Sex in Utopia More Utopianstudies.25.2.0299

Sex in Utopia: Eutopian and Dystopian Sexual Relations
Author(s): Lyman Tower Sargent and Lucy Sargisson

Source: Utopian Studies, Vol. 25, No. 2 (2014), pp. 299-320
Published by: Penn State University Press
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Sex in Utopia: Eutopian and Dystopian Sexual Relations
Lyman Tower Sargent and Lucy Sargisson
abstract
In this article we explore two sex-related questions. First, what have the authors of
utopias and dystopias said about sexual behavior and relationships in their works?
In examining this question, we seek to identify different modes of sexual behavior
or relationships that have been presented as characterizing the good or bad society.
Second, what is the role of sex in utopia and dystopia? Is there a sexual element of
how to get from here to there? Can changes in sexual behavior and relationships help
bring about the good society? In order to explore these questions we consult a large
number of primary sources, and our discussion begins with a broad-brush survey
that establishes some early norms and variations from the canon of utopian thought.
Two recurrent themes emerge from this survey: the first concerns a tripartite relation-
ship among sex, sexuality, and gender. The second concerns sex and control. Both
themes reinforce key modes of sexual behavior, which are explored in the final section
of the article, where we undertake a deeper consideration of sample texts from three
authors: Marge Piercy, Robert Rimmer, and Alex Comfort.
keywords: utopia, eutopia, dystopia, sex, sexual relationships
Utopian Studies, Vol. 25, No. 2, 2014

Copyright © 2014. The Pennsylvania State University, University Park, PA
UTS 25.2_02_Sargent_Sargisson.indd 299 17/09/14 11:15 AM

Utopian Studies 25.2
You can’t have good sex unless you’ve gotten a reasonable degree of
social justice.
—Alex Comfort, conversation with Arthur E. Salmon,
August 7, 1974, in Salmon, Alex Comfort (Boston: Twayne, 1978), 99
Utopias and dystopias cover almost every imaginable subject, and utopian
scholars have discussed many of them, but while gender and gender rela-
tions have been considered at length, sex and sexual relations have not.1 And
we would like to know what sex and sexual relations will be like in utopias
and dystopias. Of course, the simple answer for eutopias—a lot of what-
ever we like best—and for dystopias—none of whatever we particularly
dislike—are flawed because we have been socialized in a bad society and
utopian and dystopian relationships may be very different, although our
guess is that dystopia may be closer to the here and now than eutopia. In
this article we ask two related questions. First, what have the authors of
utopias and dystopias said about sexual behavior and r elationships in their
works? In examining this question, we seek to identify different modes
of sexual behavior and relationships thought by authors to characterize
the good or bad society. Second, what is the role of sex in utopia and
dystopia? Is there a sexual element of how to get from here to there? Can
changes in sexual behavior and relationships help bring about the good
society?
Our discussion begins, by way of background and to establish some
early norms and variations, by identifying common sex-related themes
that emerge across the centuries of utopian thought. This section extends
from the sixteenth into the nineteenth century. We then look at some
examples from the mid–nineteenth century to the twenty-first century to
illustrate the way things changed. Two recurrent themes emerge from this
broad-brush survey: gender and control. Each theme reinforces key modes
of sexual behavior, including different forms of repressive and socially
structured power relationships, such as heteronormativity and patriarchy.
Commonly, but not invariably, dystopias resist these power relationships
by magnifying them, while utopias depict better alternatives. Finally, we
move to a deeper consideration of a selection of texts from Marge Piercy,
Robert Rimmer, and Alex Comfort. Each of these texts has canonical or
highly influential status, is still relevant today, and explores the themes in
the broader survey.
300

lyman tower sargent and lucy sargisson: Sex in Utopia
Gender Relations
The first, most apparent, and most prevalent theme raised by discussions of
sex in utopia is the relationship between sex and gender. Gender relations
have been an important theme in Western utopian literature from the time
Thomas More published his Utopia in 1516.2 They are related to sexuality—and
sexual relations in canonical utopias have been overwhelmingly h eterosexual.
Utopia provided what was to be the dominant model for such relations in the
Western utopian tradition: it was heterosexual, hierarchical, and p atriarchal,
with sexual intercourse taking place only within marriage. A telling exam-
ple within Utopia is that on feast days wives bow down to their husbands
and children to their parents and ask for forgiveness for any faults. While
More took the unusual step for the time of educating his daughters, such
egalitarianism does not appear in Utopia.3
The need to control is apparent in Utopia—More was well aware that
sexual attraction was more powerful than the laws and institutions of even
a good society and found it necessary even in the land of Utopia to include
the severe punishments of slavery and death for sexual relations outside
marriage.4 And for quite some time most utopias had similar regulations. For
example, in Thomas Lupton’s Siuqila (1580) the man and the woman are both
stoned to death for adultery.5
There were a few exceptions, even in the sixteenth century. For e xample,
the famous Abbe de Thélème scene in Rabelais suggests that the monastery,
one of the models for More’s Utopia, might have been more open sexually than
it was normally represented to be, and, of course, it was. Also, Montaigne’s
cannibals represent a generally good society presented as actually existing in
the New World that challenged the accepted mores of sexual behavior by
sharing women.6
Feminists have long argued that marriage structures sexual relationships
into “fixed” gendered roles,7 and the first utopian novels that presented
alternatives to the dominant tradition were works questioning marriage,
with the earliest, such as Mary Astell’s A Serious Proposal To the Ladies (1694),
suggesting a secular women-only community without the least suggestion of
any sexual activity. A similar work is Sarah Scott’s A Description of Millenium
Hall (1762). The idea of the good life without sex or with very little sex crops
up regularly, and celibate (or supposedly celibate) religious communities
were, and are, common.8
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With the exception of some French extraordinary voyages that depicted

hermaphrodites and some works called pornotopias or somatopias depict-
ing a woman’s body as a utopia,9 one of the earliest works that suggests that
no marriage (with its patriarchal structure) did not mean no sex is James
Lawrence’s The Empire of the Nairs (1811). Among the Nairs a couple who
dances the last dance together usually spends the night together, although
Lawrence says that the same couples often arranged to have that last dance;
but there was no such expectation, and both men and women tended to have
multiple lovers.
In the early nineteenth century Charles Fourier wrote a book describ-
ing the sexual relations in an ideal phalanstery. Although Le Nouveau monde
amoureaux/The New Amorous World remained unpublished until 1967, he had
suggested in Théorie des Quatre Mouvements et des Destinées Générales/The
Theory of the Four Movements and of the General Destinies (1808) that a var-
ied sexual experience would be the norm in phalansteries, and later Victor
Antoine Hennequin published Les amours au Phalanstère/Love in the Phalanstery
(1847/1849), which also suggested that phalansteries would not be limited
to monogamous relations.10 At about the same time so-called sex radicals
emerged in a number of countries arguing against marriage and in favor of
freer sexual relations.11 In the United States Calvin Blanchard, author, pub-
lisher, and bookseller, wrote a number of utopias proposing abolishing mar-
riage and the establishment of completely free and varied heterosexual sexual
relations.12
Twentieth- and twenty-first-century utopias continued to pursue
and explore the ways in which gender roles and relationships are shaped and
reflected by sexual relationships. Katharine Forrest’s Daughters of an Amber
Noon (2002) is a case in point. Here, Forrest revisits the imaginary society that
she created in her Daughters of a Coral Dawn (1984) and revisits again in her
Daughters of an Emerald Dusk (2005).13 Daughters of an Amber Noon juxtaposes a
dystopian patriarchal (heterosexual) society with a eutopian lesbian feminist
one. Homosexual men in this dystopian society are regarded as an “infestation”
and “emasculated.”14 The patriarch’s storm troopers are h ypermasculine,
with chemically enhanced testosterone levels that induce sexual aggression
and violence. A heterosexist, male-only, messianic doomsday cult, “The
Shining,” is growing at a rate of ten thousand members a day and a dvocates
the murder (by burning) of women who use artificial insemination, birth
control, or “Estrova” sperm substitute.15 These phenomena are firmly linked
302

in the narrative to “anti-female rhetoric,” to the view that the main function
of women is to serve and reproduce.16 Religion, reproduction, sexuality, race,
ethnicity, poverty, and material deprivation are all potent ingredients of the
toxic cocktail of ideas combined in this misogynist cult.
Suzy Mckee Charnas’s Holdfast series—Walk to the End of the World (1974),
Motherlines (1978), The Furies (1994), and The Conqueror’s Child (1999)—depicts a
similarly patriarchal society in which sexuality forms an important part of the
dominant ideology.17 In this case, male homosexuality is the norm for loving
sexual relationships. In the male town of Holdfast, women are enslaved, kept
in “slave pits,” fed a gruel containing human flesh, and used almost solely for
breeding (although some “perverted” men use women, known as “house-
pets,” for heterosexual intercourse). Conqueror’s Child, the fourth book in the
series, depicts the world after a slave revolution in which women now hold
power. The tables are turned, and power relations are reversed, but homosex-
uality remains the norm (women love women and use men for procreation).
Sexual norms reflect and reinforce gendered power relations in these sto-
ries, and this is a common and effective use of sexuality in feminist fiction. It
is also used as a device in some queer fiction. For example, Will Self ’s satirical
short story “The Principle” (2007) inverts a repressive norm. This story depicts
a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who has slipped
away from his community for a transgressive night on the town. He spends it
dancing with a young woman, who is not of his faith. Later he returns home
to his family of many “wives,” a group of “fourteen fat old queens,” somewhat
regretting that his faith insists on compulsory and polygamous homosexuality.18
Technology often enhances the power relations that contextualize sex in
utopian fiction. So, for example, women’s bodies in a patriarchal society might
be surgically enhanced, the better to provide sexual satisfaction for their male
partners/users. Several contemporary utopias of sex speculate on the idea
that we can craft or purchase a “perfect” body in which to enjoy “better” sex.
This usually ends up as an antipolitical and illusory escape: a mindless gratifi-
cation of false desires while the world continues unchallenged and unchanged.
This is stretched to the extreme through the motif of robot sex,
which is a common theme in twentieth- and twenty-first-century u topian
fiction. Examples can be found across most genres of future-oriented films,
ranging from the American blockbuster, such as Stephen Spielberg’s fantasy
A.I. Artificial Intelligence, to Japanese anime, such a Mamoru Oshii’s
Innocence: Ghost in the Shell 2. Both depict sex androids whose function is
303

to serve and satisfy their clients. And often the activities of these androids
and robots support a firmly delineated gender regime. Some of the more
recent contributions twist the male/female human/robot power game—Karl
Iagnemma’s “The Upgrade” (2007) begins conventionally, by imagining an
idealized female robot lover, programmed to satisfy her male human owner.19
The male protagonist has given up on real women because they keep leav-
ing him—he prefers robots: “How could I miss women? I had my job, I had
my apartment, I had Katrina.”20 She has been designed to his own specifica-
tion—real human hair, eyelashes, and brows, with “Indonesian hair from the
lowlands outside Jakarta”; and “of course, she was gorgeous. . . . She was
better than human: more beautiful, crushingly beautiful.”21 She is also utterly
compliant, programmed for domestic chores and to perform in a wide range
of sexual positions. Perfect. Dissatisfied, he decides to have her upgraded.
The upgrade malfunctions; Katrina develops more and more human charac-
teristics and eventually walks out on him.
In utopian imaginations, technology is often used to develop alternative
methods of procreation. Alternative reproduction (i.e., reproduction with-
out heterosexual sexual intercourse) is, for some, an emancipatory dream
because it enables gender separatism.22 Geoff Ryman’s short story “Birth
Days” (2003) is an example.23 “Birth Days” depicts a utopia in which men can
actually reproduce. The story opens in a near-future heterosexist society, and
the protagonist, Ron, has just come out (by mistake) to his mother, on his
sixteenth birthday. At the age of twenty-six he is working as a research sci-
entist on a (dystopian) project to provide a genetic cure for homosexuality.
Ten years later, he has devised the means to grow a placenta inside his own
bowel. He is pregnant and living with two husbands in Mosquerio, Brazil. By
the end of the story, homosexual (male and female) same-sex reproduction
has become widespread. Family structures have changed. “Birth Days” con-
nects and disrupts gender and sexuality, tracing and severing links between
gender and reproduction, sexual orientation and gender, including gendered
social behavior, roles, and institutions.
Sex and Control
In what are generally thought of as the classic dystopias, sexual relations are
manipulated as a mechanism of social control. In Evgeny Zamiatin’s We (1924)
304

each person is assigned a sexual partner who is supposed to reflect the needs
of both people. They are told how frequently and with whom they can have
sex. In Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932) promiscuity forms a means of
keeping people content. And in George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)
sex is represented as an unpleasant duty that people would avoid if they
could. But none of these policies worked. In We D-503 wants X-330 rather than
his assigned partner, O-90. In Nineteen Eighty-Four Winston Smith wants Julia,
whom he describes as a “rebel only from the waist downward,”24 because Julia
enjoys sex and, with her, so does Winston. And in Brave New World the Sav-
age, raised outside the society, believes in romantic love and finds promiscuity
appalling. Bernard Marx, on the other hand, is not attractive to the women he
wants and is never content. These classic dystopias suggest that sex is more
powerful than the state.
Contemporary dystopias make the same suggestion. James Morrow’s
“Auspicious Eggs” (2000), for example, imagines a rigorously controlled
society in which the Roman Catholic Church is responsible for monitoring
reproduction.25 All sex in this society is supposed to be reproductive—mar-
riages exist, but extramarital sex is compulsory. This is administered through
the “Sacrament of Extramarital Intercourse.” All forms of nonreproductive
sexual intercourse (including homosexual sex, masturbation, and intercourse
with your wife when she is not ovulating or with your husband when his
sperm count is low) are strictly banned. The Church also certificates “accept-
able” children. These children have passed a “Sacrament of Reproductive
Potential Assessment.” Unacceptable children (with unsatisfactory sperm or
ovary scans) are subjected to the “Sacrament of Terminal Baptism” and are
drowned, in the font, by the priest. This is an utterly repressive sexual regime
in which ideology and state-sanctioned violence combine to control sexual
activity and reproduction. Sexual control is writ large in dystopian literature.
Eric Del Carlo’s “To Love and Riot” (2001) provides a modern take on this
perennial theme. It tells the story of a group of state storm troopers. They
belong to an elite and highly specialist military force, which is dispatched
by the all-seeing state in extreme circumstances of civil unrest. They have a
particular specialty for which the state has occasional need. This story is set
in a world in which sex has ceased to occur. Reproduction is accomplished
through cloning, and the sexual drive has been genetically suppressed. And
the population is, on the whole and for most of the time, passive and happy:
“civilized citizens of the city that artfully balanced lives, that are intellectuals,
305

craftspeople, thinkers that are cared for, that are state educated, that achieve,
that make art and commerce, that are the pinnacle of the species.”26 This
is a perfect world, and these are perfect people, except, of course, it is not,
and they are not. Every now and again the repressed carnality of the popula-
tion erupts, and these serene and carefully cultivated citizens lose control and
enter a state of mass hysteria. They then riot, destroying everything around
them. This is where the special talents of the storm troopers come into play.
Chemically enhanced and hypersexual, they sexually satisfy everyone in the
crowd, and most of the story depicts a graphic and multiple orgy of oral, vagi-
nal, and anal sex: “We’re the shock troops of the flesh.”27 They perform across
and within genders without discrimination, stimulants permitting multiple
and sustained services, until the desire of the crowd is sated. The people are
pacified, and equilibrium is restored. Del Carlo depicts sex as an irrepressible
and inevitable force that disrupts so-called utopian order and perfection. And
this, the story suggests, is a good thing.
Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time
Thus far, we have identified a number of key themes, clustered under the
headings of gender and control, in our survey of sex in utopia. We now want
to deepen our analysis and pursue these themes more thoroughly by exam-
ining some sample texts in more detail. Our first selection is Marge Piercy’s
Woman on the Edge of Time (1976), which has assumed canonical status in
feminist analyses of utopianism and is central to the theorization of critical
utopias.28
Many of the themes and concepts mentioned in the section above are
raised and developed in Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time.29 Piercy
imagines three alternative societies. One is the present of the protagonist,
Connie, whose life is impoverished and disempowered. Connie exists near the
bottom of a recognizably contemporary U.S. society characterized by ethnic,
cultural, gender, and class inequality and extreme poverty. The e utopia of
Mattapoisett, in contrast, is an ecologically conscious and egalitarian society.
The third society is a dystopian future in which all the negative things
happening to Connie in her own time have produced a radically unequal
and environmentally degraded society. Sex provides a window into each
of these societies, and the ways in which sexual relationships are practiced,
306

ormalized, and institutionalized reflect the values and power relations of

n
each of these futures.
In Connie’s present, sex is associated with gender subordination and
entwined with ethnic, racial, and class inequality. This is apparent through
Connie’s own experiences of sexual exploitation and violence (beaten by
one husband, tricked into a sexual relationship by an employer) and is
firmly embodied in the form of her niece, Dolly, who has been turned to
prostitution by her boyfriend. She agrees because she wants to keep him.
Still, she dreams of quitting and having his baby. Sex in this context is
demeaning to all p articipants. The woman experiences anxiety, obsessive
concern with the appearance of the body (if it does not look “right,” no one
will want her), neurosis, and self-loathing. The pimp is focused on violence,
domination, and profit. The clients are insignificant, just men with needs to
be exploited.
Sex in this account is associated with defined gender roles: woman
is mother, object, and/or the means for the satisfaction of (male) desire.
Connie’s friend Sybil asks her: “Do you want to be a dumb hole people
push things in or rub against?” (85). Connie has experienced “good sex” in
her life: pleasurable, erotic, exciting, and orgasmic sex with men she loved.
She has also experienced sex as a form of exploitation and violence. She has
lived with the consequences and became pregnant as a student. The white
student who was the father of her child dumped her, and she lost her place
at college, lost her prospects for good employment, and became a family
disgrace.
From this grim present Connie “visits” the two futures, dystopian and
eutopian. In the dystopian future Connie visits the apartment of a woman
(Gildina) who is defined by sex. Her body has been altered (she would say
enhanced): “a cartoon of femininity, with a tiny waist, enormous sharp
breasts that stuck out like the brassieres Connie herself had worn in the
fifties—but the woman was not wearing a brassiere. Her stomach was flat but
her hips and buttocks were oversized and audaciously curved” (288). She is a
prostitute, “kept” by (and for) a state employee: “Contract sex. It means you
agree to put out for so long for so much” (289). This society is heterosexual,
patriarchal, and deeply hierarchal. Both parties have some rights in the sex
contract; for example, the woman can sue if the man breaks the contract
(unless he can prove negligence or adultery). Gildina views her contract as
beneficial because it gives her an apartment and sufficient means to afford
307

chemical enhancement, surgery (re-ops), and recreational drugs, which

she uses, heavily. But she has no autonomy (“Don’t you ever go out?” “Out
where? Cash [the man Gildina is contracted to] seals me in most of the time”
[290]). And she is driven by anxiety about what will happen when her contract
expires (hence all the re-ops).
Sex in this future reflects a rigidly structured and radically unequal
society. “Richies” live “off surface” on space platforms high above the p olluted
atmosphere of Earth, and their lives are prolonged by chemical and surgical
procedures, including organ transplants. “Middles,” like Gildina, have some
rights and prestige (she lives on the 126th floor). “Duds” at the bottom of the
hierarchy are described as “walking organ banks” (291). Every aspect of life is
ordered, structured, and heavily policed.
In the eutopian future sexual relationships are very different and not
subject to monitoring or legislation. For example, Connie encounters two
youngsters (aged about six or seven) who are “seriously engaged in an attempt
to have sex together” (138). She is surprised that nobody stops them and is
asked, Did she never play sex games as a child? “Our notions of evil center
around power and greed—taking from other people their food, their liberty,
their health, their land, their customs, their pride. We don’t find coupling bad
unless it involves pain or is not invited” (139).
Early in the narrative, we learn that there are no norms regarding sexual
orientation in this eutopia. Connie asks Luciente, her visitor from Mattapoisett:
“‘Do you like women?’ Luciente is puzzled: ‘All women?’ Luciente looked
at her with that slight scowl of confusion. ‘Oh, for coupling? In truth, the most
intense mating of my life was with a woman named Diana. . . . But it was bind-
ing, you know, we obsessed. Not good for growing. We clipped each other. But
I love Diana still and sometimes we come together. . . . Mostly I’ve liked males’”
(64). People in Mattapoisett find it strange when Connie uses sexuality to
categorize people—and especially when she does so in a derogatory sense. On
one occasion she remarks on the relationship between Jackrabbitt and Bolivar:
“It seems like everyone is careful not to say what seems real obvious
to me—that Jackrabbit and Bolivar have . . . well, they’re both men.
It’s homosexual. Like that might bother a woman more.”
“But why?” Parra looked at her as though she were really crazy.
“All coupling, all befriending goes on between biological males,
biological females, or both. That’s not a useful set of categories.
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We tend to divvy people up by what they’re good and bad at,
strengths and weaknesses, gifts and failings.” (214)
Sexuality is not a relevant criterion for social categorization in this society.

Indeed, the act of social categorization is avoided. This is a community that
values both individual and collective autonomy, freedom, and choice and has
destroyed old hierarchies and categories including the categories of sex and
sexuality. This removes key indicators that shape Connie’s sense of self. In
her society it is part of the definition of a woman that her function is to
attract, catch, and keep a man; service him sexually; and in a good relation-
ship actually enjoy a positive sexual relationship with him. In Mattapoisett
these norms and expectations no longer exist.
Most people in Mattapoisett have more than one lover, or “sweet friend,”
at any one time. Luciente has two: Bee and Jackrabbitt. These relationships
are stable and mutually affirming most of the time but are not without com-
plications. For example, Luciente experiences jealousy at Jackrabbitt’s intense
relationship with a former lover. On the other hand, Luciente is aware and
supportive of the sexual love shared one evening between Connie and Bee.
This sexual encounter is a healing experience for Connie, returning confi-
dence and pleasure in her body and making her feel loved and valued. She has
enjoyed the physical experience and feels emotionally affirmed by the encoun-
ter. Both the actual act of sex and the context in which it occurred are “good.”
The eutopian society of Mattapoisett has developed a technology that
destroyed one final sex-related stereotype: woman as mother. On one of
her early visits to this community, Connie is shown the “brooder”: “‘Here
embryos are growing almost ready to birth.’ . . . He pressed a panel and a door
slid aside, revealing seven human babies joggling slowly upside down, each
in a sac of its own inside a larger fluid receptacle.” She is revolted: “Connie
gaped, her stomach also turning slowly upside down. All in a row, the babies
bobbed. Mother the machine” (102).
A number of significant steps have occurred here. First, sex has been
separated from reproduction. Second, women’s bodies no longer have a
reproductive function. Third, the genetic bond between parent and child has
been severed. The embryos are developed from a community gene pool and
not from biological parents, and the concept of biological parent is redun-
dant: “It was part of women’s long revolution. When we were breaking the
old hierarchies. Finally there was one thing that we had to give up too, the
309

only power we ever had, in return for no power for anyone. The original
production: the power to give birth. Cause as long as we were biologically
enchained, we’d never be equal. And males would never be humanized to
become loving and tender. So we all became mothers. Each child has three.
To break the nuclear bonding” (105). Everyone benefits from parenting in this
narrative. To become a (male or female) co-mother is a matter of personal
choice. There is no sense of ownership between parent and child, no exclusive
mother–child relationship, and (practically) none of the neuroses of alienated
motherhood. A further step, deeply significant to this eutopia’s agenda of
eliminating prejudice and inequality, is the severance of ethnicity, race, and
culture. Connie describes the gestating children of Mattapoisett as “multico-
loured like a litter of puppies without the stigmata of race and sex” (106).
While each community has its own ethnic culture (“Wamponaug Indians are
the source of our culture. Our past” [105]), the members of each community
are not racially defined. There is no genetic bond among culture, ethnicity,
and race. The significance of all this for our study of sex in the good society is
best formulated in negative terms: sex no longer ties women (or men) to their
biology. It no longer reproduces anything, including children, race, or gender.
Genes, privilege, status, and material goods are no longer passed from parent
to child. Sex ceases to become the basis of biological and social reproduction.
This changes the meaning of sex.
So what is sex for, in this new society? What is its function? It is a form
of physical love, but it is not the only form of physical love. The people of
Mattapoisett touch each other, frequently and freely, with nonsexual affec-
tion. On the occasion of Connie’s first visit to the community house in
Mattapoisett she is alarmed by this physical familiarity: “They were literally
patted into their seats, and she found herself cramped with nervousness.
Touching and caressing, hugging and fingering, they handled each other
constantly” (76). In her adult life, Connie associates touch with sex, but this
touching is not sexual. This is the affectionate touch of friends.
Sex in Mattapoisett is a form of relationship. It may be an occasional
or one-off encounter (expressing fun, joy in another’s company, healing,
deep affection, or just strong physical attraction), or it can be part of a
binding and lasting relationship. It is not casual, but it can be lighthearted
and short-lasting. It is not callous and is never an exercise of power. It is
physically and emotionally affirmative. This, Piercy suggests, is good sex in
a good society.
310

Robert Rimmer’s Sexual Utopias
In 1966 Robert H. Rimmer published The Harrad Experiment, a novel told

through the diaries of four students (two men and two women) at Harrad
College, where each student is assigned a roommate of the opposite sex.
The purpose of the arrangement is to produce “a new sexually oriented aris-
tocracy of individual men and women who were free of sexual inhibitions,
repressions, and hate, and were thoroughly educated into the meaning and
the art of love as distinguished from the purely sexual relationship.”30 The
students, who were thoroughly vetted and extremely intelligent, take classes
at local universities plus a five-day-a-week course on human values. They are
also required to take one hour a day of physical education, which has to be
done in the nude. The only explicitly stated limit on sexual activity is that the
girls can only have one partner between periods so that, if pregnancy occurs,
the father will be known, and if pregnancy occurs, the couple are required to
marry. Obviously, there is a strong emphasis on contraception.
The diaries explore the thoughts and feelings of the four people, none of
whom have much or, in some cases, any sexual experience, as they become
more comfortable with their roommates and their first sex with each other.
This is, of course, wonderful but does not in all cases follow from or result
in the love relationship that the theorists of the experiment hypothesized.
What happens, which is hardly surprising, is that having experienced good
sex they all want more good sex and some of them want it with other part-
ners as well. Jealousy is temporarily rampant, and there is much switching
of roommates.
The novel then follows six characters (three men and three women)
through the rest of their careers at Harrad. In the second year they are intro-
duced to a sexual technique used in the late nineteenth century by the Oneida
Community as a means of birth control and described by the founder of the
community, John Humphrey Noyes, in his book Male Continence (1872), which
the Harrad students are required to read. The technique, known as coitus reser-
vatus, requires the man to withhold ejaculation while remaining in the woman
for an extended period. In the Oneida Community where it was successfully
used as a method of birth control, the man would ultimately withdraw with-
out ejaculating. At Harrad it is used primarily as a means of extending pleasure
for both partners, with the man ejaculating as usual, but after considerably
longer than usual, and therefore requiring other means of birth control.31
311

The three couples, all of whom have married their Harrad partners,
although not their original roommates, manage to get accepted to graduate,
law, and medical school in Philadelphia, where they purchase a large house
and settle in for the period of their further education. Two of the women give
birth shortly after they move to Philadelphia, and the third gives birth not
long after. They then conclude that they want some sort of group relation-
ship until they graduate, and after discussing a number of possible arrange-
ments, they decide to switch partners each week.
The Harrad Experiment gave Rimmer a career describing alternative sexual
relations, and for the rest of his life he published utopias depicting a variety
of such arrangements. He extended the Harrad College model in The Premar
Experiments (1975) and Harrad/Premar Becomes the Love-Ed Solution (2000),32
both of which use the conceit of presenting the novel through diaries.33 In The
Premar Experiments (“Premar” refers to premarital), Harrad College expands
its experiment as described in the earlier novel to include an ethnically,
financially, and racially diverse population living communally. In the earlier
novel all the people were white and of similar ethnicity, but in The Premar
Experiments the sexual relations include an ethnically and racially diverse
population. In this novel the students are divided into three groups, the first
being first-year students attending college and living in a special residence
with roommates of the opposite sex, just as in the earlier novel. The second
group lives communally and work their way through college by alternating
periods of work and education. The third group, which lives communally
with the second, includes those who completed secondary school in voca-
tional programs and will undertake further education in their chosen area.
In these communities partners change on a regular basis so that everyone
will have four different partners throughout their time there. The system is
designed to ensure that at some time everyone has a partner from a different
race. Since there are relatively few black participants (and no other group is
mentioned), the numbers do not work terribly well.
While the emphasis is still on heterosexual sexual relations, The Premar
Experiments is much more broadly utopian, both as a result of the commu-
nal living arrangements and because the communities are established in
poor neighborhoods with the explicit intention of being a catalyst for the
revitalization of the area. In Love Me Tomorrow (1978),34 which is Rimmer’s
most complete utopia, the sexual relations are extended, for the first time, to
include relationships that are not heterosexual, but the focus of the book is
312

as much on economic and political changes, with one of the main characters
representing himself as the reincarnation of Edward Bellamy (1850–1898),
the author of Looking Backward: 2000–1887 (1888) and Equality (1897), among
other utopias. The premise of the novel, which is set in 1996 and has a
“sleeper awakes” motif like Looking Backward and Equality, is that inflation
has continued to rise and, as a result, most people are poor. This leads to
the establishment of Love Groups or corporate marriages, which Rimmer
had presented in his 1968 novel Proposition 31 and can include lesbians or gay
men, and Care Groups of senior citizens banding together to ensure their
continued independence. Prostitution has been legalized and regulated in
thirty-nine states. Prostitutes are now known as “sexual companions” and
work in “companionship homes,” and there is also a group of higher-level
and -paid sexual companions who are licensed therapists as well.35
Alex Comfort: The Politics and Joy of Sex
Although today Alex Comfort tends to be remembered as the author of The

Joy of Sex: A Cordon Bleu Guide to Lovemaking (1972) and More Joy: A Lovemak-
ing Companion to The Joy of Sex (1973), he was a polymath.36 Two of his uto-
pian novels, Come Out to Play (1961) and Tetrarch (1980), are at least partially
about sex.
Come Out to Play is a critique of centralized power, a major theme of
Comfort’s work, and the way it attracts warped people and warps those
who were not warped before they got caught in its tentacles. Simplified,
the argument is that if bureaucrats and their partners are taught to be bet-
ter at sex, everyone will be better off, and part of the novel presents such a
scenario. Set in this context, The Joy of Sex and More Joy are political works
as well as guides to better sex. And More Joy includes a short section on sexu-
ality and politics roughly from an anarchist viewpoint under the heading
“Selfishness”:
Some people might think that this is a prosperous middle-class book,

meant to help prosperous middle-class white people experiment
with sensuality, purely personal experiences and kicks in a world that
is rapidly going to hell on wheels. Quite the reverse is the case. . . . Of
course good sexual experiences are easier to achieve for prosperous
313

people who have privacy, contraception, leisure and control over

their lives. So is good medical care. But at the same time, acquiring
the awareness and the attitudes which can come from [good sexual]
experience doesn’t make for selfish withdrawal: it’s more inclined to
radicalize people.37
Comfort makes several claims here about sex and politics. First, he claims that
socioeconomic context matters: good sex is easier to attain in a context of
material comfort. Class matters; wealth matters. But second, he claims that
good sex can have an ideological function (in that it can, as he puts it, “radical-
ize” people). He goes on to argue that an eroticized experience of the world
can generate a focus on other people’s needs as well as close attention to our
own, free and independent thinking, and a profound resistance to political
bluff and dogma.
Contrarily, bad sex creates and reflects destructive (manipulative, domi-
nating, or careless) attitudes toward other people, which are epitomized in
high capitalist society: “The obsession with money-grubbing and power-
hunting is quite largely fueled by early distortions of body-image and of
self-esteem—distortions that carry over into a whole range of political behav-
iors, from hating and bullying people to wrecking the countryside for a profit
you don’t need and can’t use. In fact, most great powers are now run by a
minority of sick people, suffering from their inability to eroticize and hence
humanize their experience, who use the rest of us for play therapy.”38
His most utopian statement in More Joy takes this approach to its conclu-
sions. Imagining a whole generation of eroticized people, Comfort envisages
a very different culture: “A generation that has eroticized its experience will
be radical in quite a different vein—environmentalist, science-based (because
you need to study human biology to know why you function) and hope-
fully as ungovernable by non-people as the American Colonies were by King
George. If your widened self-experience and experience of others leave you
an unreconstructed Middletown don’t carer, it wasn’t widened enough or
human enough.”39 Comfort had earlier made the same points in a review of
The Kinsey Report. He argued that Kinsey shows that those who favored the
most restrictions on sexual activity were the least likely to have regular sexual
relations and those favoring the fewest restrictions were the most sexually
active, and Comfort argues that much of the anti-sex argument can be char-
acterized as the “sour grapes” position.40 In Sex in Society Comfort writes, “No
314

form of sexual behaviour can be regarded as inacceptable, sinful, or deserving

of censure unless it has demonstrable ill effects on the individual who prac-
tices it or on others,”41 and Tetrarch reflects that approach. In her analysis of
Comfort’s anarchism, Carissa Honeywell says that “put simply, for Comfort,
the frustration of positive emotions such as sexual desire led to their expres-
sion as destructive ones. Sublimation, according to Comfort, caused the diver-
sion of the repressed desire into a compensatory desire to have power over
others and regulate their conduct,”42 and Comfort makes that a specific theme
in Tetrarch.
In Sex in Society Comfort quotes approvingly (albeit leaving out three
paragraphs from the middle of the quotation) from Gordon Rattray Taylor’s
Conditions of Happiness (1949) on the sort of society that might make for
a happy life. Taylor writes, as quoted, “We begin to get a picture of a country
with a scanty, scattered population, neither concentrated in great towns
and cities nor spread quite evenly over the land as in a primitive farming
community . . . here meeting for some functional, productive purpose,
there subordinating productive purpose to psychological considerations . . .
a decentralized and ‘demechanized’ community which, nevertheless, makes
full deliberate use of machinery and technology to serve its p urpose.”43
This suggests the sort of society that Comfort felt might provide the
conditions in which a good life could develop, and to a degree Tetrarch
presents such a society.
Tetrarch is, in essence, a quest novel. In it a couple from our time are
transported to the “Fourfold World” during sexual play, and the novel follows
their experiences there. Most of the novel focuses on Los, where they arrive
initially, which is under threat by the power drive of a sexually frustrated man
who wants to take away the sexual freedom of the Losians, whose standard
greeting is “Did you love well?” or just “Loved well?”44
The sexual fantasies that the couple were acting out in play when they
were transported—she a slave girl, he a soldier—temporarily becomepart
of their identities in Los. This reflects Honeywell’s statement that “play
behaviour was for Comfort a cohesive force and, he argued, offered the
possibility for discharge of certain forms of aggression.”45
The Fourfold World is essentially without machinery but uses what they
call “inner space technology,” or the ability of adepts to influence or control
events around them, and the woman is a powerful adept. The quest
focuses on the search for a missing crystal that will help defeat the dystopia
315

of Verula, which is ruled by an authoritarian government and the church

and is anti-sex.
In addition to visiting Verula, the couple got to Tharma, which is an inno-
cent eutopia where sex is the focus of life, which, for all their couplings together,
with others, and in multiples, they find too limited. They also visit Hell, which
is an extreme version of Verula where the believers in anti-sex religions go after
death. Of course, as in most quest novels, the crystal is found, Los is saved,
Verula is reformed, and a force sets off to conquer and eliminate Hell.
Sex and Utopia Conclusion: What Did We Learn?
The first thing we learned, or had reinforced, was that utopias differ and con-
text matters; what is considered good or bad sex depends on other aspects
of the utopia. The institutions and practices of utopias vary over time and
depend on cultural contexts and personal beliefs. We also learned, or again had
reinforced, the simple fact that sexual relations are important, something that
is very clear in the dystopias. Margaret Atwood, writing about A Handmaid’s
Tale (1985), has said, “The sexual point in my book would seem to be that all
totalitarianisms try to control sex and reproduction one way or another.”46
And, she might have added, they ultimately fail, which makes the point about
the importance of sex for utopia and dystopia very clear.
But in addition to these points that we knew already, or at least discovered
that we knew when thinking about the texts, some other points come
through very clearly. Looked at historically, the treatment of sexual relations
in utopia has changed very dramatically, from an aspect of a hierarchical,
patriarchal society in which sexual relations reproduced the power structure
(in dystopias, they still do) to a gender-equal assertion of the right to act freely
that challenged (and still challenges) the power structure. Also, within free
and equal sexual relations, anything goes that all participants freely choose,
although it is generally agreed that such relationships should be caring. Such
changes would constitute a sexual revolution, but revolutions, both sexual
and nonsexual, have a tendency to end up benefiting only some people.
The beneficiaries of the “sexual revolution” of the 1970s, for example, were
men. The change in attitudes that is still growing toward sexual relations that
are not heterosexual is clearly a revolution in the making. But while these
changes in attitude and behavior are welcome, they do not constitute utopia,
316

even as yet a sexual utopia. Change is both slow and uneven. Many men want
to have sexual freedom but do not want “their” women (wives, girlfriends,
daughters) to have it. And even though the acceptance of same-sex relations
has grown enormously, they are still rejected by many.
The clear point is that while freer, more caring, and egalitarian sexual
behavior and relations may be part of utopia, they are not all of it. Comfort
makes the argument most explicitly, Rimmer suggests it, and Piercy depicts
it most clearly. Sex can take us a long way, but it cannot get us where we
want to go. But the relationship between sex and the good society makes one
point very clear. One of the standard criticisms of utopias is that they give
us no idea of how to get from where we are to the utopia, but where sex is
concerned, there is absolutely no reason that each and every one of us cannot
start behaving as utopia tells us we will behave in utopia—treat your partner
as an equal, be caring, and have fun.
Notes
1. Particular aspects of this topic have, of course, been explored. For examples of par-
ticular historically defined studies, see Kenneth Roemer, “Sex Roles, Utopia, and Change:
The Family in Late Nineteenth-Century Utopian Literature,” American Studies 13, no. 2
(Fall 1972): 33–47; and Nan Bowman Albinski, “Utopia Reconsidered: Women Novelists
and Nineteenth-Century Utopian Visions,” Signs 13, no. 4 (Summer 1988): 830–41. For ex-
amples of particular topics (such as marriage), see Raymond Lee Muncy, “Sex and Mar-
riage in Utopia,” Society 25, no. 2 (1988): 46–48; and Julie Dunfey, “‘Living the Principle’
of Plural Marriage: Mormon Women, Utopia, and Female Sexuality in the Nineteenth
Century,” Feminist Studies 10, no. 3 (Autumn 1984): 523–36.
2. There were of course utopias before More and outside the West that dealt with
gender relations, but while they raise some of the same issues, they also differ in
significant ways.
3. The one institution in Utopia that is sometimes evinced as an example of
gender equality, showing a couple considering marriage to each other in the nude, is
undermined by the fact that all the reasons given in the text are flaws in the woman.
4. Those who suggest that More was presenting a “perfect” society in Utopia might
usefully reflect on the need for such severe punishment.
5. Thomas Lupton, Siuqila. Too Good, to be true: Omen. Though so at a vewe, Yet all that
I tolde you, Is true, I upholde you: Now cease to aske why For I can not lye. Herein is shewed by
waye of Dialogue, the wonderfull maners of the people of Mauqsun, with other talke not frivolous
(London: Henrie Bynneman, 1580), 61.
6. Of course actual sexual practice in Europe was much more varied than the
ideology represented it as being.
317

7. For examples, see Carol Smart, The Ties that Bind: Law, Marriage, and the
Reproduction of Patriarchal Relations (London: Routledge, 1984); and Gerda Lerner, The
Creation of Patriarchy, vol. 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986).
8. Examples include Thomas Low Nichols’s (1815–1901) Esperanza. My Journey Thither
and What I Found There (1856), which preaches free love but disparages sex; the Shaker
communities that successfully practiced celibacy; and a related story, “The Shaker
Revival” (1970) by Gerald Jonas. On the Shaker communities, see Stephen J. Stein, The
Shaker Experience in America: A History of the United Society of Believers (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1992).
9. For a French extraordinary voyage depicting hermaphrodites, see, for example,
[Artus Thomas (Sieur d’Embry)], Les Hermaphrodites (Paris, 1605; 2nd ed., Description de
l’Isle des Hermaphrodites [Cologne, 1724]). Regarding pornotopias and somatopias, see,
for example, Steven Marcus, “Conclusion: Pornotopia,” in The Other Victorians: A Study
of Sexuality and Pornography in Mid-Nineteenth-Century England (New York: Basic Books,
1966), 266–86; Darby Lewes, “Nudes from Nowhere: Pornography, Empire, and Utopia,”
Utopian Studies 4, no. 2 (1993): 66–73; and Darby Lewes, “Utopian Sexual Landscapes: An
Annotated Checklist of British Somatopias,” Utopian Studies 7, no. 2 (1996): 167–95.
10. Le Nouveau monde amoureaux was much more explicit about the variety.
11. See, for example, Hal D. Sears, The Sex Radicals: Free Love in High Victorian America
(Lawrence: Regents Press of Kansas, 1977).
12. See Lyman Tower Sargent, “Calvin Blanchard and The Art of Real Pleasure,” Utopian
Studies 24, no. 2 (2013): 312–28.
13. Katherine Forrest, Daughters of a Coral Dawn (Tallahassee: Naiad Press, 1984);
Katherine Forrest, Daughters of an Amber Noon (New York: Alyson Books, 2002); Katherine
Forrest, Daughters of an Emerald Dusk (New York: Alyson Books, 2005).
14. Forrest, Daughters of an Amber Noon, 94, 179.
15. Ibid., 51.
16. Ibid., 179.
17. Suzy McKee Charnas, Walk to the End of the World (New York: Ballantine, 1974); Suzy
McKee Charnas, Motherlines (New York: Berkeley, 1979); Suzy McKee Charnas, The Furies
(New York: Tor Books, 1995); Suzy McKee Charnas, The Conqueror’s Child (New York: Tor
Books, 2000).
18. Will Self, “The Principle,” in 2033: The Future of Misbehavior: Interplanetary Dating,
Madame President, Socialized Plastic Surgery, and Other Good News from the Future, ed. Nerve.
com (San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2007), 114.
19. Karl Iagnemma, “The Upgrade,” in Nerve.com, 2033, 40.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid., 41.
22. For an early example, see Shulamith Firestone, The Dialectic of Sex: The Case for
Feminist Revolution (New York: William Morrow, 1970).
23. Geoff Ryman, “Birth Days” (2003), in The James Tiptree Award Anthology, vol. 1: Sex,
the Future, and Chocolate Chip Cookies, ed. Karen Joy Fowler, Pat Murphy, Debbie Notkin,
and Jeffrey D. Smith (San Francisco: Tachyon, 2005), 3–17.
318

24. George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four, ed. Bernard Crick (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1984), 291.
25. James Morrow, “Auspicious Eggs” (2000), in The Cat’s Pajamas and Other Stories (San
Francisco: Tachyon, 2004), 111–32.
26. Eric Del Carlo, “To Love and Riot,” in Sextopia, ed. Cecilia Tan (Cambridge, Mass.:
Circlet Press, 2001), 7.
27. Ibid., 15.
28. For feminist analyses of utopianism, see Sarah Lefanu, In the Chinks of the World
Machine: Feminism and Science Fiction (London: Women’s Press, 1988; U.S. ed., Feminism
and Science Fiction [Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989]); Angelika Bammer,
Partial Visions: Feminism and Utopianism in the 1970s (New York: Routledge, 1991); and Lucy
Sargisson, Contemporary Feminist Utopianism (London: Routledge, 1996). Regarding the
theorization of critical utopias, see Tom Moylan, Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and
the Utopian Imagination (London: Methuen, 1986).
29. Marge Piercy, Woman on the Edge of Time (London: Women’s Press, 1979); hereafter
cited parenthetically in the text by page number.
30. Robert Rimmer, The Harrad Experiment (Los Angeles: Sherburne Press, 1966; rpt.,
New York: Bantam Books, 1967), 7.
31. This technique figures in an earlier utopia based on the Oneida Community. In After
the Strike of a Sex; or, Zugassent’s Discovery with the Oneida Community (1891) by a member
of the community, George Noyes Miller, Zugassent’s discovery is coitus reservatus. Miller
also published The Strike of a Sex (1890), in which women go on strike for “ownership
over our person,” specifically control of maternity. The technique is also used under a
different name in Aldous Huxley’s Island (1962).
32. This title appears only on the title page; everywhere else it is The Love-Ed Solution.
33. See also Robert H. Rimmer, Harrad Letters to Robert H. Rimmer Including His “Apology
from a Man in Search of a Fulcrum” and the Original Introduction to the Harrad Experiment
(New York: New American Library, 1969); and Robert H. Rimmer, You and I . . .
Searching for Tomorrow; The Second Book of Letters to Robert H. Rimmer Plus Marriage 2000, a
Participation (New York: New American Library, 1971).
34. Robert H. Rimmer, Love Me Tomorrow (New York: New American Library, 1978).
35. Harrad/Premar Becomes the Love-Ed Solution: K–16 Sex and Education for the 21st Century
(San Jose: Writers Club Press, 2000), one of three books Robert Rimmer published in
2000, the year before he died, is based on the conceit that Harrad/Premar has been
generally accepted and that what he calls “Love-ed Charter Schools” provide education
from age five through the end of secondary school. These schools give students a very
thorough education in what he calls “caring” sex and relationships, with a very strong
emphasis on contraception, but without any actual experience of intercourse. In all
his books, Rimmer says that intercourse should not occur before seventeen, and in this
novel pregnancy disqualifies both people from further education in the Harrad/Premar
system. Rimmer published other books, both fiction and nonfiction, about group sex or
group or “corporate” marriage. Other works focusing on group marriage are The Love
Explosion (1980) and The Byrdwhistle Option (1982). While Rimmer includes the possibility
319

of bigamous marriages, he is careful to avoid any reference to polygamy, and in his

group marriages he only refers to couples joining together. Oddly, from a twenty-first-
century perspective Rimmer seems conservative. The Harrad Experiment gave rise to some
communal experiments, with three known to have used the name Harrad, Harrad East,
Harrad LA, and Harrad West, with Harrad West the best-known of these communities.
36. Comfort was a poet, novelist, scientist, and anarchist theorist, and as a result of
his wide-ranging activities, he is hard to place. He was a medical doctor with training in
psychiatry, earned a Ph.D. in biochemistry, and was awarded a D.Sc. for his pioneering
work in gerontology. Throughout his life he was active in scientific research, was a
practicing doctor, and wrote poetry and novels as well as social commentary. He was
“an aggressive antimilitarist” whose opposition to World War II led him to be formally
blacklisted by the BBC, and he consistently advocated resistance and disobedience to
established authority, including his own medical profession. He also wrote a play, Cities of
the Plain (1943), and three novels—Come Out to Play (1961); Tetrarch (1980), which is based
on the mythology created by William Blake (1757–1827); and The Philosophers (1989)—
which are utopias and at least partially about sex.
37. Alex Comfort, More Joy: A Lovemaking Companion to The Joy of Sex (New York:
Crown, 1974), 133.
38. Ibid.
39. Ibid., 134.
40. Alex Comfort, “The Kinsey Report,” in Against Power and Death: The Anarchist
Articles and Pamphlets of Alex Comfort, ed. David Goodway (London: Freedom Press, 1994),
100–103. Originally published in Freedom, May 1, 1948.
41. Alex Comfort, Sex in Society (New York: Citadel Press, 1966), 15.
42. Carissa Honeywell, “The Anarchist Philosophy of Dr Alex Comfort,” in A British
Anarchist Tradition: Herbert Read, Alex Comfort, and Colin Ward (London: Continuum,
2011), 121.
43. Comfort, Sex in Society, 151.
44. Alex Comfort, Tetrarch (New York: Shambala/Random House, 1980), 19.
45. Honeywell, “Anarchist Philosophy of Dr Alex Comfort,” 123.
46. Margaret Atwood, “An Open Letter from Margaret Atwood to the Judson
Independent School District,” in In Other Worlds: SF and the Human Imagination
(New York: Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, 2011), 243.
320

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Sex in Utopia: Eutopian and Dystopian Sexual Relations

Author(s): Lyman Tower Sargent and Lucy Sargisson

Lyman Tower Sargent and Lucy Sargisson

keywords: utopia, eutopia, dystopia, sex, sexual relationships

Utopian Studies, Vol. 25, No. 2, 2014

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With the exception of some French extraordinary voyages that depicted

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Sex and Control

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Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time

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­ ormalized, and institutionalized reflect the values and power relations of

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chemical enhancement, surgery (re-ops), and recreational drugs, which

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Sexuality is not a relevant criterion for social categorization in this society.

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Robert Rimmer’s Sexual Utopias

In 1966 Robert H. Rimmer published The Harrad Experiment, a novel told

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Alex Comfort: The Politics and Joy of Sex

Although today Alex Comfort tends to be remembered as the author of The

Some people might think that this is a prosperous middle-class book,

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people who have privacy, contraception, leisure and control over

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form of sexual behaviour can be regarded as inacceptable, sinful, or deserving

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of Verula, which is ruled by an authoritarian government and the church

Sex and Utopia Conclusion: What Did We Learn?

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of bigamous marriages, he is careful to avoid any reference to polygamy, and in his

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