Beyond the Same Old Script: Redefining Sex, Reclaiming Play, and Making Room for Erotic Possibility
For a lot of people, when they think of “sex,” what they’re really picturing is intercourse. Penetration. The “main event”. That moment we’ve been told all roads should lead to, and that, for better or worse, gets treated as the ultimate marker of whether “real” sex happened.
But sex isn’t intercourse. And intercourse isn’t sex. They can absolutely overlap, and often do. But they’re not synonymous. One is a specific activity. The other is a vast terrain. And if we don’t learn to tell the difference, we risk missing out on the most meaningful, satisfying, and connective parts of our erotic lives.
So today, we’re going to zoom out. We’re going to talk about sexual scripts—the ones you inherited, the ones you follow without even realizing, and the ones you could be writing. We’ll explore how to shift out of an outcome-oriented model of sex and into a process-centered one. One that welcomes creativity, delight, and pleasure that unfolds on its own terms. Because ultimately, the more flexible your understanding of sex becomes, the more freedom, connection, and fun you’ll find inside it.
What Is a Sexual Script?
A sexual script is the internalized blueprint you follow, consciously or not, when engaging in sex. It’s the order of operations, the roles you play, the assumptions you carry. And like most scripts, you didn’t invent it from scratch. You absorbed it from culture, media, early experiences, messages about gender, anatomy, desirability, and what “normal” looks like. For many people, that script looks something like this:
Kissing → Touching → Clothes come off → A bit of foreplay → Penetration → Orgasm → Clean up.
It’s linear. It’s predictable. It’s hierarchical (intercourse at the top, everything else a warm-up act). And it’s often performance-based with a narrow definition of what success looks like.
This script works for some couples, some of the time. But when it becomes the only script you know, sex starts to feel like a routine, a box to check, a sequence to execute. You might feel anxious when it doesn’t follow the expected rhythm. You might struggle to stay present. You might skip over pleasure in the rush to reach the “goal.” And you might feel frustrated, thwarted, or disappointed when the “goal” doesn’t happen as expected (for whatever reason).
But here’s the truth: sex doesn’t need a climax to be complete. It doesn’t even need genitals. Sex is anything that creates an erotic connection: physical, emotional, sensory, playful, psychological. Sex is curiosity. Sex is pleasure. Sex is tuning in to a world of vitality and eroticism.
And the more expansive your script becomes, the more possibilities you open up.
Intercourse Vs Sex
This is a helpful exercise to do with your partner. Each of you should write down the following:
1) What is the definition of intercourse
2) What is the definition of sex
3) What is the function/primary purpose of intercourse (why have intercourse?)
4) What is the function/primary purpose of sex (why have sex?)
Each of you should take your time to consider how you would answer each of these prompts and then write down your responses. When everyone is done, take turns sharing what you wrote for each. Notice where you overlap and diverge.
The standard definition for intercourse within the sexual health community is the act of penetration involving the penis in the vagina. The primary, central function of intercourse is procreation—and sure, you can experience pleasure and connection through this act as well as stop the possibility of procreation, but at its core, it is the only way (without medical intervention) to conceive and therefore its central purpose is procreation; this isn’t the only way to experience sexual pleasure.
Sex is a much more varied and expansive experience. It involves any erotic or sensual communication between our bodies. When we think about sex, does it start when the clothes come off and you start touching each other’s bodies? Does it start the moment someone walks through the door and you’re already undressing them in your mind? Does it start in the morning when you give each other a simmering kiss and then spend the day apart? If we expand our relationship to sex to include any and all erotically-charged interactions (regardless of what activities that entails), we open the door to a much more dynamic, exciting, and stimulating experiences.
Further, when we think about the function of sex, the responses can be just as varied—for pleasure, connection, closeness, comfort, safety, adventure, risk, daring, nurturance, repair, etc… In other words, the purpose of sex is rarely just “orgasm”. It usually involves connecting with a myriad of relational and emotional experiences that you find valuable for yourself, your partner, or your relationship.
When you get clear on the values that underly sex for you, it opens the door for you to move away from strict scripts of specific activities and toward any activity that allows you to connect with the values you identified. If the purpose of sex is pleasure, fun, and connection for you, then get creative about exploring all the different things you can do together than allow you to access those values, without getting trapped into the routine dance of intercourse being the only way to satisfy it.
From Destination to Journey
Along these lines, as we expand our sexual script away from a specific activity and toward any and all actions that allow us to connect with our erotic values, we also want to expand beyond an outcome-based approach to sex. An outcome-based approach focuses on the destination, which for many people is intercourse or orgasm. But if we allow ourselves to think about sex in its most expanded form, there is no need for sex to end in intercourse or even orgasm. Instead, consider orienting toward sex with a process-based approach where your focus is on the journey rather than the destination.
To illustrate, think of the following metaphor:
Imagine you’re on a road trip with two kids in the backseat on the way to Disneyland. One kid in the backseat spends the whole ride asking: “Are we there yet?” “How much longer?” “Is this it?” They are eagerly anticipating how incredible the destination will be that every moment of the journey to get there is burdensome, disruptive, or withholding for them. The other kid spends the entire time playing I-Spy, the license plate game, singing to the radio, counting how many cows they pass along the way, and seeing how many different-colored cars they can find. They, too, are excited to get there. They know Disneyland will be exciting and fun in a way this drive can’t ever be, but their enjoyment doesn’t start when they get there. They allow themselves to delight and excite in all the pleasures and joys along the way.
Now, let’s say halfway there the car breaks down or the weather changes and the family has to turn around and go home. Which kid is more frustrated and disappointed by the change of plans? Sure, both kids are missing out on the activity that they were greatly anticipating, but the child that enjoyed every moment of the drive was able to find incredible value in the journey and therefore is still walking away from the activity having gained some pleasurable experiences.
The same can be said for sex—when you’re so focused on the destination, on the outcome, you miss out on endless opportunities for pleasure, delight, and connection along the way. And if for some reason you have to stop (someone gets too tired, loses an erection, is no longer in the mood, the kids start crying, your boss calls, etc…), the level of irritation and frustration tends to be much higher for this person. When sex becomes to attached to a specific goal (orgasm, penetration, mutual climax) as the “destination” we’re trying to reach, everything else becomes a means to an end. And when that destination doesn’t happen, or doesn’t feel as great as we has imagined, the entire experience gets written off as a failure.
But what if the goal wasn’t to “arrive” at orgasm, but to enjoy the ride together? What if the point of sex wasn’t achieving something, but sharing something?
This shift — from outcome to process — changes everything. It reduces pressure. It slows things down. It gives you permission to linger, to experiment, to pause. It makes space for sensuality and connection rather than performance. And it invites you to co-create something new, each time, instead of reenacting the same scene on loop.
If you enter every sexual experience with an attitude of openness and excitement for the journey, it doesn’t matter where you end up as long as you enjoy the ride. This is one of the reasons famous sex therapist Ian Kerner encourages moving away from thinking of it as “foreplay” and toward seeing it as “coreplay”—a fundamental way to connect with the values that make sex meaningful, rather than as an appetizer to the main event.
Expanding Your Script
To start rewriting your sexual script, try getting curious about the one you already follow. You might ask:
What does sex usually look like for us?
Is there a sequence we tend to follow?
Are there parts of our bodies we skip over or avoid?
Do we stop once someone orgasms?
Are there things we never do, not because we don’t want to, but because they’re not in “the usual”?
None of these patterns are inherently wrong. The goal isn’t to shame the sex you’re having. It’s to get curious about what’s missing from the menu. What have you not explored? What would feel silly, or indulgent, or just interesting? And what would it be like to take intercourse off the table entirely for some time, not because you’re avoiding it, but because you’re making room to experience everything else?
The Three-Minute Game: A Map to Playful Touch
One simple, powerful way to expand your erotic repertoire is the Three-Minute Game, adapted from the work of sex educator Betty Martin. It’s deceptively simple and incredibly illuminating. Here’s how it works:
Partner A asks, “How would you like me to touch you for three minutes?” Partner B answers in a way that just considers their own pleasure (in other words, don’t think through what type of touch you imagine your partner would like—own your pleasure and name it!). Partner A is allowed to negotiate or communicate their discomfort with what’s being asked if needed. Once agreed, Partner A touches Partner B as requested for 3 minutes. Then switch: the other partner asks the same question, and roles reverse.
After that round, you do a second version with a different question. Partner A askes, “How would you like to touch me for three minutes?” Partner B answers, again focused just on their own pleasure. After completing the 3-minutes, the roles are switched. In total there are 4 rounds, 3 minutes each, centered around a specific request.
In such a way, each person is in the position of serving, taking, allowing, and accepting.
As you do this exercise, notice your reaction to being in each of these positions. Notice which role is hardest for you and which is easiest for you. Feel free to discuss this experience with your partner afterwards.
I like adding in a variation to this exercise:
Before you begin, determine together the parameters for the game. Some examples include:
· Genitals off limits
No hands allowed
Do it blindfolded
No words during the game
Stay fully clothed
Use only your tongue
Use nearby objects (feathers, ice, etc…)
Play this game as often as you want, switching up the parameters for the exercise.
These aren’t constraints meant to limit pleasure; they’re containers that allow creativity to emerge. When you remove the agenda and invite in a new type of structure for touch, it can help each of you slow down, experiment, and explore creative new ways of delighting in each other’s bodies and touch.
And, critically, there’s no hierarchy here. It’s not that we’re resigning ourselves to no intercourse or no genital touch because we can’t, but because when we remove the familiar and expected, we can connect with our eroticism and vitality in a way we never have before. A brush of fingertips across the forearm, a kiss on the neck, a playful scratch on the back—these aren’t “less than” intercourse. They are sex, in its fullest, most spacious sense. When you start treating all forms of touch as worthy of delight, the palette of possibility becomes so much richer.
Creating a Culture of Exploration
One of the most impactful things you can do for your erotic relationship is to ritualize play. This doesn’t mean scheduling sex like a dentist appointment (though that can be helpful too, especially if you want that sex is always last on the to-do list). It means setting aside time not for sex, but for exploration. For discovery. For embodied curiosity.
You might light a candle and ask each other: “What kind of touch would feel amazing right now?” You might take turns giving and receiving. You might set a timer and try a new sensation, feathers, ice, silk, firm pressure, breath, with no goal other than noticing what feels good. You might even create a shared playlist of songs you want to move to together, whether that movement turns into sex or simply a sweaty, giggly mess of limbs and laughter.
The point is this: when you shift from script-following to moment-following, something beautiful happens. You start to trust your body again. You start to listen to your partner again. You start to remember that sex isn’t something to achieve—it’s something to create together.
Final Thoughts
Expanding your sexual script isn’t about doing more. It’s about doing differently. It’s about stepping off the treadmill of predictable sex and into a wider landscape, one where pleasure is the compass, presence is the path, and delight is the destination.
If you find yourselves stuck in a rut, unsure where to begin, let curiosity lead. Ask questions. Try experiments. Play the Three-Minute Game. Make space for awkwardness and laughter. Reclaim sex as something that belongs to you both, not as performers, but as partners. Not as passengers, but as co-adventurers on a road trip without a map.
Because the very best sex? It doesn’t always take you where you planned to go. But it brings you somewhere you’re both glad to be.