment. Though the western system tries its best ( sometimes ) to teach young students the science behind puberty, the system set up by the patriarchy continuously pushes menstrual cycles into a little box of shame. I am so thankful for the Māori approach to the sacred tapu of our bodies as it has helped me learn to love the previously unlovable parts of myself.

When it comes to views on chastity and pre-marital sex, besides the original Māori views that came before Christianity, I’m not entirely sure if there is a consensus. It is again important to note that many different tribes will have different opinions - the differences between each Māori tribe may seem subtle, but they are evident. In my own experience with whanau, it differs from person to person, which is most likely due to which branches of which tribes adopted and stuck with Christianity or other religions after colonization. While my immediate family may have different views, in general, I have seen an overwhelming number of my extended family support other members who have had kids- the saying “it takes a village” has never been more applicable than about Māori love and support. This support system and cultural celebration have formed my views on humanity as sexual beings, and I am very happy to share them with you all!

So what’s the point of all this, you may ask? Well, as I have traversed these last few Debate issues with you all, I am hoping to instill a little bit of Māori culture into multiple aspects of your life. Past learning the reo or focusing on pronunciation, I believe there are some ataahua ways of viewing life from different cultural lenses. I love my culture and our connection to the whenua, people, and the stars. If by reading this column you acquire another lens for your worldview collection, I will be one happy writer.

I’ll be back to the basics in the next couple of issues, with more vocab and sentence structure work to buff out the reo in your hinengaro.

Ma te wa e hoa ma!

How big is too big?

Three, six, ten, twenty years? Half your age, then add seven?

An age gap-relationship can trigger a myriad of passionate responses, mostly telling you it's a bad idea and that you have issues with a mother or father. Freud would be proud of how far his influence has stretched. Many of my friends are at the age where even a gap of four years can cause concern. And to be clear we are talking about consenting adults, there’s no room for Lolita-esque relationships in 2025. Despite the common discussion in the zeitgeist, there is no satisfying conclusion. And although it's been discussed to death on Sex and the City, I do love to beat a dead horse.

I've seen friends in their early twenties crumble at the hands of a thirty-year-old egomaniac. But I've equally seen friends find solace in the arms of someone who has a little more experience than us. At this age, we're not just learning from the tertiary education system — we're also figuring out how to function as adults without completely falling to pieces. My best mate and I screaming at each other about how to operate the gas oven comes to mind. Dating an older person can be a relief. They hopefully have a few more things figured out, like the gas oven.

However, it's not the years between people that people take issue with, but really the disparity in power. Someone older has more time on the earth under their belt. That experience may come with increased financial security, emotional regulation, and self-confidence. I think this is a pretty one-note way of looking at relationships. Power and experience come in different forms; young people are usually more culturally attuned and can derive power from their youth. Age is a stereotypical indicator of where someone is in life, usually dictated by where someone 'should' be, which is not illustrative of a real human being. Therefore, relationships have to be evaluated based on their unique characteristics.

In my experience, the power dynamic exists most prominently within straight settings, where the man is older. Most of my friends who have experienced queer relationships are less

There is, of course, a distinction between casual and more

serious age-gap relationships. Unless there is a clear power imbalance within a casual relationship with clear boundaries and communication (the dream), you're unlikely to run into any issues. Life is famously short, and it seems unnecessary to write off a fling purely because the zeitgeist dictates that May-December relationships are inherently problematic.

A good barometer is likely to be whether you both have the same priorities. You know, the big ones, for example, whether you are thinking about kids, how much the mortgage is and whether you are both on the same chronically online side of the internet. But that seems rather obvious, people arrive at landmark events at different parts of their lives and are ready for them at varying stages. As long as you tackle the same obstacles, the gap poses less of a threat.

A friend of mine tripped and fell into a one-week relationship with a man twelve years older. Apparently, she was blind to the colour red because, my god, there were countless flags. He didn't have a stable living situation, despite having the means to flat, and didn't want to work, so he just didn't. He had a solid reputation for hitting on anything that so much as glanced at him. After she ended things he insulted her friends but then constantly tried to get her to go out with him and she finally came to her senses and realised he is a freak. It’s been six weeks since she broke it off, and he still sends her likes on Hinge. Some people date younger because they simply can't find someone age-appropriate. In those cases, the age gap isn't the problem; the person is.

Putting societal expectations and power imbalances aside, you either like them or don't. Most online discourse about age-gap relationships lacks nuance, and honestly, life experience. Some people should really touch grass more. The interrogation into an age-gap relationship is about whether two people can operate well together. It’s important to understand the possible risks when entering any relationship, one with an age gap might give you a little more to think about. Don’t be like Nicole Kidman in Baby Girl, I don’t think she evaluated a single risk before drinking that glass of milk. Relationships are not simply transactional exchanges of power, but the ebb and flow that come from sharing your life with another. In a healthy, passion-fueled and loving relationship maybe the years between two people don’t matter all that much.

Written By Elle Daji (she/her) @elleelleelleelle_ CONTRIBUTING WRITER

You ok down there? :

It goes without saying that it’s tough as shit to work for an enormous and wealthy institution that insists they care about your hauora, your mana, and how it impacts their international clients, yet refuse to give you a living wage even after 50 “negotiation meetings” with your union. The same old higher-ups enjoy healthy pay raises and bonuses every year, while we fight for a mere 1-2k raise that doesn’t account for the hardship caused by inflation.

To look at yourself from above, watching you try to convince yourself that you should commodify what you find the most rich pleasure in just to ease the financial stress a little is dehumanising. There is depression in trying to convince yourself that you should continue to work in your ‘free time’, just so you can attempt earning the living wage each week: this wage being an amount that is calculated to be enough to allow people human dignity. All you want is a single, decently paying job and to spend the rest of your life living, because who knows how much time you have left when fascism is on the rise in America, Zionism continues to threaten the sovereignty and lives of Palestinians, and climate change begins to latch on while you continue to drive your petrol car since you can’t afford electric ones.

I am utterly privileged, as a cis Pakeha woman who grew up middle class, and never truly knew the stress of Money till she was a year-and-a-half out of home (now). Whose parents still pay for her car registration and services, phone bills and health insurance, no less. Despite all of these facts, I believe it is important that we all take part in discussions of how the “cost of living” and the capitalist world-system affect how we are all able to survive and live, at a given moment in time. Having said that, here’s a bit of my current experience.

It’s important you know that I’m a burlesque performer. I absolutely love everything burlesque has to offer (bar the near-impossibility of being environmentally conscious, and how expensive it all is). I love the holistic quality of the artform: part performance art, part costume/prop craft, part movement-craft, part sexual expression, part titillation, part satire, part subversion: all tease and all rebellion, in whatever sub-genre it appears. The artform, at its core, allows me to harmoniously bring together my deep true love for dance and the sex positivity I have held since adolescence.

Naturally, considering how I could provide myself with cash in the back pocket led to the idea of combining an artform that I love with the stress and uncertainty placed upon me by being someone paid below the living wage, during a “cost of living” crisis. Here emerges the idea to commodify the love I have for everything sexual expression into the sex work of

the post-COVID internet age: OnlyFans.

“Why not?” I thought. After all, I produce OnlyFans-style-adjacent content for myself and my personal Inst*gr*m account all the time, for fun!!! It has the potential for big moolah, if only I could lock into the grindset I’ve heard is essential for self-employment in the realm of selling sexuality online. I did my research, filling out a few pages of a notebook with advice from Reddit and ChatGPT (not proud but it’s true), and discussing options with my supportive partner. It seemed within reach, and, on the outside looking in, I felt both comfortable with and excited by the idea of providing these services. I felt that I would be safe from the risks I perceived would come with in-person sex work, like exploitation by pimps or bosses, a physical crossing of boundaries by clients, or feeling pressured to leave your comfort zone for money, though boundaries may have been discussed prior. These risks seemed less daunting than possible parasocial boundaries or platform instability associated with online sex work. I loved the idea of earning some extra dosh from something I’ve been doing for myself anyway (taking smokin' hot pics), alongside more financial stability and freedom in the process. I felt empowered by the potential in a side-hustle fuelled by a desire for sexual expression, given power by the existence of erotic capital.

Erotic capital is an often overlooked aspect of living in society which is discussed by Catherine Hakim (2010) as a “fourth personal asset” (p. 499), alongside economic, social and cultural capital. Without having to think too hard about it, many of us can understand how this is a form of capital within much easier reach for women, generally. I think this may be part of the empowerment I feel in the idea of pursuing sex work: the potential for a sense of control and autonomy in a money-making exploit, despite the fact that it would create more work outside of my 9-to-5. However, this sense of autonomy started to feel limited, the more I thought about how it would affect me.

Within the last few days, I have realised that I have been trying to convince myself to be okay with this idea when I am truly not 100% comfortable with actually realising this venture. I want to keep control of how my sexuality is expressed to people on the internet and to strangers, and I feel as though I wouldn’t have complete ownership over an explicit expression of my sexuality if I were to put it on the internet, where it is immortal. I’ve also realised that I feel a sense of discomfort when attaching money to my own sexuality so directly (everyone else can totally do their thing). A large part of my decision is that I don’t want to feel like an expression of

Watching myself consider online sex work as I struggle for a living wage

my sexuality is a grind (and not the good kind). Even though it would be disconnected from my real-life sexuality, I feel as though such a direct form of commodification would lead to me feeling jaded about my own sexuality and sexual expression. This is the last thing I want, especially when it then ends up in someone else's hands. Speaking of someone else’s hands, whoever I would sell sexual content to in this context would (as I understand) be able to access my sexuality whenever they want. I’m not 100% comfortable with that, or that it would honour my sexual autonomy. Honesty with yourself is a difficult process..

Over the past 6 months or so, I have been trying my best to go about anything sex- or sexuality-related by listening to my body. This means only allowing myself to take part in a sexual activity if I feel a 100%-Yes reaction in my body and brain. I am not perfect - it is a journey in something that I am learning how to do over many sexual interactions, yet it is an exercise in honouring and fully respecting my body, my sexuality and my Self. So far, it has truly only made the sexual or intimate interactions that I do have all the more rich and exciting. But why did it take me so long to listen to the lack of 100%-Yes my body and mind felt towards doing online sex work?

I think I know. And I think you, the reader, will know already too.

The fact that I am desperate to make more money, ASAP.

Making below the living wage when you are providing for yourself in this current moment of neoliberal capitalism (taking note of the aspects of living that my parents still allow me to access), is fucking difficult.

Yet I’m actually quite happy with the amount of responsibility that I hold and the challenges that I experience in my day job. I have no desire to kiss the arse of the institution that doesn’t even want to provide me with the dignity of a living wage in a “cost of living” crisis. I have little-to-no motivation to strive for “upward” mobility, or to “climb the corporate ladder”. Fuck climbing. I want to experience life. I want to float.

Nevertheless, I might have to start pretending I care very soon, if I want to stop being so upset about how little financial security I have.

What I do care about is my coworkers, and the people that I support in my role. The positive impact that I continue to have on these people’s lives.

What I do care about is my burlesque - and art as a whole -

- because expression, connection, and creation are exactly what makes us human.

So, I’ll continue on this journey of trying to negotiate (though I am very stubborn to do so) how I’ll make enough money to gain the freedom I desire in an expensive artform; to travel and find home in places around the world; and to afford groceries without having to borrow money from my partner. I’ll continue on this journey of trying to negotiate how I’ll gain the freedom to not be tied to money, and the false promises of the freedom possible through it that destroy us.

But life moves in pits and valleys; curves and sharp corners. Shit changes.

Who knows: maybe I’ll reconsider online sex work in the future.

Related Research:

1. See: https://www.livingwage.org.nz/

2. Wallerstein, I. (1974). The Rise and Future Demise of the World Capitalist System: Concepts for Comparative Analysis. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 16(4), 387–415.

3. Hakim, C. (2010). Erotic Capital. European Sociological Review, 26(5), 499-513. DOI:10.1093/esr/jcq014

4. ‘Floatin’’ by Cool Company & Nic Hanson, 2021 (song)

Written By Gina Silvestra (she/her) CONTRIBUTING WRITER

To many of us living under patriarchal and heteronormative capitalism, exploring one’s own gender identity and sexuality can be an undertaking both scarily daunting and beautifully liberating.

Identifying as a cisgender heterosexual male for the majority of my youth, I felt comfortable and confident in my own sexuality and preferences, and positive that my gender identity was that of a male—albeit less traditionally ‘masculine’ than many of my peers. Over the years, however, various things began to occur that made me question my gender identity and sexuality.

Memories arose from my early youth, likely repressed due to coming of age in a hyper-masculine and homophobic culture. Memories of reading a graphic novel of The Iliad when I was young and finding the depiction of the homoerotic relationship between Achilles and Patroclus to be strangely exciting. Memories of tracing delicate lingerie patterns onto the condensation-covered mirror after a hot shower, imagining my reflection adorned in an ever-changing assortment of fantasy bras and stockings. Memories of trying on my older sister’s dresses, in secret, just to see how it would make me feel.

Then one day, in my early twenties, I dropped LSD for the first time, and the egg truly began to crack.

As I looked back at my reflection in the mirror while under the influence of a powerful psychedelic drug, a few things became immediately clear to me. Long-haired and clean-shaven, with a massive serotonin-and-dopamine-flooded smile plastered across my face—I thought I looked like a woman. I thought I looked like a pretty woman. And it felt euphoric.

As I would later realise, this euphoria wasn’t solely due to the acid. It was gender euphoria—and it felt good.

Time passed. I spent years in a relationship with a cisgender woman with whom I shared an attraction to feminine people, regardless of what genitalia was between their legs. It was a relationship in which I felt comfortable and supported with my gender identity, expression, and sexuality as it changed, grew, and evolved over the years.

Then COVID hit, the economy tanked, and I started to brainstorm ideas for an alternative stream of income that might supplement my part-time wages while I studied at university. I remembered reading about an entrepreneurial young man from the UK who, although heterosexual, had become a successful online sex-cam worker and OnlyFans sensation, with the vast majority of his devoted (and well-paying) audience being gay men.

So—webcam in one hand, cock in the other—I dove into this exciting new enterprise with as much energy and vigour as my mentally stressed and economically broke spirit could afford.

What I discovered very quickly, aside from the very real monetary benefits (which were surprisingly pretty decent), was that I actually enjoyed it. It was fun. I liked being an abstract object of desire for people, regardless of their gender or sexual preference.

As I explored more with my comfort and limits with online sex work, I began to dress up more and more femininely when I performed on camera. I bought lingerie for myself and started wearing stockings, bras, and body-stockings. I applied lipstick and shaved my pubic hair. Already being a fairly androgynous-presenting male, I naturally grow very little body hair. This, combined with a freshly clean-shaven face, shoulder-length hair, red lipstick, and lingerie—I was feeling shockingly comfortable, feminine, and sexy in a way that felt entirely new and foreign to me.

What did this mean?

For someone who felt very little connection or affinity for traditional masculinity (as portrayed by society) growing up, there was no grand moment of illumination that totally flipped my perception of myself from masculine to something not-so. It was more of a gradual realisation and consolidation of thoughts and feelings that I had experienced for two decades. A recognition that no, I did not feel much like a boy or a man on the inside. And yes, in many ways, I felt more comfortable viewing myself internally as a woman—or at least, non-binary—but certainly not a man.

Being perceived by most of my online audience as a trans woman, I began to experience the ways in which some people interact with female-presenting individuals and the misogyny this entails.

Although far from being prudish and aware that I was providing literal porn to my audience, I was honestly shocked at how a small minority of these viewers would behave and speak to me in the cam room chat—to someone they perceived as a trans woman. Some of the most disrespectful, misogynistic, and transphobic comments that I had ever seen in my life would, upon occasion, appear across the chat screen. I would respond by promptly kicking the user from the chat and banning them from my cam room.

However, I am pleased to report that these instances, although provoking a fierce and unspeakable wrath to flicker and burn somewhere deep within my core, were few and far between. The vast majority of my interactions with the audience were warm, lovely, and respectful.

I even helped some people with their own struggles and insecurities around their gender identity and sexual preferences, with more than one person confiding in me in a private chat that they were confused by their own attraction to transfeminine people. What did it mean? they asked me.

I told them it meant whatever they wanted it to mean to them, and that what really mattered was treating everyone, regardless of gender and/or sexual identity, with respect. And to always respect people’s identities, avoiding fetishisation or dehumanisation of who they are as individuals.

Most of these people (the majority of them men) thanked me for listening to them and their thoughts, and for providing them with whatever advice I could.

As is increasingly evident with each passing year, the crushing monster of misogyny and the patriarchy swallows all of us without distinction—including cisgender heterosexual men.

While I initially started doing sex-cam work as a means to increase my income in a depressed and COVID-stricken economy, what I came to discover about myself was that the extra money was just a bonus. What I really enjoyed most was the gender euphoria of dressing and presenting femininely online.

As for what this meant for myself—did it mean that I was trans? Ultimately, at this point, I don’t really know or care. My identity was and is myself—masculine and feminine combined. Al-

though I continue to use he/him pronouns and likely will for the rest of my life, ticking the box ‘male’ as a gender identifier just doesn’t feel totally correct anymore.

Despite having very little interaction with the local LGBTQ+ community over the years, as time has gone on, I have felt more and more alignment and affinity with queer culture and identity. My girlfriend is a queer woman, and I now have friends that are trans and lesbian. My own gender identity is as amorphous as it is elusive—lately, my physical appearance aligns with styles often associated with butch lesbian culture.

If tomorrow someone assumed my gender and sexual identity to be that of a lesbian woman, I suspect the resulting gender-affirming euphoria would be overwhelming.

Much like my experience with gender euphoria, attraction is proving to be more fluid than I once thought. I still don’t feel a strong pull towards most men, but there’s something about a certain softness, a prettiness, that does resonate with me. Maybe, like my reflection in the mirror that night on acid, it’s another piece of myself I’m only just beginning to recognise.

Whatever happens next, I am excited and joyous to learn more about myself on the way. If discovering my own gender euphoria has taught me anything, it’s that joy itself can be an act of defiance. I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t need them—I just know that each step forward brings me closer to something that feels real, something that feels like me.

And truly, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart—fuck Brian Tamaki, fuck J.K. Rowling, and fuck Elon Musk too. Fuck the lot of them, the fascist swine.

Written By Anonymous

By

Tashi Donnelly (she/her) FEATURES EDITOR

Illustration

Get Intimate with Yourself at Āhua

It was 7:20pm on a Friday, three days before the opening show of Te Wiki Āhua o Aotearoa. After reaching out to one of the organisers prior, I snuck in to scope out their rehearsal at their HQ, Raynham Park. Today’s agenda was going through the show Tell Me I’m Pretty.

While people continued to dart in and out, feeling as if ten jobs were occurring in tandem, the schedule pushed ahead.

Time moves faster in this space, with flashes of light-catching beads, the striking fabrics of dancers practicing choreography, and microphone-headpiece-armed organiser Fifi moving faster than I could photograph. Another of the organisers, Nina, sits down for the first time during the whole rehearsal. She says she’s “been here every day this week.” When I ask her how long she’s been here today, she simply covers her bowed head with her hands, then takes her leave, getting back to work. The models are next up in the schedule. With every walk providing its own flair, models individually make their way down the duct-tape-marked runway. At the end, a drink bottle awaits them, a mark in place of where they’re directed to pose for the press section. Cheers, claps, and clicks are given to the particularly energetic walks –an impressive feat for such a late rehearsal. Once everyone has had a go, the group listens to feedback from the organisers. It’s a constant ebb and flow of hectic and calm, with everyone making the most of the small window before showtime.

Once rehearsal finishes up, I have a kōrero with two of the featured designers; Bridie Chapman and Banshee. After some reflection, I realised how both designers' work connects to the theme of this particular Debate issue, with a particular focus on feminine and queer bodies.

Distracted mid-sentence by her clothing racks – bursting with ruffles and dangling life-size fairy wings – I attempt to conduct an interview at 9pm. Despite my short circuit, Bridie puts a tiara to the side and takes time to chat with me about herself and the inspirations behind her practice. After graduating with a fashion degree, Chapman began to work within the fashion industry, but found it unfulfilling and ultimately left to prioritise creating as a fashion designer. “While I’m making less money, I’m much happier.” Scheduled as the 10th show in Āhua, Tell Me I’m Pretty will be her first time showcasing work on the runway, an opportunity she is incredibly grateful for. “Āhua inspired me to bring my work out – to officially launch my brand!” Despite meeting her models only a month or so ago, provided through the Āhua-run casting, they have become very close and she cares for them dearly. “I want them to feel like a fairy princess.”

With a collection consisting of lingerie and corsets, thoughtful-

ly paired with ribbon-hemmed skirts reminiscent of childhood princess dresses, the concept of revisiting and reclaiming childhood nostalgia during adulthood is conveyed seamlessly. Chapman explains that the fantasy offered by dress-up shouldn’t be limited to childhood, and that society’s narrow standards for what women should wear contradict the very independence we were promised growing up. The unfortunate truth being, once developed into a woman, the terms “sexiness” and “maturity” forcibly replace the fun of tutus and wings, now labelled childish. The fantasy land of Easter bunnies and fairies visited in childhood begins to sound significantly freer than the façade they currently experience adulthood in. Once grown, the whimsy and adventure of childhood dress-up is ripped from grasp, labelled unprofessional or immature for her age. Attractiveness is prioritised over whimsy and imagination – or worse, infantilised. Sexualised either way, fighting for agency of her own.

To continue promising the great freedom and independence of adulthood is a guise for future generations. Agency of the body, particularly that of the outwardly feminine expression, will never be given willingly by modern-day patriarchal society. These unrealistic and confining standards must be taken, ripped apart and stitched back together. Reclaimed.

The Bridie Chapman collection journeys you along this not-so-imaginary tale, encouraging a rebellion toward what patriarchal systems deem feminine and acceptable.

Sat next to a suitcase that was almost the same height as them, I had a moment to chat with Titirangi-based designer Kayla Rouselle, AKA Banshee.

Questioned on their favourite piece, they promptly zipped open their suitcase, unleashing a bundle of textural fabrics free like a worms-in-a-can prank. As they pulled out a furry grey skirt with a detailed “butt-corset” at the back, I inquired about the pattern of fur usage in the collection. From my perspective, it felt like a statement regarding discourse of body and pubic hair. To this, they responded, “It’s less on the concept or material, more about process.” As I was told how garment materials are sourced through donations and otherwise discarded textile waste, I began to understand how Rouselle’s relationship between maker and material is alternative compared to most fashion designers. “Once people know you take fabric donations for your work, you never run out.” According to the source themself, deconstructing donations into uniform fabric pieces for a new life of Banshee attire is the most time-consuming part. “No one knows how long it takes to unpick everything!”

While designing the collection, there isn’t a key inspiration or

concept kept in mind when creating pieces. Instead, Rouselle looks to their life experience and identity, with mentioned connections within the intersections of the queer and sex worker communities. This interested me deeply. To think that a designer’s past and present— their history and being—serves as concept and context to a practice. I think in some way, all creatives put a bit of themselves in th eir work – even subconsciously. In the case of Banshee, personal connections with the sex worker and queer communities are reflected in garments. They note that, when selecting models, they had a stronger connection to those also present within the queer community. As members of the local queer ballroom scene, Venus and Ego, stride proud in Banshee down the runway, an electric presence ruminates.

When the 28th arrived, and I saw Banshee and Bridie Chapman displayed in full swing, I understood that prior context of each designer’s inspirations was unnecessary. Both collections possessed a euphoric power, their presence itself a symbolic act of rebellion to patriarchal (and in turn, heteronormative) assimilation.

As I walked back out to Karangahape road post-runway, only seven days after seeing the designs for the first time, I realised the same energy pulsing through the rehearsal space had spilled onto the runway: urgent, intimate and completely self-assured. Tonight, dress-up wasn’t pretend. It was a weapon and shield, a nostalgic love letter – known all to well – to the body you claim for yourself.

You could tell her she’s pretty, but she already knew that.

Follow the designers mentioned on Instagram: @_6anshee and @bridiechapman

Written By Stella Roper (they/she)

EDITOR

Three Films On Sex

Adolescence: Episode 3 (Barantini, 2025)

Yes, I am highlighting one episode in a four-part limited series on Netflix. This is that one about a 13-year-old schoolboy, Jamie (Owen Cooper), being the prime suspect in the fatal stabbing of his classmate Katie, and where each episode is filmed fluidly in a single-take. Impressive, no? The conversation sparked by ‘Adolescence’ – of right-wing, manospheric radicalisation being exposed to children via the unsupervised internet – has been a valuable crystallisation of where we are at, and where we’re going. Though one could suspect the show is clutching its pearls away from the scary new youth (it’s that good ol’ fashioned generational resentment!), and the final episode truly does overstep the line of being moralistic melodrama (Aurora needle-drop, anyone?), there are a few sections here where the live-in-the-moment form and the procedural stages of the investigation genuinely had me leaning forward, breathless, not even uttering a word of reaction to my partner.

Episode 3’s single-shot premise is about child psychologist Briony (Erin Doherty) and her final session with Jamie. In that sound-proof therapy room, without

becomes a viscerally uncomfortable piece of television, off-handedly invoking the fissures in the broader cultural understanding of sex and gender norms; vital concepts that society – particularly male society – is conditioned to dismiss and scoff at whenever labelled correctly as ‘patriarchy’ and/or ‘toxic masculinity’. Discourse online has already drawn focus to magnificent details: a male surveillance guard making passes and veering a little too close for comfort, Briony’s professional composure becoming an intensely readable Rorschach-ian response when Jamie loses his temper, and the cheese-and-pickle sandwich – notably not Jamie’s favourite filling – which he takes a bite out of anyways, a double-edged symbol of the female attention the young man has been conditioned to not only desire, but feel entitled to, even if they claim to resent it anyways.

The most curious point to me, however, is when the name “Andrew Tate” – currently the biggest and most culpable name to the face of conquest-favouring, alpha-male radicalisation – is predictably brought up in the session. Jamie says that he is familiar with Tate’s content, and that he didn’t like it. Occam’s razor tempts one to believe he’s just in denial – as with every other detail about the night of the murder – but I am encouraged to consider that the show is just being smart about the issue, purposefully implying that the tragic extremes of patriarchy are much bigger than just Andrew Tate’s following. Even if he, the grifting catalyst, were not posting such influential content online, the innate model of masculine insecurity still exists to shape men (and women) from a very young age.

‘Adolescence’, admittedly very much a parent’s point of view, considers potential roots of the tragedy: generational trauma, patriarchal biases, parental bonds (or lack thereof), education and online supervision. But in Episode 4, Jamie’s parents conclude that they raised a kind

a kind daughter in the same household that birthed their violent son, so perhaps it’s not enough to merely be ‘good role models’ after all. You have to identify the problem, name it, and attack it head-on. Ain’t enough to be ‘not sexist’; you need to be ‘anti-sexist’.

The Iron Rose (Jean Rollin, 1973)

If you’re after something from the age of sleazy European horror, then the sheer opulence of Jean Rollin’s tranquil, sexually-charged nightmare in a cemetery will hold you over nicely – especially if you have a craving to get high and watch something weird. A young couple wander into a graveyard in the evening, and when night falls, they cannot get out, and decide to confront death with transgression. It’s strange and funny, but I also think it’s a seriously amazing piece of atmospheric trash-art, best likened to a lucid combination of being really, really tired and then taking a wrong turn into a corner of town you’ve never seen before.

Green Snake (Tsui Hark, 1993)

There isn’t anything I’ve seen quite like this one – a gauzy, erotic, queer-positive fairytale splendour, re-interpreting the Chinese legend of ‘the White Snake’ with contemporary clarity. Hark takes the source fable very seriously, but that’s not to mean he doesn’t have a hysteric sense of humour when splashing the canvas with explosions of colour, floral tones, glinting water surfaces, ridiculous large-scale animal props, rich pan-Asian music cues, and gratuitous sex and violence (but never both at once). Huzzah!

Column By Ricky Lai (he/him) @rickylaitheokperson CONTRIBUTING COLUMNIST

In 2015, at the ripe old age of 18, I was diagnosed with ADHD. About six years later, I started researching autism after noticing how much I related to the experiences of autistic people in my life and online. The blanket term for these (and many other) conditions is neurodivergent. It means having a brain that works a bit differently from what we call neurotypical.

We also use the term spectrum to describe people on the autism or ADHD spectrum. There are strengths and challenges to being neurodivergent. I spent my school years confused, and despite not knowing exactly why, I was very aware that I was different.

There is a plethora of things I could talk about when it comes to being AuDHD (the combination of autism and ADHD), but today I want to focus on one specific area: sex.

I’ve been sexually active since my teens. Even when I thought I was doing all the “right” things, I still felt confused and overwhelmed a lot of the time. In many instances, I verbally consented to things I was not comfortable with, because I was desperate to do sex “right”. This was a terrible problem. I was still interested in sex, had plenty of desire, but when it came down to it, I didn’t enjoy it as much as I enjoyed solo sex. And I couldn’t figure out why.

I’d been a studious learner — I’d watched sex scenes in movies, read sex scenes in books, watched literal sex in porn (for science, of course). That was the sex everyone was doing, right? But nowhere in all that sex-ed-by-osmosis did I learn the golden rule: sex should feel good for you, not just look good from the outside. That’s true for everyone, but for my neurodivergent ass, it was hard to even know what I wanted.

There’s been a lot of learning and unlearning on my journey toward a satisfying sex life. Hopefully, I can offer some practical advice for approaching sex through a neurodivergent lens. And who knows — maybe it'll help some of you neurotypicals too.

Consent and People-Pleasing:

For me, the desire to “mask” or people-please to avoid awkwardness or rejection was devastating my sexual experiences. Masking is when neurodivergent people consciously or unconsciously hide or suppress parts of themselves (like stimming, emotional responses, or talking about special interests) to fit in with neurotypical expectations. Over time, this can lead to intense people-pleasing, because you're so used to ignoring your own needs in order to seem "normal" or make others com-

Written By Tashi Donnelly (she/her) @tashi_rd FEATURES EDITOR

fortable. When it comes to sex and consent, people-pleasing is a dangerous beast.

If you struggle to communicate your needs or even have difficulty detecting what it is you need, ongoing consent in a sexual situation can be scary and difficult.

Many neurodivergent people experience a kind of “disconnect” between their brain and their body’s sensory signals. This means it can be harder to notice things like pain, discomfort, hunger, or even arousal, in real time. Sometimes the brain doesn’t register those signals clearly, or it processes them with a delay, which can make it tricky to respond to what your body actually needs in the moment.

What can you do about it? Before the heat of the moment, make sure you have pre-negotiated boundaries. This can look like whatever you want it to look like. It could be a script, a checklist, or a list of “dos and don’ts” that clarifies what you’re okay with and what you’re not keen on. And the cornerstone to all of this is giving yourself absolute and unequivocal permission to say “stop”, no matter where you are in the process. To make things as clear as possible, you can implement a safe word, or a “reset word”. I find this helpful because sometimes I don’t want to stop completely, just pause for a moment to steady myself, and get back in the zone. Being able to safely say “stop” or “pause” makes it easier to navigate the situation. If you want to stop, your partner can cease all sexual interactions, and if you want to pause, you can continue to be in the mood, and hopefully get back to the good stuff.

And always debrief after sex. Talking about what felt good, what didn’t, and what you’d like to try next time is sexy and important!

Sensory Sensitivities and Sex:

Neurodivergent people often experience sensory processing differences, meaning their brains interpret sensory input, like touch, sound, light, smell, or taste, more intensely or less intensely than others. This can lead to sensory overload (where everything feels too much) or under-responsiveness (where it’s hard to register sensations at all). What feels nice to one person might feel overwhelming, painful, or barely noticeable to someone who's neurodivergent. Sex is obviously a sensory clusterfuck, so it can be a minefield or playground depending on the individuals sensory needs.

Common issues include fabrics and textures. This can come

into play when tussling in sheets that aren’t 100% Egyptian cotton with a high thread count. Some fabrics just don’t do it for me personally, anything polyester or micro-fibre adjacent makes my skin crawl just to think about. These issues can also come into play with things like latex, lube, or even body hair. Figuring out what things give you the sensory ick will allow you to avoid those things and get down to the hanky panky. We all want fun sex without unnecessary distractions.

The same goes for pressure and touch, sounds and smells, and temperature. Some of us love firm physical pressure, some enjoy a lighter touch. My best friend has such a sensitive sense of smell that someone wearing strong cologne or having bad BO could completely throw her off. Not just to the point of mild discomfort, but complete dysregulation and inability to communicate or focus. Others might love strong smells. Noise can be a huge factor also, I know when my partner is going down on me, if I can hear people talking in the next room, there is no way I’m going to orgasm.

Once you’ve figured out your unique sensory requirements, you can prep your space accordingly. Sensory-friendly lighting, familiar textures, white noise, and weighted blankets can all help get you comfortable enough to get in the mood. Communicate your preferences too, like “I prefer consistent pressure” or “please don’t wear any strong scents”. All of this will help create a sensorily safe and sexy setting.

Hyperfocus, Rejection Sensitivity, and Aftercare:

Hyperfocus is when a neurodivergent person becomes intensely absorbed in a task or activity, often to the point of losing track of time, bodily needs, or their surroundings. It can be a superpower for getting things done, but during sex, it might mean getting really locked into one sensation or action, and accidentally ignoring your partner’s cues or your own changing comfort levels. It’s okay to get really into one kind of touch, but make sure you check in with your partner and with yourself. Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD) is when someone feels emotional pain from rejection, criticism, or even the possibility of disapproval, much more intensely than is typical. Research has even suggested that the type of pain this causes manifests in neurodivergent people as physical pain. It’s extremely common in people with ADHD, and can make things like sexual communication tricky — even gentle feedback might feel devastating, which can lead to avoiding honest conversations or constantly second-guessing yourself.

I’ve struggled with RSD my whole life. When I feel rejected, especially sexually, it feels akin to someone screaming in my face that I’m disgusting and undesirable, even if all they said was “I don’t want to have sex right now”. It’s a horrible feeling, and one that falls mostly in the hands of the ADHD person to find methods of self-regulation. It relates heavily to the masking and people-pleasing I mentioned earlier. When you’ve put so much effort into being “good” and doing the “right” thing, when someone tells you it’s not, it can be all the more devastating. You can, however, communicate with your partner about your RSD if you suffer from it. If you feel like you’re having an RSD moment, just let your partner know. Say, “I’m getting a strong feeling of rejection right now, could you reassure me?” is a valid way to help you get through a difficult conversation. That

isn’t to say your partner can’t express their own needs, just that when they do, you can both feel emotionally affirmed. Ultimately, it will be helpful for anyone with RSD to figure out what helps them get out of that rut. When I’m feeling overly rejected, I like to name the feeling, figure out where its coming from, and attempt to self-sooth by reminding myself (out loud or in my head), that my partner loves me, that I am desireable, and I like to ask my partner to reassure me verbally if I can’t get out of my own head.

Remember, aftercare is not just for BDSM and kink! Neurodivergent brains need more time to decompress and change states. When we are in sex mode, it can take a while to wind down, and vice versa. Snacks, weighted blankets, a good chat, cuddles, gaming or watching TV, or even some alone time can be necessary to shift gears. Needing aftercare does not make you “too much”, and honestly, neurotypicals and non-kink people should get on this trend.

Rethinking “Normal” Sex:

Remember, sex doesn’t look like what movies, books, and pornography depict. At least not for the vast majority of us. We have to recognise that when we see sex in media, we’re looking at a choreographed reflection of what real sex is. There is no such thing as “normal” sex, it looks different for everyone. What we want to achieve is sex that’s right for you.

Sex might look like making out fully clothed and grinding till you cum. It could look like head-to-toe latex outfits and sex toys. It could be planning sex via text in advance to avoid on-thespot anxiety. It could just be taking lots of breaks, for snuggles or refreshments. You might want fidget or stim toys to help you concentrate. It’s up to you, and the consenting adult you’re fornicating with, to figure out.

Routine, structure, or even visual diagrams can be sexy, they don’t have to seem clinical. It’s actually very helpful for me to look at a diagram of a vulva and be able to point out all the spots that I like to be touched and how. These can be arousing conversations if we can put aside the learnt awkwardness.

Final thoughts:

Whatever your needs are, they’re valid. Life is too short to be having unsatisfying or uncomfortable sex when there are so many tools that can help. I’ve suggested a few here, but this isn’t a rulebook — it’s a starting point. Build your own guide. Write your own script. And don’t be afraid to throw out anything that doesn’t work for you, even if “everyone else” seems to be doing it. Sex doesn’t have to be spontaneous or neurotypical. Spontaneity is great, but so is a Google calendar invite titled ‘Bonk Time’.

I used to think I had to perform sex the way I’d seen it done on screen, in books, and through whispered teenage gossip. But sex isn’t something you pass or fail. It’s something you feel. For neurodivergent folks, it might take longer to understand what those feelings mean, where they’re coming from, or what to do with them. But once you do, the sex you have can be deeply connected, wildly enjoyable, and completely your own. And if that includes weighted blankets, diagrams, or a well-thought-out script written on a typewriter, all the more power to you.

A Letter to my

Queer Anonymity

As a slightly religious, definitely gay, newly non-monogamous Indigenous trans person, mapping out my personal history with sex is an absolute rollercoaster. Religious homes, in my honest opinion, are the birthing place of the most sexually repressed and then sexually expressive beings to grace planet Earth. I mean, come on, years and years of repression through puberty, whispered sex talks and a general aversion to anything pleasurable? The saying "helicopter parents raise the sneakiest kids" transforms into an all-out orgy of a sex life when older. That, or some intense repression and some light-to-medium homophobic tendencies. It truly is a gamble that the house doesn't win.

I admit- I was a devout admirer of our religion. I was fortunate to grow up in a family-driven church that was non-judgmental and slightly more left-leaning than many other institutions. However, I struggled to believe there were real options beyond marriage, children, and a lifetime of quiet servitude. I found comfort in the idea that life was a series of choices, with paths that would initially seem bad but would be necessary in retrospect. Ignore the vigilante-esque reasoning- it kept me going. That idea is one I carry to this day, alongside the hope that if there is a god, they will stand by one of my favourite teachings- unconditional love. After all, that unconditional love is what kept me sane throughout my years of "sin".

My sexuality journey happened in tandem with my self-exploration, an insanely confusing mesh of increased sex drive and lust for all non-cis men. If any of you have had a so-called "hoe phase", please imagine that experience on gay-awakened-induced steroids. Perhaps you don't have to imagine- if so, let's be friends. Without my first relationship, I wouldn't have had the proverbial balls to do ANY form of self-exploration. The only suggestive media I had access to growing up was certain raunchy music videos and roleplay group chats (the latter of which I would love to forget) until I was 17 and discovered the beauty of Wattpad, my beloved. Ironically, once I was convinced I would not be struck down for a little bit of fun, the Gender Crisis hit, and I was forced into a rabbit hole of self-hatred and dysphoria. Thankfully for me and many others, I found salvation in the blessed company of the Polyamorous Artist Association; my group of queer art kids

who loved to fuck anyone who could sing (I love you all.)

Finding comfort in great queer friends really gave me a safe space to explore. By reframing my view of what I could and couldn't do, they opened me up to the idea that my once-repressed feelings weren't wrong. A couple pronoun changes and confusing coveting of fictional women later, I finally felt safe in labelling myself as a trans bisexual. I'm thankful for the artist and theatre friends I surrounded myself with- one could say this was inevitable, but I'd never have my half-decent wardrobe without you all.

Alas, dear reader, it doesn't stop there- once I settled into my spiritual, mental and sexual beliefs, the concept of Polyamory was thrown into the mix (thank you again, my artist friends.) In my case, I have always had multiple crushes at one time. Blame it on the endless fictional character crushes I'd covet across endless universes. My friends and I discussed this at length over Soju and animated movies, which made me realise I might not be alone in my thoughts (I can, in fact, never have an original experience.) While in a monogamous relationship, I had no urge to break that trust and agreement, but I was struggling with feeling "wrong" for also liking other people. Through conversations with my then-partner and honest reflection on my part, I realised there was nothing wrong with acknowledging my feelings as long as I didn't act on them. I would keep my partner informed, and for the most part, we'd joke about which characters in movies we wanted to fuck. Thank god for accepting partners, am I right? Even if that relationship, quite frankly, goes to shit.

Polyamory is always an interesting conversation topic. The amount of "woke" friends I have who either scoff at the idea or are generally uneducated on the matter continues to surprise me. Like, you're going to shame me for wanting relations with MULTIPLE AMAZING WOMEN? I get it; I can be gay as long as it still fits into some vague social 'standards.' You've never experienced the magic of loving multiple people at once, and I sincerely apologise. All joking aside, there is such beauty in Polyamory- (I do not mean polygamy or any form of forced cheating within relationships. You may not hold space here.) Polyamory is built on the consent of multiple be-

ings who agree to love, fuck, date or whatever else while still respecting their partner's wishes. Whether you're collectively dating in a polycule set-up or keeping yourselves open while still being utterly devoted to your partner, the number of beautiful experiences you can discover is limitless. While this lifestyle may not be for you, I implore you to recognise how natural this choice is. Humans were not born monogamouswe would have likely died out a long time ago if we were.

Now that I've gone through a hectic break-up, many a situationship and found myself a lifetime partner, I realise that this has always been a natural part of my sexuality. Why would I deprive myself of experiencing and giving out love to close friends, casual hookups or various partners? I understand the stigma, the exceptions and the fear. I realise it is hard to understand or connect to a lifestyle choice you wouldn't live. As someone who has battled the most severe self-doubt, please trust me when I say- I get you. I understand.

If my religious and queer experiences have taught me anything, all of us need to grow more open and tolerant of what is around us. There is such beautiful freedom in accepting people as they are and recognising the beauty of the world around us (unless it's illegal or immoral- I'm not about to get quoted for shitheads who use Polyamory or queerness as an excuse to harm people or evade responsibility.)

Look, I'm not trying to convert you or anything. If you are comfortable in your sexuality, your sexual preferences and how you're living, that's all I want for all of us. However, if you're trapped in religious backlash, stuck on what label to pick for your body or scared of change, I need you to know it'll be okay. Befriend those who will support you and your journey. Respect boundaries but also confide in those you trust if you have questions- chances are, your friends are living the same life you are. No one has the right to tell you how to fuck or who to date. Be safe, be happy, and be you.

Q: 22 (She/Her)

Dear Tashi,

(I've changed all the names in my story and I know none of them read Debate, so I think I'm safe to ask)...

I need your advice on a situation that’s rapidly spiralling out of control. I’m a second-year student, and I recently moved into a flat with three other people: my good friend Jess, her boyfriend Daniel, and a guy from our course, John. Things were fine for the first couple of months, but then... drama.

A few weeks ago, I drunkenly hooked up with Daniel at a party (There might have also been some other drugs in the mix...) It was a mistake, obviously. I felt guilty immediately and decided never to speak of it again. Daniel agreed. But last weekend, Jess went through his phone (she’s insecure, but in this case, unfortunately justified) and found messages between us. Nothing explicit, but enough to suggest something happened. She confronted Daniel, he cracked, and now she knows.

Jess, understandably, is furious. But here’s where it gets worse: she’s not mad at Daniel. She’s blaming me entirely, calling me a backstabber and a homewrecker. She’s telling all our mutual friends that I “seduced” him, and now I’m getting iced out of our entire social circle. John, our other flatmate, is caught in the middle! He says he doesn’t condone what happened but thinks it’s unfair that all the blame is on me.

Meanwhile, Daniel is getting off scot-free. Jess hasn’t broken up with him, and he’s acting like nothing hap-

pened. I’ve apologised to her so many times, but she won’t hear it. She’s also refusing to move out, and since our lease is locked in, I can’t afford to leave either. Now, I’m stuck living with two people who hate me and one who’s awkwardly neutral.

How do I fix this? Should I just accept my fate as the villain of this story and keep my head down until the lease is up? Or is there a way to move past this without losing all my friends in the process?

A: Dear Anonymous

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: what you did was wrong. You broke a friend’s trust, and even though you regret it, that doesn’t erase the hurt. I firmly believe the old saying, “Drunken words are sober thoughts”. Your inhibitions may have been lowered, but drugs don't make people sleep with their friend’s boyfriend, and to be fair to you, drugs don’t make people sleep with their girlfriend’s friend. It takes two to tango, as they say. If your hook-up was consensual, then no matter how spontaneous or hazy it felt, some part of you wanted it to happen. That doesn't make you evil—it makes you human. But it's important to be honest about that, especially if you want to take real responsibility. And if you want to make amends, start by fully owning your part in what happened, without deflecting.

If you’re going to give Jess a proper apology, you can’t use excuses.

That said, let's talk about the double standard in the room. I see a familiar pattern playing out here. It’s the age-old story of two individuals committing a crime, and one gets away free (and doesn't even have the decency to defend their partner in crime when push comes to shove). Following a guilty verdict, you, the accused, were sentenced by Judge Jess, despite the glaringly obvious evidence that Daniel was at the scene of the crime.

So Jess is directing all her anger at you, and Daniel is dancing around in the same shoes he took you to tango in.

Sadly, this happens all too often—women are painted as homewreckers while men are seen as passive participants. When I ponder these concepts, “Jolene” by Dolly Parton plays in my head. A classic banger from the country music queen herself, it’s a very honest depiction of how jealousy can manifest. Dolly begs Jolene not to take her man, because despite feeling so compelled to keep him, she doesn’t trust his loyalty when presented with a desirable other woman. None of this excuses your actions, but it does put Jess’s reaction in context. She’s hurting, and she’s channelling that hurt somewhere that feels easier than turning it on her boyfriend.

A psychoanalyst might ascribe this to Object Relations Theory: when people feel betrayed, they sometimes split the world into good and bad—because it’s too painful to hold both love and betrayal at once. Right now, you’re “bad” and Daniel’s “good,” not because that’s fair, but because it’s emotionally safer for Jess. Daniel may have to be idealised and excused in Jess’s mind because acknowledging his betrayal might threaten her core sense of trust and self-worth.

That doesn’t mean this will last forever, but it might help you understand why she’s reacting the way she is.

Ultimately, this friendship might not be salvageable. Jess may never forgive you, and that will be something you have to accept. Trying to force forgiveness is about as sisyphean as you can get. Trying to explain things away will make things worse. The bitchy side of me wants to say, at least you’re not in a relationship with a cheater—so who’s really winning? But that’s not really helpful.

The best advice I can give is this: keep it civil, and focus on other friendships. If you’re stuck in this living situation for a year, you have to find a way to make it bearable. People’s opinions tend to soften over time, but if you keep bringing it up, even to apologise again, it could feel like rubbing salt in the wound for Jess. Eventually she might come round and realise Daniel is as much to blame. She may not want to see either of you. Or she might be more open to friendship, after a break.

If you can, try spend more time outside of your flat. Lean on other friends. If you have the opportunity to move out, take it. If everyone in your friend group is taking staunch sides, maybe it’s because they suffer from black-andwhite thinking. It may be a little immature—but also incredibly common. People love a villain. It gives them something to talk about over brunch.

But life is rarely so neat and tidy. In the real world, people are messy, motivations are mixed, and sometimes everyone’s a little bit wrong and a little bit right. Maybe what you need isn’t just forgiveness from Jess, but a whole new friend group that’s a bit more emotionally nuanced. Have you considered befriending some polyamorous theatre nerds? If you’re someone who likes to sleep with people in relationships, there are plenty of non-monogamists out there.

As Esther Perel says, “The quality of your relationships determines the quality of your life.” So maybe this is your cue to build relationships with people who don’t immediately throw you in the dungeon when you mess up—but who’ll still call you out when you deserve it. That’s the sweet spot.

Good luck, and remember: it’s easier to believe in heroes and villains than it is to believe in humans being messy and disappointing. Answered By Tashi Donnelly (she/her) @tashi_rd FEATURES EDITOR

SRC Spotlights:

Yashkant Rattan, BEL Faculty Representative

Hey everyone, my name is Yash and I'm the BEL (Business, Economics and Law) faculty representative for 2025. You may have seen me around during orientation, or heard my lovely and annoying voice at the clubs expo asking what the clubs actually do, what events they hold, and how they can help you. Or, you may have caught me getting beat at the Tekken tournament, and then becoming the host. Aside from the fun stuff, there is a lot more to my role.

I am here to listen to and communicate issues that students may have when it comes to the BEL faculty, such as course quality, the behaviour of TA’s/lecturers, and other things that may be affecting students. We, the SRC, work with AUTSA’s advocacy team to address these issues through the proper channels and see to it that there is a resolution for the students. I also stand as an overall representative for my cohort on various committees, taking into account what my cohort needs or wants and pushing for these changes to happen.

I chose to introduce myself in this issue of Debate, because I believe that AUTSA isn’t just here for course/faculty related issues. We can help students get appropriate support when it comes to sex based issues, as AUTSA as a whole supports students of all backgrounds. We understand that each and every student is influenced by the core aspects of their identities, such as race, gender, sexuality, religion and disability. AUTSA and I hope to ensure that students are heard and represented so that we can all feel safe and heard.

Thinking Foxes

Local alternative-rock band Thinking Foxes are determined to take on the world, starting right here in Tāmaki Makaurau. Evolved from the solo project of front-man Gabriel Parkins-Craig (Scantily Clad), this dynamic four-piece has been elevating the standards of live music performance since 2022. With Luca García Ferrari on Bass (Waveslave, HIRI, Slow Rage, ADV) Taygen Newton on Guitar and Synth (Clementine, HIRI, Sincere Sapling) and Noah Page on Drums and Production (ADV, SOJØURN, Becca Caffyn) this star studded lineup is well and truly omnipresent throughout the Auckland music scene. Special shoutout to original member, Daniel Markham (Scantily Clad), who has since moved to the UK with Taygen filling the spot.

Last Tuesday, I had the pleasure of interviewing the band at Depot Sound Studio, their main base of operations, right before they recorded the last guitar tracks on some exciting unreleased music. With all four squeezed onto the infamous Depot Sound couch, I delved into the band’s history, plans for the future and what they hope to achieve with their unique sound.

Kia ora Thinking Foxes, thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me! Who are you guys and how did you get started?

G: From what I can remember, we were all in different bands at different gigs and that’s how we met, except for Taygen. When I knew I wanted to start a band, I knew I needed a good bassist, y'know, as a bassist myself. So I grabbed Luca, and then I got Noah on the project because I didn’t know how to do anything mixing or drums related.

N: And we (N+L) kinda come in a package deal. (Luca and Noah had previously played together in Universal Authors).

G: Yeah, so I think that sort of chemistry was already there? And then once Daniel, the original guitarist moved to England, there was a hole that needed to be filled.

N: And Taygen is very good at filling holes.

(All laugh)

G: Yeah so Luca was like, I know someone. We did a trial and ended up picking the first candidate, Taygen, and we’ve been

playing together ever since.

What are the overall goals you guys have for the band?

L: World domination.

T: Play good music, be happy.

G: Write good songs.

N: We really enjoy the range of inputs that each of us have and give to the music process, like we all kind of come at writing and producing and playing in different ways. I think, like for all of us, this is a very kind of core aspect to our music, especially when we’re all busy with work and life and all that stuff.

How have you guys found the use of technology in elevating your sound or your performances?

N: AMAZING question, well you see ACTUALLY -

L: We’ve thought about this a lot.

N: Thinking Foxes is the most technically-

T: Technically advanced indie band?

N: Thinking Foxes is the most technically reliant band in the Auckland scene, and also the band in the Auckland scene with the most technical mishaps because of what we’re trying to do. We want the live performances to both be as close to the studio version as it can be, and also just to bring the best quality performance to the audience.

G: I think just to do the songs justice live.

T: I think one of the main things with Thinking Foxes is the cleanness, like the gritty cleanness, because every part has its purpose and its function. So to portray that to the audience, it has to be at that level.

N: And I think a lot of influences for this band have been very polished, very like - not stadium rock, but a very clean and tight,

live produced sound.

L: I’d describe the music as written to be recorded, so when we perform live there’s a type of noise that has to be kept in. And having the technology to do that improves our performance. We’ve attempted to make video work for two and a bit years. Not every single performance, but maybe like, once a year.

G: Ultimately, we try to deliver the best performance and gigs we can, so the technology makes it a bit more well oiled and better.

What does your studio process look like as a band?

N: I think for the sort of upcoming work we’ve really tried to take our time to get things right. And obviously with my background (check out Noah’s production work at Depot Sound here: https:// depot.org.nz/sound), I really want to have this music represent like, not my best - it doesn’t have to be necessarily the most perfect version of my production or engineering or playing, as long as it captures the vibe of the songs and the effort we’ve put in.

And lastly, since this is for our Sex Issue, what are some of your artist/band hear me outs?

(after much much MUCH deliberation and explanations of the trend by Taygen.)

G: Hear me out . I feel like this would be a largely unpopular opinion until recently but hear me out. Nickelback. Honestly, they had so many great hits and great songs.

L: I won’t hear you out.

N: Charli XCX.

L: No! Everyone likes her! She won four grammys!

N: Clairo?

(everyone laughs)

L: I feel like I play a hear me out. I feel like people constantly don’t hear me out.

To see what Luca plays, check out the Debate socials for the video interview

Endless debates around gear and artist discographies aside, Thinking Foxes are in a prime position to not only take over the Auckland music scene but to change the way local artists approach the production and performance of their music. With their current released discography, a brilliant music video and gigs to come, they are a must-have in your local listening playlist. Whether you’re after an alcohol-inspired banger, brilliant visuals or just a great group of guys to support, make sure to check out these guys on all the online forums.

Interviewed

By

Hirimaia Eketone (they/them)

EDITOR