Sex Zones: Intimacy, Citizenship and Public Space
Sex Zones: Intimacy, Citizenship and Public Space
Sex Zones: Intimacy, Citizenship and Public Space
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Article
Phil Hubbard
Loughborough University
Introduction
Space, as many geographers are currently at pains to point out, does not
simply exist as a ‘given’ but affects (and is affected by) things which are
always becoming. Or, to put it another way, space is not just a passive back-
drop to human behaviour and social action, but is constantly produced
and remade within complex relations of culture, power and difference (see,
for example, Hetherington, 1999; McDowell, 1999; Sibley, 1995). It is
this rejection of an empirical–physical model of spatiality in favour of a
more critical, constructionist notion of space that informs this article,
wherein an attempt is made to elucidate the importance of space in the
creation of (new) sexual identities. More specifically, the concern of this
article is to explore how the transgression of sexual ‘dissidents’ into public
spaces can challenge the naturalization of heterosexual norms. I will seek
Sexualities Copyright © 2001 SAGE Publications (London, Thousand Oaks, CA and New Delhi)
Vol 4(1): 51–71[1363-4607(200102)4:1; 51–71; 015816]
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relationship that might occur across the colour divide (Elder, 1998:
156–7).
When considered in relation to arguments about sexual citizenship, such
writing serves to support the idea that national citizenships in the urban
West have overwhelmingly been (and continue to be) based around
socially-constructed visions of liberty and equality which (paradoxically)
reinforce heterosexual identities (see also Van Every, 1993; Weeks, 1995).
Of course, the way such assumptions have been codified in constitutional
laws or practices varies internationally. Developing this point, Susan Smith
(1989: 151) refers specifically to the example of Australia, where notions
of citizenship appear to have been constructed around notions of ‘mate-
ship’ and ‘fraternity’, which are simultaneously racialized, gendered and
sexualized. This, she argues, results in political and civil rights for Aus-
tralians that are not liberatory per se but instead represent an insti-
tutionalization of sexual (and gender and racial) inequality. Here Smith
draws on the theories of sexual and social contract developed by Carole
Pateman which suggest that civil society is, in effect, a patriarchal construct
that serves to limit women’s participation and rights in the public sphere.
For Pateman (1989: 20), the idea that the ‘social state of nature’ is inhab-
ited not by isolated individuals but ‘families’ appears to be particularly
important in determining the importance of heterosexuality as the
‘natural’ basis of civil life. Consequently, she asserts that the historic
development of civic society has revolved around specific associations
between private space, sexuality and love, invoking contractual and demo-
cratic theories of the state to suggest that individuals are only entitled to
leave this space and enter a civic space of rights, property ownership and
citizenship if their interests are subordinate to the wider interests of the
(heterosexual) state.
As such, it appears that civil society can be conceptualized as a hetero-
sexual (as well as patriarchal and racist) construction that serves to make
entry into the public realm very difficult for those whose sexual lives are
judged ‘immoral’. These arguments have perhaps been most forcibly made
in geographic research which has described how ‘everyday’ urban spaces
are experienced by gay men and women as aggressively heterosexual (e.g.
Adler and Brenner, 1992; Namaste, 1996; Valentine, 1993). Noting that
displays of heterosexual affection, friendship and desire are regarded as
acceptable or ‘normal’ in most of these spaces, such research has conse-
quently highlighted that many homosexuals deny or disguise their sexual
orientation when in public because of fears of homophobic abuse and
intolerance (coupled with a concern that such intimidation is not taken
seriously by the state and law). Valentine (1993), for example, explored
how lesbian women in one British city deployed a range of coping strat-
egies in their day-to-day use of public space; avoiding certain areas at
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certain times, dressing in ways that brand their bodies as heterosexual and
not holding hands or kissing partners in places where they were in the
‘public gaze’. In other studies, it has been shown that gays, lesbians and
bisexuals may avoid using public transport, carry personal attack alarms
and only walk on the streets when accompanied by others so as to avoid
homophobic violence (Comstock, 1991; Moran, 1996). Even in cities
where the authorities are seemingly tolerant and even encouraging of gay
tourism and nightlife (e.g. Manchester, UK), it is evident that most gay
men and women face routine prejudice, discrimination and violence on
the streets (Whittle, 1994).
Unsurprisingly then, the metaphor of the closet can be seen as an appro-
priate description of the schizophrenic spatial lives of many gays, lesbians
and bisexuals who are not ‘out’ in public spaces for fear that they will be
the victims of verbal or visual intimidation, and, at worst, ‘gay-bashing’
(see Seidman et al., 1999). Accordingly, specific private spaces (such as gay
nightclubs, cafes or galleries) may be the only spaces where they feel com-
fortable expressing their sexuality or adopting dress codes that signify their
membership as members of particular sexual communities. As Johnston
and Valentine (1995) suggest, the (non-parental) home has become a key
site for the celebration of gay identity – a space where sexual dissidents can
come together in an environment that is (relatively) secure, comfortable
and free from surveillance. Of course, the fact that much housing in the
urban West is designed around the assumption that it will be occupied by
a nuclear, heterosexual ‘family’ means that gays and lesbians may be rela-
tively limited in their place of residence in the first place (a factor that has
been identified as significant in the phenomena of gay gentrification – see
Knopp, 1995). Simultaneously, it is evident that many gay and lesbian
individuals continue to live in a state of continuous anxiety because of the
way that their lives divide into an outwardly ‘straight’ persona and a pri-
vately gay existence. There is always the threat that someone aware of their
sexuality might expose them in public, shattering the boundary between
their neatly compartmentalized private and public lives. In Johnston and
Valentine’s (1995: 106) account, this is demonstrated by reference to the
elaborate charade which one lesbian couple enacted to maintain the illu-
sion of ‘normality’ when visited by their parents (preventing them from
using rooms adorned with lesbian posters).
The idea that homosexually-identified individuals lead something of a
dual existence – that they can be gay only in certain spaces at certain
times, and rarely in public space – is an idea that features prominently in
the campaigning rhetoric of gay rights groups. Consequently, a common
tactic has been the practice of ‘outing’ – seeking to identify certain
high-profile individuals as gay in an attempt to force them to publicly
acknowledge this dual existence. While controversial, the motive here is
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mobility and freedom of female sex workers, lone mothers and single
women is emaciated when compared to the mobility of those heterosexual
women who fulfil the role of the ‘good wife and mother’ (see, for example,
Bondi, 1997; Watson, 1986; Winchester, 1990). The female prostitute, in
particular, represents a paradigmatic figure whose legal and social regu-
lation symbolises the contradictions inherent in notions of equal citizen-
ship; in many cities prostitutes are forced to work out of sight, off-street
in brothels, massage parlours or private flats where their sexuality can be
commodified with apparent impunity. The ability of these prostitutes to
leave these spaces of confinement and enter the public realm as sex workers
remains highly restricted, with the sight of the sexed body of the prosti-
tute in the city disturbing assumptions that ‘feminine’ sexuality should be
domesticized; cocooned in a monogamous, procreative relationship
(Duncan, 1996; McDowell, 1999). Consequently, the state and law often
conspire (along with other ‘good’ sexual citizens) to police the limits of
these spaces, preventing prostitution from ‘leaking out’ into the public
realm (see Hubbard, 1999). In post-war Britain, for example, vice squads
have principally aimed to control sex work so that it does not interfere
with ‘the right of the normal, decent citizen to go about the streets
without affront to their sense of decency’ (Wolfenden Report, 1957: 23).
The isolation and confinement of prostitutes to the ‘dark’ and dangerous
spaces of British inner cities appears a potent means by which the author-
ities have sought to minimize the public visibility of sex work in a hetero-
sexually-ordered city.
The way that notions of (hetero)sexual citizenship underpin the mutual
constitution of society and space have therefore been explored by geogra-
phers primarily at the scale of the city. While the city clearly provides the
context and coordinates for most Western subjects, it should not be over-
looked that similar processes of ‘heterosexualization’ are played out at
different spatial scales. As Elder (1998) testifies, these processes are evident
in spaces ranging from the bedroom to the nation, with monogamous
heterosexual relationships made to appear natural on a variety of inter-
dependent scales. Many of these spatial inscriptions are only obvious to
those who do not conform to these norms; for example, the constant
barrage of images of heteronormal bodies in glossy magazines, in film and
on television (where the idealized male/female form has been used to sell
everything from healthcare insurance to stock cubes); the design of hetero-
sexual family housing; the planning of suburbia; the notion of the mother-
land or fatherland, and so on. No matter where one looks, it seems, one
can see heterosexual socio-spatial patternings at work (Nast, 1998). In sum,
we could argue that notions of morality – what is right or wrong in the eyes
of the state and its citizens – create sexual geographies at a variety of spatial
scales. Notions of morality are thus branded onto the spaces of the body,
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the city, the region and the nation in constantly shifting and complex ways
that, nonetheless, serve to order flows of desire. Referred to by Donzelot
(1979: 21) as the ‘pure little lines of mutation’, these flows act collectively
to reify the heterosexual family as normal and desirable, marginalizing
sexual ‘others’ in the process. By channelling and damning these potentially
polymorphous flows of desire, it is these geographies that define the bound-
aries of sexual citizenship (Weeks, 1995).
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The city is a map of the hierarchy of desire, from the valorised to the stigma-
tised. It is divided into zones dictated by the way its citizens value or denigrate
their needs. Separating the city into areas of specialism makes it possible to meet
some needs more efficiently; it is also an attempt to reduce conflict between
opposing sets of desires and the roles people adapt to try and fulfil those desires.
(Califia, 1994: 205)
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to sites that are out of the public gaze (and the prying eyes of the state
and law). This ‘ideal’ geography would be one of what Duncan (1996:
143) calls ‘radical openness’, a geography that discourages the reification,
marginalization and privitization of sexual ‘otherness’. As sexual citizens,
sexual dissidents would at least be able to live their lives as other (hetero-
normal) urban dwellers do – in the midst of cities that facilitate, and
occasionally celebrate, the coming together of different cultures and iden-
tities. Adopting terms invoked by Deleuze and Guattari (1987), Duncan
suggests this presents a very different vision of sexual geography; a smooth
geography where polymorphous flows of desire can be pursued rather than
being curtailed, diverted and bogged down in the striated spaces of the
heterosexually-ordered city.
Such visions of a sexually-open and democratic public sphere thus drive
many to resist the heteronormality of public space and to use the streets
as spaces from which to make claims for sexual rights (again see Califia,
1994). While not wishing to denigrate their actions, or to downplay the
very important efforts that have been made to publicize the rights of
sexual minority groups, here I want to offer an alternative reading of the
importance of space in debates about sexual citizenship. In effect, I wish
to reject this (rather straightforward) conceptualization of public space as
representing a democratic space where marginalized groups can seek to
oppose oppressive aspects of heteronormality. Moreover, I think that it
has been too easy for those advocating equal sexual rights to imagine that
having free access to public space represents the achievement of full
citizenship. Indeed, this appears to be based on the (implicit) utopian
notion that the public sphere can be used as a site where definitions of
community can be broadened to encompass a wide range of sexual iden-
tities and differences. As Cooper’s interpretation of New Labour’s notion
of citizenship began to suggest, such utopian thinking is somewhat naive
given that the construction of community of relies on the effacement of
difference and the suspension of selfhood in the interests of an imagined
norm. So while minority groups may occupy and use the streets that
exclude them in order to represent themselves as part of some wider
public, they usually do so in public spaces which do not match their needs
and requirements. Even in so-called gay and lesbian villages, the trans-
gressive moment which publicizes certain needs and wants is followed by
a moment of citizenship which serves to bring dissidents into a public
sphere not only of rights but also of obligations. This might make it
acceptable for certain acts to become visible in public (e.g. gay couples
kissing or sex workers soliciting) but inevitably means that these dissi-
dents must surender a certain level of control over their bodies, feelings
and identities to the wider community of which they are claiming to be
a part.
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therefore, not be ‘public’ (in the sense that it would be open to all), but
would encompass a different sense of order than that existing elsewhere –
an alternate order in which the views of sexual dissidents could be freely
articulated and in which their identities could be freely performed. The
idea that there can never be an ideal public sphere free from exclusions
may not be a utopian prognosis, as Kilian (1998) notes, but neither is it a
dystopian one. After all, Euclidean notions that spaces are either public or
private can be seen to be badly lacking if we consider that the world con-
sists of flows rather than bounded regions, of crumpled and heterogeneous
spaces rather than ones that are geometrically defined (Hetherington,
1999). In this sense, publicity and privacy co-join differently in different
places, and it is in sites that are imagined as not solely public or solely
private that new identities will emerge.
Conclusion
Jeffrey Weeks (1995) has argued that the conditions for the forging of new
sexual identities and moralities are just right. The family is perhaps no
longer what it was (or ever claimed to be), divorce is higher than ever,
birth control is widespread and generally reliable, and new patterns of inti-
macy are disturbing ordered erotic categories. In sum, issues of sexual
citizenship have (in themselves) moved from the margins to the centre and
the time seems right for sexual dissidents to stake their claims for full
citizenship. In this article, I have briefly considered some of the spatial
tactics that these groups and individuals have adopted for seeking recog-
nition and rights. As has been shown, these have chiefly revolved around
attempts to ‘queer’ public space, making the needs and wants of specific
sexual minorities visible through transgression onto the heteronormal
street. In essence, such tactics seem driven by a concern that a lack of pub-
licity deprives sexual minorities of full rights in a society where citizenship
is focused on the maintenance of the procreative nuclear family. In seeking
this recognition, however, sexual dissidents have often sacrificed their own
rights to privacy; by equating privacy with political inaction and publicity
with political empowerment, they appear to have fallen into a trap whereby
they are left with neither.
Rejecting the reification of the streets as the ultimate site for political
action, I have therefore begun to draw on some of those geographers who
have argued for a reconceptualization of public and private, arguing that
claims for citizenship cannot be sought solely in the public or private
realm. Instead, I have begun to explore the spatial construction of new
models of sexual citizenship which rely on the celebration and acceptance
of difference as well as the exclusion of those who threaten the ability of
people to control their own bodies, feelings and relationships with other
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Biographical Note
Phil Hubbard is an urban/social geographer with a particular interest in the
negotiation of sexuality in the city. His work on the policing and politics of sex
work culminated in the publication of Sex and the City: geographies of prosti-
tution in the urban West (Ashgate, 1999), and he is currently seeking to develop
new theoretical understandings of the role of space in the creation of sexual
identities. Address: Department of Geography, Loughborough University,
Leicestershire, LE11 3TU. [email: [email protected]]
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