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OPEN AND POLYGAMOUS RELATIONSHIP

Throughout human history, the development of society and culture has extended our understanding of human connection and the various relationships in our life.

The explosion in the cultural revolution in the 1960s brought the “sex movement” with a focus on sex, gender, morals and love. It challenged the ideology of traditional marriage and monogamy with the image of the housewife and working husband, which had been promoted as a cultural product of traditional capitalism. The thriving sexual movement of the 1960s nurtured different types of human connection and promoted the “free-love” expression in sexual behaviour and sexual identity. With the promotion of freedom of love, open relationships have significantly flourished, and in the era of the internet and online dating, it is again blossoming.

An open relationship can be identified as an intimate relationship in which both primary partners approve that they can have amorous and romantic emotions with others outside their relationship. In a healthy open relationship, permission is the most important factor, because monogamy is, in most cultures, the status quo. Without any clear agreement between two primary partners, any other sexual activity outside the relationship is likely to be classed as “cheating”. Moreover, permission is also essential for all other outside parties who also need to be informed and permit their involvement in an open relationship. Any vagueness could pump toxic chemistry into these human connections with the unsecured

feeling of jealousy. The open relationship represents outer expansion of free expression in emotion and sexuality, releasing humans from the structures of monogamy.

By contrast to the freedom of an open relationship, polygamy provides the power of the marriage with one individual in the partnership. It portrays a state of marriage in which an individual can marry many partners and divides it into two cases: polygyny means a man can marry many wives, and polyandry means a woman can have more than one husband. Therefore, for the polygamous relationship, commitment is essential. In feudalism, polygamy was usually practised all around the world mostly by the monarchy with polygyny. In contrast, only very few societies, like Sparta in Ancient Greece, respected the freedom and the power of women who could practice polyandry. However, polygamy has generally been rejected its legitimisation by modern societies and is now considered an outdated custom. Polygamy does not only describe a type of human connection but also an unlawful marriage; but, it is still legal in some countries based on the beliefs of some groups, like in Singapore where polygny is legal only for practicing Muslims, who may have four wives.

With all the kinds of human relationships that have been discovered, it is not about the promotion of any ideologies, but more about humanity. In modern capitalist societies with more encouragement regarding the freedom of individuals, I believe that it is the right for everyone to explore their hidden desire in love and sexuality and act rightfully to be truthful to themselves.

by Nam Do

THE MALE GAZE OR THE GAYS: A Conversation with Two LGBTQ+ Intimacy Coordinators

I sat with my best friend in her violet wallpapered bedroom, her mum’s 2010 Macbook pro propped on my lap. Pulling up an incognito-mode-tab, we typed “Lesbians kissing” into the YouTube search bar. Eyes stared into the floor and we fiddled with our sweaty hands awkwardly. Our 14-year-old baby gay dreams were shattered. Scrolling through an endless amount of soft porn created for the eyes of straight men, we searched for something that would give us real answers as to what intimacy and love looked like for a gay person. As an adult, there are still so many questions about what intimacy looks like for someone like me. Sure, the LGBTQ+ community has seen some great wins in terms of media representation within the last few years. The likes of Sex Education (2019-) and Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) have made waves when it comes to representing queer intimacy appropriately. But for every good piece of representation, there are about ten godawful, sacrilegious ones. Katherine O’Keefe, Los Angeles’s first lesbian intimacy coordinator, feels this same pain. In our respective homes, we both huff and roll our eyes as the talk turns to Game of Thrones. “They just chuck a couple of tits up on the screen for the dumb-masses”, she scoffs. O’Keefe thinks that intimacy onscreen needs a massive overhaul - but more so for LGBTQ+ people who are always either over- or under-sexualised. The way sex is portrayed for people who are LGBTQ+ is either ‘porny’ or boring. Or both. But O’Keefe is creating the change that the screen industry desperately needs. She is turning sex, something normally used to boost ratings, into a storytelling tool.

“Sex is a very powerful and emotional thing,” says O’Keefe. “Intimacy is a thing that humans crave — I think using it as a part of storytelling is really underutilised”. We all know ‘that scene’. Two characters: they make eye contact across a bar, then it cuts to them fucking in a cab. It’s incredibly overused. O’Keefe believes that with any intimate scene, the audience should walk away learning something about the character that they didn’t know before.

I speak with Leah Pellinkhof, an Australian lesbian intimacy coordinator, about her process when choreographing a sex scene. She explains to me that when she walks onto set, the first questions she asks herself are: “What does the story mean?”, and “What do we need to tell the story?”. Wearing a shirt with “Shakespeare” printed on its front, she chuckles while giving me a demonstration of ‘horse sex’. Clapping her hands at a slow rhythmic pace, Leah explains that she uses this as a tool to help actors with characterisation. When she commences working on a show, she asks the actors: what animal do they think their character would look like when having sex? As I cock my head to the side, Pellinkhof gives me an example of an actor she worked with who decided that their character would have sex like a horse because of the animal’s stocky and tough nature.

Pellinkhof changes her speed to show me dog sex, clapping her hands quickly as if applauding. She explains that it’s the pacing and length of thrusts of the animal that help drive characterisation the most. Pellinkhof thinks for a second as she takes a sip of water.

“It’s also about keeping your personal and private stuff, personal and private.” Pellinkhof speaks thoughtfully. Having actors associate with an animal means that they aren’t obligated to discuss their personal sex lives in a professional environment.

Intimacy coordination is still a relatively new thing. It first came to light during the 2017 #MeToo movement. Both Katherine O’Keefe and Leah Pellinkhof are aware that the most important part of their jobs isn’t about representation, but the safety and comfortability of actors. Pellinkhof uses both of her hands to point at herself. “I mean, I am the lesbian intimacy coordinator.” She grins. Because of this, she has been lucky enough to choreograph the majority of queer shows she has worked on. Leah knows that the best way in creating comfortability is clear communication. She informed me that consent is the key to ensuring the safety of actors. Before a scene is choreographed, she invites the actors that are involved in the scene to stand opposite each other. One actor will ask their scene partner:

“Is it okay if I touch your shoulder?”.

And if they consent, the other actor would reply with: “Yes”.

This exercise continues until both parties are comfortable with touch. The actors then better understand each other’s boundaries, and Pellinkhof can then choreograph with confidence.

Katherine O’Keefe’s process is different. She smiles, saying she knows that she has done a good job when people on set wonder why she is even there. But it is a hefty process to achieve this. In the United States, there are guidelines enforced by the Screen Actors Guild to ensure the safety of actors. For O’Keefe, the process of keeping actors safe comes in the form of paperwork and meetings. Prior to stepping foot on set, she meets with the director to discuss their vision of the scene. “In as much detail as possible”, she accentuates. From there, she sits with the actors individually to gain an understanding of their previous experiences with intimacy and walk them through the plan for the scene.

This is to make sure that everyone is on the same page. “And then there’s the least exciting part which is doing all the paperwork,” Katherine says, letting out a breath. This comes in the form of simulated sex waivers that need approval from legal teams and agents. When on set, O’Keefe is a firm believer that if there’s time to check a lighting position, there’s time to check in with those involved in an intimate scene. She always emphasises to actors that there is nothing wrong with saying “stop”.

Katherine believes that when she works on intimate scenes involving LGBTQ+ characters, people do not deliberately foster an uncomfortable environment, but they often do so unintentionally. “It’s the jokes. That kind of thing,” she points out. She says that although people are not purposely being homophobic, these actions make actors feel objectified and uncomfortable. O’Keefe advocates that teaching students in film school about approaching intimacy appropriately on set will ensure the safety and comfortability of performers. She hopes that by teaching this in schools, the practice will filter into the industry.

I ask O’Keefe about how we can gain a more accurate depiction of LGBTQ+ people on screen. Thinking for a second, she smiles. She then proposes that in order to move forward with both the safety and representation of LGBTQ+ people, casts and writer’s rooms need more diversity. She maintains that even if straight people have friends who are LGBTQ+, they still don’t necessary understand how queer people have sex. Diversifying the screen industry in all departments can also remove the ‘male gaze’ trope that queer sex scenes tend to have. O’Keefe believes that it is important to have LGBTQ+ people helping in creating these stories because it brings authenticity to a new level.

Pellinkhof’s eyes brighten as I ask her to share her thoughts about achieving authentic representation of LGBTQ+ people in the media. Leah firmly stands by casting queer actors in queer roles. “It’s about creating heroes,” she says, before asking me if I’d ever Googled an actress who played a lesbian to see if they were queer, only to discover that they have a husband. “It’s like, ‘damn!’, right?” she asks in a mock disappointed tone, still grinning. We share a laugh as I admit that finding queer actors who play queer characters is like striking gold. Pellinkhof pauses to think for a second, before laughing again as she describes a time when she experimented with choreographing a ‘straight’ sex scene. “I straddled my best friend, as you would with a woman. Between their legs. And he was like - you’re about to knee me in the testicles!”

Pellinkhof’s expression changes as she makes a realisation. She says that both she and her friend were very uncomfortable. So she could only imagine that this is what an actor experiences when a heterosexual person choreographs a queer sex scene. Leah stops and takes another sip of water. She says that at this point, it’s better to have an intimacy coordinator of any sexual orientation, than none at all. Leah and I both agree that Australia needs to learn to embrace intimacy coordination in the entertainment industry, before the authentic representation of sex can even be discussed.

Sitting with Katherine, we move back to the topic about sex as a storytelling tool. I learn that the accurate representation of sex doesn’t start with an intimacy coordinator. It starts with the writing. To learn more about this, I participated in a Zoom class co-run by O’Keefe about writing intimate scenes. The class broke down the stereotypes of sex on screen. We also discussed the tropes of LGBTQ+ sex scenes, that tend to do more harm on representation, than good. ‘Coming’ several times during lesbian sex was a cliché that saw many nods and noises of agreement from every student. These young and passionate writers were all determined to change the way intimacy is currently written, which gives me high hopes for a better depiction of sex onscreen in the future.

As I wrap up my questions, I ask O’Keefe what her favourite part of intimacy coordination is. Her lips widen into a full smile as she confesses that of all her jobs, the most favourite ones she works on involve young people straight out of film school who are not forced to hire her. “They’re so thankful that you’re there,” Katherine beams. “They think that intimacy coordination is important, and they are implementing that early in their career which is the most amazing feeling. They’re the next generation. They care.”

by Ashleigh Ho

GOD SAYS “NO”

“No sex before marriage,” my mother says sharply, looking fifteen-year-old me up and down. I open my mouth to protest. To ask why. But I stop myself short knowing I won’t get a satisfying answer.

I blame my mum a lot for my late blooming. My childhood was weird: conservative and liberal at the same time. Unlike most Asian households, I was allowed to pick my hobbies, spend my free time picking flowers and digging up worms, and academics were hardly a concern. However, at the same time, our household was very Catholic. Every Sunday, there was always a new list of dos and don’ts. Don’t swear. Say your prayers every night. Don’t ask why, just do it because God says so!

I never got a full explanation about the purpose of my period until I learned about it at school. Anything about changing bodies or sexuality or even love was tucked away, and my brother and I were shushed if we even made a squeak about these forbidden subjects.

I didn’t go on my first date until the age of 22. I didn’t know if we should have hugged, or shaken hands… or kissed? I didn’t even know how to talk about why we had come to eat sushi together after matching on a dating app. Was this friendship? Was this a date? That same night, I really wanted to call my mum and ask her: What does love feel like?

no no no no no no no no no no no no no

But, of course, there was an extra barrier.

Being queer and Asian has many challenges. Talking to your family about what it means to love another woman is awkward. Trying to discuss any LGBTQ+ issues – exhausting. Somehow the religious discrimination bill is my fault. When I first came out to my mum, her biggest concern was my sex life. I was instructed not to have sex until I got married. The issue: I came out before marriage equality was a thing. It was one big, fat catch-22. I spent many restless nights convincing myself that my sexuality was not only about ‘sex’. It took a big move across the country away from my family and many new connections later to help me learn that being queer was also about community, friendship, and love.

As a child, I thought that love was sinful and dirty. According to Catholicism, love was this thing that you didn’t get to experience until you got married. But love isn’t and shouldn’t be sexualised. Love is caring so much about a person, you walk them home late at night even though you have work in the morning. Love is creating so many memories that you can think back on and smile to yourself about. Love is accepting a person no matter who they are.

My mum has gotten better in recent years. I’ve been talking to her about the news and how we should be treating people with compassion, not judgement. She’s been coming ‘round to the idea that the world is changing rapidly, and quite frankly, we have bigger problems to worry about than who we love, how we dress, and pre-marital sex.

I’ve also learned some things. I’ve come to realise that everyone’s opinion is valid and that education is the key to change. It’s easy to just tell someone that their opinion is wrong and leave it at that, but everyone with an opinion has a justification for it. By finding that justification, it is much easier to discuss issues openly. Even today, I still find talking about sex awkward with my mum. But now, I’m glad that the discussion no longer ends short at “no sex before marriage”.

by Ashleigh Ho

no no no no no no no no no no no no no

THE GREEN M&M IS A SEX ICON

Ms Green: if you haven’t fantasised about her, you’ve most certainly eaten her. Because how do you sell a small piece of colourful chocolate? You sexualise it, of course!

Ms Green is an animated, anthropomorphic character used in M&M advertisements along with her other five delicious friends. Her classic look, which she’s sported for years, is white gogo boots, thick lashes, sharp brows, and green, glossy lips. She’s the manic pixie dream girl of the candy world, who, according to her Fandom Wiki page, likes simple candlelight dinners in Paris and dislikes men and women who stare. Touché, girl!

She has even landed multiple Sports Illustrated covers: standing in the icy Arctic, she is photographed unzipping her green shell, her chic snow boots matching a pair of gloves, sleek brows arching over a pair of sultry lashes. In another, her naked chocolate body sits in a steaming hot spring (how did she not melt?), teasingly holding up her rumpled green shell above the water. Her eyebrow is cheekily arched, suggestive, and she pouts her glossy ganache lips. Ms Green’s beach photoshoot resulted in multiple poster-worthy snaps: Ms Green crawling on her hands and knees across the white sand; Ms Green kneeling in a rocky beach alcove, clutching her green shell, glancing at the camera as if she’s just been caught off-guard; Ms Green peaking wistfully through a gap behind some palm fronds, again holding – not wearing – her green shell.

So how did this sex icon rise to fame? What brought her to rock her round, brown bod on the global screen, feeding fantasies and stomachs alike? In the 1950s, when television advertisements became popular, Mars created their first two M&M characters to star in their advertisements – Mr Plain and Mr Peanut, “the good guys”. They were lifeless characters, who didn’t do much except exist. But the advertisements, which wanted to showcase the ingenious purpose of the candy shell which encases the small pellets of chocolate, had an unforgettable slogan: “Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.” Innuendo, here we come. In the 70s, an M&M urban legend bloomed, claiming that the green ones made people horny. As the kids who excitedly recited this legend to one another grew up, “horny” morphed into “pregnant,” and the legend died out.

In 1995, advertising and copywriter superstar Susan Credle was recruited to create a new campaign for M&M, because by now, Mr Plain and Mr Peanut were mostly forgotten. She recalled the mischievous urban legend of her childhood, and decided, in the name of new characterisation and sophistication, to create the first-ever female M&M. Enter: Ms Green. Credle herself described her vision of Ms Green’s character as confident, strong, and sexy.

In one of Ms Green’s early T.V. appearances, she flirts with American talk show host Dennis Miller while being interviewed on his show. When he remarks about how busy she’s been, she says, “Well, my new movie’s opening. And no, Dennis, I don’t remove my shell.” Her voice is sultry, sweet, alluring. In another ad, she seductively speaks over an exotic soundtrack, introducing new M&M flavours like personal offerings.

Since her inception, Ms Green has achieved incredible stardom and success. She has no biological female parts – physically, she cannot have sex – and yet she is deemed by the male gaze as extremely sexy. Her anthropomorphism isn’t uncanny, but beautiful; she literally embodies the gendering of candy, confidently flaunting the relationship between food and innuendo in a flawless and dazzling plight of consumerism.

But on June 29, 2015, her character went beyond gender and was actually assigned, in the eyes of the public, a sexual identity. The M&M official Twitter tweeted a picture of Ms Green and her other female team member Ms Brown. The former has eyelashes and the latter has glasses – the only two ways women can exist, right? The picture was accompanied by the caption, “It’s rare Ms Brown and I get to spend time together without some colourful characters barging in,” and upon reading this, the internet went crazy. It was immediately assumed that the two M&Ms were dating. It was the perfect lesbian relationship: the academic, coy, glasses-wearing woman and the playful, daring, heal-clicking chick. These candy characters were now entrenched in the theories and ideologies of sex, gender, sexuality, identity, and relationships. And it doesn’t stop there.

Remember Mr Plain and Mr Peanut? The boring dudes? Well, Mr Plain was red and Mr Peanut was… green. Facing this discovery, the internet came immediately to the conclusion that Ms Green is, in fact, the transitioned version of Mr Peanut. Yes, Ms Green is a trans lesbian icon.

It would be a stunning happily-ever-after if this was, indeed, the end. As a character, Ms Green is exceptional. Her catchphrase is “I don’t melt for no one,” and her age is listed on her Fandom Wiki page as “old enough to know better.” Her skills are management and intimidation – okay, girlboss! – and she has an “outwards character who always has something to say.” She’s out to impress. She’s self-aware. She’s annoyed by boys’ lack of confidence and in general, she steals the spotlight – officially, she’s “too busy shining to throw shade.” What’s not to love?

Actually, Mars has an answer to that. And their answer is: everything. In recent photoshoots of the entire M&M team, Ms Green poses with the gang wearing plain, white sneakers. Her go-go boots are gone. Cue emotional breakdown. Mars has robbed her of her feminine mystique in the name of “progress” and “the interests of Gen Z,” but as Rolling Stone so aptly put it: “Let the green M&M be a nasty little slut.”

By desexualising Ms Green, Mars has completely robbed her of the sexual agency her fans had come to love, an agency that was feminist, powerful, queer, and celebratory. She was body-positive and openly vulnerable, unafraid to strip her shell and reveal her true self beneath all the makeup and bright green. Ms Green is the bastard child of consumerism and the male gaze, but she hasn’t let that define her. Instead, she transcended the boundaries of her character stereotype. As she once drawled, she is “everything your heart desires.”

by Bruna Gomes