Editorial: Cut! That’s Not What Sex Looks Like

EDITORIAL | MAHIMAHI / SEX

Written by Tashi Donnelly (she/her) | @tashi_rd | Feature Editor

With forward by Liam Hansen (they/them) | @liamhanse.n | Editor-in-Chief

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

Illustration by Tashi Donnelly (she/her) | @tashi_rd | Feature Editor

& Stella Roper (they/she) | @dodofrenzy | Arts Editor

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 bombarded 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.