I Hate "Foreplay"

Okay… so that's not entirely true. I don’t hate the activities that we call foreplay.

I hate the word foreplay.

Because by definition, foreplay is “sexual activity that precedes intercourse.” And that definition is exactly the problem.

It automatically positions genital penetration as the main event… and everything else as something that happens before it. On the way to it. In service of it.

And that creates an arbitrary hierarchy, where penetration becomes the main event, and everything else gets treated like a lead-up to it.

And that hierarchy actually shapes the way we experience sex in ways most people don’t even realize.

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When I hear the word foreplay, I don’t think of sex. I think of a cocktail hour.

You know the scene: soft lighting, maybe a string quartet, and people walking around with trays of tiny, beautiful canapés. Just enough to keep you satisfied while you wait for the real event to begin.

That’s what the word "foreplay" feels like, conceptually. The little things. The warm-up. The filler before the main course.

And the “main course,” of course, is almost always implied to be penetration. And without really questioning it, we start to internalize that structure and we start treating sex that way too.

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The Problem With “Foreplay”

Because the moment we start labeling things as “foreplay,” we’re also (whether we realize it or not) labeling them as less important.

Kissing becomes foreplay.

Touching becomes foreplay.

Teasing, eye contact, breath, anticipation… all of it becomes something you do on the way to sex, rather than something that is sex.

And if we’re being precise, that’s not even what foreplay is supposed to mean.

Foreplay should be the lead-up. The anticipation. The flirting that happens before you even get together...the energy that builds on the way to the experience.

But instead, we’ve taken the experience itself and rebranded it as a warm-up.

And once that happens, we start rushing it. Minimizing it. Treating it as optional. Measuring success by whether or not we got to the “main event.”

But for so many people (especially those with more responsive or context-driven arousal) that so-called main event is often not the most interesting or pleasurable part of the experience.

Sometimes, it’s the least.

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Why This Actually Matters

I promise you, I'm not just trying to be picky about the semantics.

The way we define sex directly shapes how we feel in our bodies and how we show up with each other. When sex gets reduced to penetration (or even just genital-focused activity) we end up with a really narrow definition of what “counts.” And narrow definitions create pressure.

Pressure to perform.

Pressure to get hard, stay hard, orgasm, or respond “correctly.”

Pressure to move things along toward a specific outcome.

Suddenly, sex isn’t about connection or curiosity...it’s about whether your body cooperates.

And when penetration becomes the goal, every intimate moment can start to feel like a test you might fail.

Am I aroused enough? Is my body doing what it’s supposed to do? What if I can’t follow through?

When intimacy feels like a test, people don’t lean in....they avoid it.

Not because they don’t want connection, but because they don’t want the pressure that comes with it.

I see this all the time: People who genuinely crave closeness, touch, and intimacy… but hesitate to initiate anything at all because they’re afraid it will have to lead somewhere they’re not ready for.

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Decentering Penetration

Part of the issue is how binary we’ve made the whole thing. It either “counts” as sex or it doesn't. It either leads to penetration or it’s incomplete.

There’s not a lot of room in that framework for nuance, for exploration, or for choice. I’m old enough to remember Bill Clinton standing in front of the world and saying, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”

And we all collectively went… okay, but what are we calling sex here? Because clearly, something happened.

So let's reframe it:

What we currently call foreplay—the kissing, the teasing, the slow build, the tension—that’s not a prelude to sex.

That is sex.

That’s the experience itself.

This isn't just theoretical: it’s how I actually approach intimacy in my own life. I like to think of penetrative sex as the optional dessert at the end.

And don’t get me wrong....dessert is wonderful! It’s delicious. It can absolutely enhance the experience. But if I don’t have it, it doesn’t ruin the meal. The experience is already complete...dessert is just a yummy bonus.

Both in my personal life and in my work, I’ve had experiences that felt deeply erotic and connected without any genital touch at all—and nothing about them felt incomplete.

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A More Expansive Experience

When you start looking at sex this way, something shifts.

Intimacy doesn’t have to go anywhere. It doesn’t have to build toward a finish line. It can just… exist.

A passionate makeout session can be complete.

A heavy petting session can be complete.

A moment of shared breath, tension, teasing and anticipation—that can be complete.

There’s no sense of “we didn’t get there,” because there isn’t a single “there” anymore.

And ironically, when you take penetration off the pedestal like that… it often becomes better.

More intentional. More desired. More connected.

Because it’s no longer something you’re trying to get to...it’s something you’re choosing.

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Rewriting the Menu

If we’re going to keep the food analogy, I’d rewrite it like this:

There is no appetizer.

There is no main course.

There’s just a long, immersive tasting experience.

Some moments are light and playful. Some are rich and intense. Some are slow and indulgent.

Penetration can absolutely be part of that ....but it’s not the point of the meal.

It’s just one option on a much bigger menu.

Sometimes it shows up. Sometimes it doesn't.

And either way, the experience is satisfying.