‘Eventual pleasure singularity’
We were only one hour into the eight-plus we had planned at the Barbican Sex Festival and had already hit a roadblock. Wandering around the stained and uncomfortably beautiful clothes of the exhibition Dirty Looks, and coming face to face with a gigantic photograph of a trussed-up vagina (by Michaela Stark), the Bonnie to my Clyde turned to me and said, “I think we should bring back shame.” Later she followed up with, “Do what you want, but I don’t want to know about it.” Tricky.
Had I made a fatal error in inviting her to what we assumed would be an academic discussion of sexuality, aiming to air one’s dirty laundry almost literally and de‑stigmatise sex? No, as it turned out-but the next seven hours were eye‑opening in ways neither of us expected, and a little banal in others we could have seen coming.
Funded/collaboration with HOWL, an organisation that runs London’s biggest queer raves and also sells CBD‑infused lube (it really is in everything), there were club nights on the Saturday which were probably much sexier than the more sedate experience we had. However, I was busy and, if I’m honest, a little intimidated. Despite making the vast majority of their money from “sex tech”, HOWL had a small stall tucked away rather discreetly in the fronds of the greenhouse where much (but not all) of the festival took place. As a card‑carrying homosexual with a partner, lubrication is a core belief. Therefore, I shelled out £8 of my own money on the smallest cannabinoid‑tinted liquid, while anxiously asking about numbness and dosage, like a 13‑year‑old nervously enquiring how to use a condom from a bored sexual‑health nurse. This was not the first time that afternoon I felt out of place and deeply uncool. The product is vegan, a winner of the European Lube Awards (love that that’s a thing), and ineffective in practice (investigative journalism indeed).
At least I looked the part, having dug out and dusted off my skimpier Lycra: a backless, strappy thing that was more belt than top, heavy make‑up, and a spider‑web silver choker. I was happy-until I was traipsing through Bloomsbury at ten in the morning, looking very much like I hadn’t been to bed. Repeating to myself, “The sexy people will all be there to welcome you into their polyamorous and rather touchy ranks,”. Imagine my surprise when I arrived and the centre was neither covered in latex nor sprouting…foam from the fountains. This may age me, but do you remember Bridget Jones and the ‘tarts and vicars’ party? I was that very bunny-thankfully slinging my pinstripe suit jacket over my exposed back and smiling unthreateningly at the hordes of pensioners.
Up we shot, and into the exhibition, offered at a discounted £10. As a fashion girly at heart, the clothes of seduction have always excited me more than taking them off. The expected the 1995 Highland Rape collection by Alexander McQueen, various very good early Vivienne Westwood/Malcolm McLaren pieces, and some moth‑nibbled Robert Wun. But this was dirt in the literal sense: fluids, funk and muck-which fashion embraces far more rarely than the ever‑sellable sex.
Hussein Chalayan burying and exhuming his garments to provide a divine patina of mould and subterranean nibbling. Alice Potts’s wedding gown that looks like it was dusted with dew, but is in fact sweat collected from herself, her friends and family. The stains are unsettling and unbearable for most-but, like any trace of humanity, engrossing and animating. There is a massive tableau of clothes from big names-Balenciaga, Maison Margiela, Issey Miyake-alongside smaller, odder works like Ma Ke’s theatrical scene of dirt, decay and motherhood. An excellent combination of fashion’s muckier minds.
Down we went, and I vowed to get my money’s worth (even though I had press tickets). Under sickening blue lights and “relaxing” background techno, a charming French man flogged us his books and artistic projects for about 30 minutes, and then finally focused on the screen‑printing we were there to do-for which we had brought our own T‑shirt especially. The process was fun, if overrunning, although watching people guard their Sunday best from flying paint while trying to seem frolicsome and playful was especially enjoyable. So far, a trip to an art gallery and an arts‑and‑crafts class felt more Women’s Institute than SEX FEST-and the herbal‑infused lube surprisingly didn’t help much.
Up next: technology muscling in, between glimpses of poetry readings backlit in red amidst the fingering (sorry) ferns of the greenhouse. Things were heating up sartorially aswell-platforms, and even some subtle leather, were glimpsed and I exposed my spine in solidarity, hoping sensuality would finally arrive. But no. We returned to the same annex for a panel discussion on AI and sex. Gripping? Yes. Depressing? A little. All over the place? Most certainly.
Kate Devlin was by far the most qualified, being Professor of AI & Society at King’s College London. She was obviously not allowed to speak as much as would have been helpful, sharing wobbling stools with less relevant panellists. Kaiden Ford, a fabulously fur‑ed New York sex worker, despite colourful stories and an overuse of the word “period”, didn’t seem to have much interaction with AI in a sexual setting. Dr Benjamin Weil-writer, researcher and sex worker-took a wider view of technology and sex, wading into the discussion enthusiastically. Finishing things off, the ever‑stunning and stylish trend predictor Leanne Elliott Young offered sunglassed, fashion‑cool‑girl input. Samuel Douek, HOWL’s founder, in appropriate leather trousers and waistcoat, fired almost insanely complex questions (“What is sex?”) at the panel. Although provocative discussions arose, it was difficult to discern any clear structure.
From where I was sitting, the positives were few and far between. Democratising digital sex work seems like a good idea-until Kaiden backed out of a company making a sexual digital twin of them due to control and privacy concerns. Allowing imaginative and fantastical sexual fantasies to be realised again seems slim pickings when child pornography inevitably comes along with it. Environmental concerns were completely avoided-interesting for a left‑leaning group-and the panel seemed uniformly already in bed with AI. Discussions of people falling in love with their robots, and the rise of incels, only added fuel to my furnace of misery.
Our host asked ChatGPT to predict the future of AI sex, and it churned out an “eventual pleasure singularity” where IRL and online merge and our wettest dreams are met. But rubber dildo drones, digital sex workers and data winters rather ruined the vision and made me want to throw both my phone and myself out of the window immediately.
Going into this, I thought I was a liberal, porn‑watching, non‑monogamous human. But hearing the lack of human connection refocused as a positive made me reconsider. Devlin’s reassurance that AI would not gain sentience and murder us all in our beds (or sexually enslave us) was comforting. Yet discussion of AI‑generated child pornography-its moral and practical implications-left everyone uncomfortable and unsatisfied with the panel’s answers. An eye‑opening glimpse of a potential future I personally do not want: screens, distance, disconnection, and lots of silicone.
Rushing to our next talk, a touch jaded at this point and dodging children in public areas, we wondered why it couldn’t all have been contained in the tendril‑shaded halls of the conservatory-surely keep the freaks away from the general public? (ourselves included).
Dirty Queers was a discussion between Amelia Abraham and Bryony White about their unfinished next novels. Abraham’s book will highlight the work of various queer photographers and artists, while White’s covers Bernice Bing, Christian Walker and Alvin Baltrop, among others. Fascinating writers, but very visual-and due to poor organisation, the projector behind them showed none of the images. The two women had to stretch their existing friendship and spark longer than expected to entertain us. “You’re quite interested in bodily fluids, professionally,”. They played off each other well: White highlighted Bing’s financial struggles and how that affected her work, and Baltrop’s mould problem forcing him out of his flat and into his van to capture the crumbling West Side piers in the 1970s. Examples of how queer art is shaped by practical realities and setting, e.g dirt. Covering rebel dykes, gentrification, and the shrinking British sex scene, it was a wide‑ranging and engrossing conversation-though visuals would have helped. Finishing early (“We didn’t realise we had this much time”), they opened the floor to questions, and predictably some audience members, fairly vibrating in their seats, leapt at the chance to overshare.
Looking around at the assembled adults-tattoos, normcore‑stylish clothes-the speed‑dating event closing the day sounded tempting. My friend disagreed and put her kitten‑heeled boot down. Seven hours of sex was enough for both of us, and I agreed, feeling relief as well as disappointment. Claiming to “spark new connections, friendships and possibilities”, perhaps this was where actual action happened-as so far everything had been pretty chaste.
I may seem overly cynical (it’s been said), and much of this centres on organisational discordance. I applaud a public institution highlighting queer nightlife and intimacy brands alongside writers, artists, sex workers and professors. Talking openly about sex is a crusade of mine, and it was enlivening to see the attempt. But sprinting from an overrunning art class and getting lost twice, the thought “don’t let a lube brand run a festival” did cross my mind. There is something uniquely British about hosting a sex festival involving no actual sex-not even a glimpse of living nibble. I hope the concept continues, but perhaps next time in a warehouse in Dalston? Because while the atmosphere was inclusive, interesting and inquisitive, it was about as alluring as a Jane Austen festival-albeit with slightly sluttier clothing.