Introduction

Notions of good practice regarding sexual communication and sexual consent have shifted towards an enthusiastic consent discourse, emphasising that good sexual consent practice in sexual situations is ongoing, active, and verbal (Darnell, 2020). This approach is prevalent in contemporary comprehensive relationships and sexuality education (RSE) programmes and mandatory consent programmes in Australia (Meacham, 2022), as well as in the new affirmative consent legislation in Australian states and territories such as Victoria (North, 2023). These initiatives are designed to support broader gender and sexual violence prevention efforts, with the aim of helping individuals navigate sexual encounters and ensure positive sexual experiences. In 2023, over AUD3.5 million in government funding has been allocated to support the teaching of consent in school and social media settings for this purpose (Slade, 2023).

Beyond formal education, positive practices related to sexual consent have also emerged in unconventional settings such as television programmes and social media platforms including TikTok (Calderón-Sandoval et al., 2023; Fowler et al., 2021; Pulido et al., 2024). Additionally, social justice movements such as #MeToo have significantly contributed to advancing the discourse on sexual consent, and educational initiatives such as consent awareness weeks have effectively promoted sexual consent literacy (Gronert, 2019). Australian society, like many others, is currently placing a heightened focus on fostering healthy sexual communication and consent practices as a means of preventing gender-based and sexual violence. For example, the recent incidents in the Australian Parliament regarding the allegations of sexual violence experienced by Brittany Higgans have contributed to broader reforms around consent in the workplace (Sawer, 2021). Despite substantial efforts to educate about sexual communication and consent, driven by the belief that inadequate education contributes to experiences of sexual violence, there remains limited insight into how cisgender heterosexual individuals navigate these aspects in their sexual encounters. It also remains unclear whether they understand contemporary best practices and consistently apply them to ensure positive sexual experiences.

Scholarly debates have emerged concerning the necessity of verbal or alternative expressions for establishing sexual consent (Beres & MacDonald, 2015; Beres, 2007a, b, 2014, 2020; Gilbert, 2018). Discussions within legal contexts often oversimplify consent, reducing it to a binary “yes” or “no”, lacking the flexibility to allow for diverse communication styles (Dougherty, 2015). Darnell (2020) highlights that this reduction of consent to binary terms oversimplifies complex sexual motivations, limiting meaningful conversations. Some argue that the #MeToo movement has fostered a conservative perspective on sexual activity, disregarding nonconforming expressions of sexuality (Matthews, 2020; Waling, 2023c). The shift from discussions of sexual communication to sexual consent has sometimes disregarded the emotional and verbal skills necessary to navigate diverse sexual scenarios. This shift has placed an emphasis on whether predominantly cisgender heterosexual women respond with a “yes” or “no”, the methods used to elicit these responses, and who respects or disregards them, often focusing on cisgender heterosexual men. This underscores the need to integrate sexual communication and consent into sexual agency (Bauer, 2021; Hindes, 2022; Jeffrey, 2022; Vanwesenbeeck et al., 2021) recognising that decision-making during sex involves complex dynamics (Hindes, 2022).

Drawing from qualitative focus groups with cisgender heterosexual men and women residing in Australia, this paper explores participants’ knowledge of what are considered good practices of sexual communication and sexual consent, in comparison to their practical implementation of these same practices. The findings, as we highlight, have important implications for current policy and practice around mandated consent education programs in Australia and broader initiatives seeking to support positive sexual encounters. We use the terms sexual communication and sexual consent throughout this paper in recognition that sexual communication is a broad set of communication practices concerning sex and intimacy, while sexual consent is a type of permission given (or not given) as a part of those practices (see Waling, 2023c).

Sexual Consent, Gender, and Self-Efficacy

There is a substantial body of research regarding sexual communication and sexual consent (for comprehensive overviews of this work, see Fenner (2017) and Muehlenhard et al. (2016). National and international literature investigating the perspectives of young cisgender heterosexual men and women regarding sexual communication and consent predominantly centres on relationship dynamics and communication methods (Jones et al., 2018; Lehmiller et al., 2014). Studies have also delved into how sources of information about sexual communication and sexual consent, such as pornography, movies, and music videos, can impact understandings and perceptions (e.g. Allen, 2006; Crabbe & Flood, 2021; Rodgers et al., 2023; Willis et al., 2020), as well as the role of formal relationship and sexuality education within schools in providing education on these topics (e.g. Burton et al., 2023; Ezer et al., 2019; Johnson et al., 2020; Quinlivan, 2018). A range of research has explored understandings of verbal and non-verbal signs of sexual communication and consent (Brady et al., 2018; Darden et al., 2019; Hust et al., 2014, 2017; Lehmiller et al., 2014; Ólafsdottir & Kjaran, 2019; Willis & Jozkowski, 2019; Willis et al., 2019).

Gendered power dynamics are also significant, whereby research has found that women are perceived as sexual gatekeepers whereas men often perceive it as women’s duty to refuse sexual activities (e.g. Benoit & Ronis, 2022; Beres, 2020; Beres & Farvid, 2010; Beres & MacDonald, 2015; Carmody, 2003; Gilbert, 2018; Halley, 2016; Jozkowski et al., 2017; Willis et al., 2019). This binary view of consent limits women’s exploration of pleasure and power to within traditional norms, as expressing desire contradicts societal notions of femininity (Albury, 2002, 2018; Angel, 2021). Additionally, the binary framework places men in the role of seeking sex, while women must either agree or decline. These gendered dynamics have led to suggestions that campaigns focusing solely on improving women’s refusal skills miss the complexity of refusals in real life, where cultural norms make it challenging for women to simply decline (Hardesty et al., 2022; O’Byrne et al., 2006).

Studies have explored young people’s perceptions of sexual communication and consent using vignettes. These vignettes describe different consent scenarios, with participants answering questions about whether the characters consent to sexual activities. Humphreys (2007) discovered that altering the relationship status between characters in the same vignettes led to varying consent outcomes. Jozkowski (2015) observed that participants perceived activities as consensual, but their views changed when presented with non-consensual information, highlighting the impact of hindsight bias. Building on this, Willis and Jozkowski (2022) noted that during vignette reading, participants’ perceptions of momentary versus retrospective sexual consent varied depending on the nature of the sexual behaviour. Some studies have noted that scenarios showed shifts in perceptions of consent violations, particularly regarding variables like alcohol consumption (Hills et al., 2021). In other cases where consent was unclear, participants tended to view the male character as having consented more often (Groggel et al., 2021). Holmström et al. (2020) explored how the simplicity of saying “yes” or “no” in casual sexual encounters can become complicated. Additional vignette studies have investigated the influence of gender norms (e.g. Lofgreen et al., 2021) and sexism and rape myth acceptance (e.g. Persson & Dhingra, 2022) on participants’ understanding of sexual consent.

While some older research in Australia has suggested that education on sexual consent and ethical sexual relations may have contributed to positive self-reported perspectives on sexual encounters (Carmody & Ovenden, 2013), internationally, others have observed that there has not been a decrease in experiences of sexual violence despite the implementation of comprehensive sex education in formal school-based settings that prioritise enthusiastic consent education (Beres et al., 2019; Pascoe, 2022). As Beres et al. (2019) argue, knowledge about good consent practices does not necessarily address the broader issues of gendered violence rooted in men’s power and presumed entitlement to women’s bodies.

A challenge with exploring awareness and knowledge of a particular issue, such as good sexual communication and sexual consent practices for promoting change, is that knowledge alone may not suffice (Arlinghaus & Johnston, 2018). While knowledge is crucial for promoting change, it must be paired with educational approaches that facilitate practical application (Arlinghaus & Johnston, 2018). Research has found that when it comes to matters of sexual health and sexual practices, knowledge and working towards improving sexual self-efficacy do not always equate to actual practice (Arlinghaus & Johnston, 2018). By sexual self-efficacy, we are referring to an individual’s confidence in applying their sexual health knowledge into practice, such as discussing with partners sexual concerns, being sexually assertive, or using barrier or hormonal contraceptives.

For example, research has found that despite knowledge about sexual health matters, gender role socialisation and gendered power dynamics result in decreased application of that knowledge in men’s and women’s sexual practices (Curtin et al., 2011; Nesoff et al., 2016). For heterosexual women especially, this can include increased sexual risk-taking such as less condom use, likely due to their partners’ condom refusals and stealthing practices, and decreased self-assertiveness during sexual encounters, resulting in engaging in activities they are not comfortable doing. Other studies exploring young people’s sexual health education have found that knowledge of effective risk prevention strategies for STIs and pregnancy does not always translate to consistent use of barrier or hormonal methods or confidence in discussing sex and intimacy (Mason-Jones et al., 2016). In research on gay and bisexual men, several other factors play key roles as to whether they engaged in sexual activities without adequate discussion, negotiation, or use of STI- and HIV-risk-reducing methods such as condoms or PrEP (Shen et al., 2022). These factors included focus on pleasure, and navigating HIV stigma.

Most research on young people has traditionally focused on understanding sexual communication and consent in a binary context, categorising scenarios as consensual or non-consensual (e.g. Groggel et al., 2021; Holmström et al., 2020). However, there is limited comprehensive international research, including none in Australia, on how individuals integrate best practices into their daily lives. Shifting the focus from establishing sexual consent to examining how participants navigate scenarios and anticipate others’ responses is crucial. This study emphasises practical application, observing how young cisgender heterosexual men and women in Australia implement their understanding of sexual communication and consent in addressing challenges within hypothetical scenarios and real-life encounters. It does not aim to directly assess the impact of educational programmes or measure knowledge, behaviours, and attitudes; rather, it explores how general knowledge about these topics shapes current sexual communication and sexual consent practices.

Methodology

This study is part of a broader Australian project exploring cisgender heterosexual men’s experiences in sex, intimacy, and dating. The project involves analysing #MeToo commentaries (Waling, 2023b, c); interviewing experts in sexual health, gender violence prevention, and well-being (Waling et al., 2023a, b); conducting focus groups with both men and women (the focus here); and interviewing young cisgender heterosexual men (Waling, 2023a, d). It employs a combined framework of symbolic interactionism and feminism, emphasising meaning and interpretation (Liamputtong, 2011).

Our virtual focus group design followed Liamputtong’s (2011) recommendations. Virtual groups gathered diverse opinions on sex, dating, and sexual communication, encouraging both complementary (sharing experiences) and argumentative (questioning) interactions (Liamputtong, 2011). We opted for a diverse and constructed design to facilitate discussions on sensitive subjects such as sex and sexual health, encouraging various responses, with both complementary and argumentative exchanges (Liamputtong, 2011). The virtual approach was prompted by COVID-19’s impact on qualitative research safety and data collection. Focus groups have proven effective for sex-related research (Waling et al., 2020). The constructed design reduces agenda setting, encourages varied perspectives, and alleviates concerns about revealing private matters (Liamputtong, 2011). The collection of focus group data can also be rich and nuanced, resulting from group discussions and interactions where participants engage and sometimes challenge each other (Liamputtong, 2011).

Method

Ethics approval was granted by La Trobe University’s Human Research Ethics Committee (HEC20110). Participants had to identify as cisgender men or women, heterosexual, residing in Australia, having had engaged in dating or casual sex in the last 5 years, and being between the ages of 18 and 35. For each group, we chose six to eight participants across six groups, a size that fosters diversity and in-depth discussions effectively (Liamputtong, 2011).

Vignette Development

The focus group made use of vignettes as part of the data collection. These were carefully considered to ensure accessibility of language, and ability to garner high-quality and rich data. Vignettes, also known as qualitative research scenarios, are effective tools for understanding participants’ engagement with a topic (e.g. Barter & Renold, 1999; Tremblay et al., 2022). Vignettes are useful in facilitating discussions of sensitive topics (e.g. dating, sex, consent) and the exploration of diverse perspectives (Bradbury-Jones et al., 2014). Barter and Renold (1999) and O’Dell et al. (2012), however, caution researchers about analysis of responses to vignettes, reminding them that there are key differences in how participants themselves might respond to a situation in comparison to how they think a situation should be engaged. This consideration of the vignette methodology is highly useful when reflecting on the sometimes fraught and contentious nature of navigating sexual encounters, including how individuals think about, and reflect on, sexual communication and sexual consent (Darnell, 2020; Hindes, 2022; Matthews, 2020).

As such, we deemed it prudent to use vignettes as part of the focus group to determine how participants might respond to or think through potential concerns around sexual consent and sexual communication. These vignettes were focused on sexual relations between men and women. Four vignettes were developed. Two vignettes involved casual sex/dating, and two vignettes involved long-term relationships (see Appendix A: Vignettes). Vignettes were also designed to ensure equal distribution of men and women instigating sexual activity, or as potential recipients of a potential sexual consent violation. Following Barter and Renold’s (1999) approach, we created each vignette to be purposefully ambiguous, fostering diverse responses about navigating sexual communication and sexual consent in practical contexts. The vignettes were based on our own experiences and common scenarios from sources including Slate’s “How to Do It” (sex advice column) and Reddit subreddits such as r/dating_advice and r/relationship_advice. As noted above in the literature review, other studies have used vignettes to assess participant understandings of what is and what is not consensual. In this study, we focused on ensuring vignettes did not have clear correct or incorrect answers to better analyse participants’ responses to characters, situations, and their own lived experiences. Importantly, we were focused on how participants themselves might handle scenarios, how they believed characters should handle the scenarios, and what discussions emerged in the process. Trusted colleagues reviewed vignettes for accessibility and feedback.

Recruitment

Participants were recruited from May to August 2021 for mixed and single-gender focus groups and one-on-one interviews. One-on-one interviews were conducted with men (e.g. Waling, 2023a, d), while focus groups involved both men and women. While our paper primarily discusses focus groups, we recognise the overlap with interviews due to simultaneous recruitment and shared methods. This approach was strategic to address challenges in recruiting cisgender heterosexual men for sensitive topics such as sex and consent (Waling, 2023a). Recruitment employed Facebook, Instagram, and Reddit ads, leading participants to an eligibility survey on REDCap. Detailed information was accessible on the project website, www.m-sex.org. Four rounds of advertising were necessary, with Facebook being especially effective for recruitment through sponsored ads on Instagram and Messenger. The eligibility survey enabled participants to express interest, addressing questions on gender identity, sex recorded on birth certificate, sexual orientation, residence, age, and recent dating or casual sex. Ineligibility prompted a thank you and explanation, while eligible participants shared contact details. Through this process, a total of 76 people (30 men in interviews, and 11 men and 33 women in focus groups) participated in the study. Men were invited to one-on-one interviews or mixed-/single-gender focus groups, while women were invited to mixed-/single-gender focus groups.

Data Collection

In this paper, we are focused on the focus groups; thus, data collection procedures are described as such. Six virtual focus groups were conducted between the months of June 2021 and September 2021. Focus groups were conducted online using Zoom technology. Three of these focus groups were mixed gender, and three were single gender, women only. Single-gender women’s groups were offered as some women do not feel safe in mixed groups, particularly those who may have experienced sexual violence, and to ensure the centring of their voices and experience. We did not run single-gender men’s groups. While they were offered for similar reasons regarding comfort and safety, men did not take up this opportunity, and reasons as to why are discussed in another paper (Waling, 2023a).

  1. i.

    Focus group preparation

    Participants were given the chance to choose their preferred date and time for the focus group. A week before the study, an email was sent with focus group details, a using-Zoom guide, a list of support services, and guidance on respectful behaviour.

    A resource was developed to guide participants on the sensitive content, emphasising diverse viewpoints and respectful interaction. It contained guidance on handling discomfort during the session and highlighted the research team’s authority to remove those displaying harmful behaviours. The list of support services was shared ahead of time and reiterated at the focus group’s conclusion.

  2. ii.

    Focus group data collection

    Focus groups commenced 15 min before the set start time for equipment checks and accommodating latecomers. All participants’ screen names were updated. Before the session, the research team configured Zoom settings to enable direct messaging to hosts only, disabled screen sharing and annotation, and locked screen names. A PowerPoint presentation with a study introduction, agenda, and questions was shared via screen share. Introductions and casual chat ensued, clarifying that participation was voluntary, and additional questions were allowed. The lead author invited those unheard to contribute. Participants were encouraged to voice opinions and use Zoom features such as raising hands and emoticons.

    The focus groups spanned about 2 h, with a 5-min introduction, a 10-min break, and a 5-min conclusion, audio-recorded via Zoom. They were split into two 50-min segments with four vignettes and seven key questions. Author 1 facilitated the groups, author 2 took notes, and author 2 messaged author 1 for follow-ups. Author 1 and author 2 revised questions after group 1 to enhance engagement, proving successful in subsequent sessions. Each participant had opportunities to answer, with author 2 prompting those needing encouragement and acknowledging private contributions. At the end, participants were thanked, next steps outlined (study results disclosure, reimbursement, project updates), and support services highlighted, with author 1 available for participant contact after the focus group. Post group, the research team reviewed the session, noted insights, and planned adjustments. Participants received $50 Coles gift vouchers, study result details, and support service links via email.

    Focus groups were conducted by two women. Research has shown that men are more likely to perform gender in front of other men than women (Schrock & Schwalbe, 2009). Research has also shown that men may be more likely to be more open and vulnerable when speaking with other women on topics that could incur judgement, such as sex or mental health concerns (Black & Gringart, 2019; Seidler et al., 2022), and feel safer to express themselves in mixed-gender groups than in groups with all men (Waling et al., 2023a).

Participants

Basic demographic details were collected prior to the focus group in the eligibility survey to preserve the confidentiality and anonymity of participants in the focus groups. Several participants were not comfortable with providing additional information about their background (e.g. race, ethnic or cultural background, housing status, employment, location) due to the sensitive nature of the research topic; this was particularly salient for participants who noted past experiences of sexual violence. As such, we only report on age, gender, and state or territory.

Table 1 provides a basic demographic breakdown of focus group participant characteristics. Most participants who took part in focus groups were women (33), which is due to three of the groups being women only and most men opting to take part in a one-on-one interview instead (see Waling, 2023a). Most participants came from Victoria (13) and New South Wales (10). There was an almost even split between participants who were between the ages of 18 and 25 (15) and 26 and 30 (19). Participants are denoted with pseudonyms, age, and gender.

Table 1 Demographic characteristics (N = 44)
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Analysis

Data was analysed using interpretative phenomenological analysis (IPA), which pays attention to the world as it is experienced by human beings within contexts and at times, rather than in abstract statements about the nature of the world in general (Smith & Fieldsend, 2021). While IPA does not adhere to traditional techniques such as data saturation or cross-referencing codebooks, it still involves a structured process. Author 1 maintained research diaries after each focus group to record initial thoughts and valuable insights for later data analysis. Transcripts were professionally transcribed, and then cross-checked by author 1. For coding the transcripts with specific keywords, the authors employed qualitative data management software, NVivo. Subsequently, author 1 manually re-examined the transcripts, refining the initial codes. Transcripts were then coded by author 3. Author 1 then examined the coded transcripts, identifying descriptive themes, followed by a meticulous analysis to unearth the underlying tensions within the data as per IPA. For this paper, attention was paid to how participants responded to each vignette. Findings were then written up and cross-checked by authors 2 and 3. All three authors discussed the findings and agreed upon changes where necessary.

Findings

In this paper, we explore how participants’ general knowledge and expectations of good sexual communication and sexual consent practices during sexual encounters translate into their readings of sexual consent vignettes and their discussions of their lived experiences of similar situations. One of the challenges with focus group designs is that they can often lead to a “group norm” or consensus among participants regarding experiences. While the data reported below suggests some consensus, we highlight differences where appropriate. Importantly, we note that even if there is consensus among the group as a potential result of a group norm, this is still valid in terms of understanding the discussions at large. We are focused on the general question that participants were asked, “How do you think people navigate consent?”, with the follow-up prompts, “What should they be doing? What does this look like (body language)? What does this sound like (verbal language)?” Table 2 provides a summary of these responses to highlight contemporary good practices.

Table 2 Participant responses on contemporary good consent practices
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Participants articulated a high degree of awareness around what constituted contemporary good practice when it comes to navigating sexual consent. This included emphasis on having periodic verbal check-ins during encounters, reading non-verbal body language cues, having both partners (in one-on-one settings) responsible for procuring and understanding sexual consent, and using direct and open communication. However, this awareness did not necessarily translate into their lived experiences, or discussions of the sexual consent vignettes. Below, we discuss how contradictions emerged that did not correspond with contemporary good practices. These included (1) decisive power, gender, and responsibility; (2) universal assumptions yet context always needed; and (3) should do versus did do.

Decisive Power, Gender, and Responsibility

As discussed above, participants were adamant that responsibility should be on both partners for ensuring direct communication when it came to sexual consent. Yet in conversations surrounding the vignettes, participants began to articulate discrepancies around these responsibility expectations. While they began discussions that both parties are responsible for procuring sexual consent, inconsistencies emerged as to who ultimately held or should hold decisive power in the sexual situation, and gender played a key role in not only who was expected to hold power, but also how someone should manage a situation. While participants were adamant that all individuals involved in a sexual encounter needed to have confidence in openly discussing sex and asserting their wants, needs, and boundaries, this was contradicted in discussions of lived experiences and the vignettes. For example, in the vignette of Clarissa and Nick (Appendix A: Vignette B) they engage in lengthy conversations about their sexual wants and limitations prior to an encounter. However, Nick experiences a sexual consent violation when Clarissa does something that was not on his list of limitations. Participants noted that despite lengthy conversations about sexual wants and limitations, Clarissa should have already been aware of the potentiality that Nick may be introverted or shy, struggling with potential masculinity norms, and unable to effectively communicate his needs:

Saanvi (woman, 30, single FG): I feel like Clarissa should take some action to make sure he’s comfortable as well, because if Nick is, like, super shy, then if it’s an activity that he doesn’t like, he’d just have to sit with it. I feel like there should be a second layer of, like, security for him, that Clarissa is also making sure he’s okay.

Abigail (woman, 26, single FG): if Nick was uncomfortable and he didn’t realise until that was happening, like, it’s not fair to expect him to be vocal about it, because he might be in shock about it. And that’s something that, like, a lot of guys have trouble speaking up about that sort of thing because there’s this pressure on them to be, like, ‘Oh, nothing bothers me’ sort of thing, like they don’t feel like they can say, ‘Hey, that makes me uncomfortable’, and that’s another problem.

Unlike contemporary good practice in which both parties are considered responsible for discussing and initiating consent conversations, here participants held one party to be ultimately responsible over the other, and attributed power to the one who is presumed responsible. As Clarissa committed the potential violation, she is ultimately responsible for not only the violation but also for not having done enough to have avoided it, and for engaging in caretaking of Nick’s feelings. Importantly, Clarissa as a woman is expected not only to engage in a level of emotional labour to ensure that Nick is okay, but also to already have an awareness of Nick’s emotional state. Meanwhile, Nick’s potential responsibility for the violation, such as due to not listing the act as a limitation during their initial discussions, is disregarded, alongside an assumption that he was vulnerable due to shyness/introversion or masculinity norms, and thus cannot speak up. This also contradicts the claim that good sexual consent and sexual communication practices require people to be able to articulate their needs confidently.

Gender was a strong factor in how decisive power was also determined. This was particularly apparent in the Mark and Julia vignette (Appendix A: Vignette A) whereby gender played a vital role regarding who was expected to hold power. Importantly, it reflected the traditional gendered expectations of men needing to initiate and direct conversations about sexual consent, while women were positioned as sexual gatekeepers (Beres & MacDonald, 2015). Very few participants felt that since it was Julia who had initially indicated a boundary of not having sex and had invited Mark to her place, that it was up to her to articulate what she would be willing to do sexually when she changed her mind:

Anika (woman, 26, single FG): She [Julia] has the onus on it to just confirm and say that ‘you know, I mentioned this earlier but, you know, I think things are going really well’.

Abigail (woman, 26, single FG): I was just going to say that’s totally fine that she’s changed her mind about it, but she— it would be better if she was clearer about her saying that and saying, ‘Hey, I know I said I didn’t want to do this, but now I would like to.’

The majority, however, fell back on gendered power dynamics and gender role expectations, in which participants maintained that Mark was ultimately responsible for initiating discussions on sexual consent and checking in as Julia’s behaviour changed, due to the presumed unequal decisive positions between them regarding their gender identities:

Sasha (woman, 29, mixed FG): I feel like if Julia asks the guy to come over, I feel like, yeah, the guy would assume that something’s happening, but if she verbally says that, like, she wants to take things slow, then he should respect that. And I think, like, [as] a responsible person, he would have to verbally ask, just to confirm that she wants to go ahead or not to go ahead.

Adeline (woman, 20, single FG): For Mark, I think it would just be really important to respect Julia’s initial comments and just ask whether or not some things would be okay – like, ask what she wants to do, ask if certain things are okay, and just move forward figuring out together.

Participants noted that Julia could be giving “mixed signals” regarding her interest in sexual activities, referring to how women are often perceive as being relatively unreliable when it comes to sexual encounters (Ólafsdottir & Kjaran, 2019). As a result, they noted that Mark needed to take responsibility for initiating discussions on sexual consent.

When participants described themselves as being in either Mark’s or Julia’s position, they continually came back to Mark as ultimately holding decisive responsibility for whether sexual activities continued:

Nate (man, 31, mixed FG): I really think, you know, like if I put myself in Mark’s place, I would have to be more rational and more logical and not only think about myself but think about the emotional and logical dilemma that Julia is facing. So I think I would’ve definitely, you know, like, not only once, just I wouldn’t have just asked her once and just waited for a yes, I would’ve probably asked her throughout, you know, the whole time.

Erica (woman, 28, mixed FG): I think he should, either one of them should speak up and say is this something that you actually want to do […] So if you actually had someone stop you and say, ‘Hey, actually do you actually really want to do this’, that shows a lot of maturity on their part, and it would make me like them and respect them more if they did actually stop me, if I was in Julia’s position.

In the case of Nate, there is an assumption that Julia will be emotional based on her gender, whereas Mark as a man will be rational and logical. As a result, Nate assumes that Mark holds the decisive power. For Erica, this links to rationality and maturity that is assumed of Mark but not Julia. As a result, Julia is continuously framed as inherently vulnerable and needing to be led by Mark/engaged by Mark.

Universal Assumptions Yet Context Always Needed

Participants highlighted competing tensions around what individuals can or should safely assume when it came to sexual encounters, while simultaneously expressing across all vignettes that they always needed more context to determine the appropriate course of action. While participants noted that people should not make assumptions and should openly communicate, this again came through differently when discussing both lived experiences and the sexual consent vignettes. In these readings, there was an assumption that partners should be generally aware of what is acceptable during first and second sexual encounters, drawing from more universal understandings of “normal” and “unusual” sexual practices:

Danny (man, 23, mixed FG): I think that you should generally be aware of whether an action is going to cause someone distress. It depends on the sexual activity. Like, you should know what is out of boundaries, even if it’s not— like, I feel like the boundaries usually are, like, pretty, I don’t know, not set in stone, obviously, but, like, you can see what sort of things are over the line and what sort of things aren’t.

Anika (woman, 26, single FG): I feel like in my experience most of the first sexual encounters have often been within the range of normality, of what one expects, at least in my— with me it’s been very rare, or in fact never, that someone’s gotten something into the sexual activity which was an uncommon or, you know, unusual activity.

Across the focus groups, participants indicated that there is a general or universal understanding of sexual activities that are considered “normal” in contrast to those that would be considered unusual. Such understanding can be premised in broader discourses in which certain sexual activities are seen as normal (i.e. sexual positions such as missionary) while other activities may be deemed as kinky, taboo, or stigmatised (Rubin, 1984). This results in expectations in which some sexual activities require prior discussion while others may not.

Yet in the vignette of the long-term relationship between Frank and Cassie (Appendix A: Vignette D) where Frank tried something new with Cassie without her explicit consent (but she enjoyed it), participants were contradictory. Some suggested that Frank should have checked in with Cassie when trying something new:

Jeremy (man, 34, mixed FG): Yeah, I would say the length of the relationship is not relevant. I think it’s more that they’ve done something differently, and Frank should’ve, Frank and Cathy should’ve, had a frank, pun intended, conversation about it beforehand. I think communication is fundamental for all elements of relationships including the sexual element.

Amina (woman, 24, mixed FG): So yeah, I think it’s just not right to do something without asking your partner. Like, if I was— if this happened to me, I would just stop the guy. And I’m like, ‘What are you doing? Explain yourself.’ I think you should – you should always ask something like that.

But others noted that the context of their long-term relationship meant that it was okay and part of healthy sexual exploration:

Mabel (woman, 34, single FG): I would ask myself, what [is] the kind of relationship between these two kinds of people [that they] have together? Maybe we adapt discussion, previous discussion, maybe they know each other very well. So, I don’t know. There’s, there is an option here, because they’ve been together, like, in a long relationship, and they know each other better.

Interviewer: [Aaliyah], what were you going to say?

Aaliyah (woman, 28, single FG): Yeah, I was going to say something similar. So, they’ve been together for several years. So, it kind of made me think back to a relationship when I was with someone for a few years. Once you get into a bit of routine, sometimes it’s nice when your partner just surprises you with something new.

Here, participants highlight that notions of novelty and excitement are permissible within the context of a pre-established sexual and/or romantic relationship, but only within a particular set of normative ideas about what is universally acceptable.

However, these unspoken assumptions conflicted with participants consistently expressing the need for additional context to accurately evaluate each scenario. They emphasised the importance of having more information about character backgrounds and circumstances, as this information was considered crucial for determining the appropriate course of action, something that was also noted in Willis and Jozkowski (2022). This requirement for context also aligned with the participants’ personal experiences. Managing sexual consent was perceived as contextual and dependent on various factors that may or may not be known. As detailed in the methodology, vignettes were intentionally crafted to be ambiguous to mirror real-life experiences more accurately, wherein full awareness of an individual’s circumstances may not always be feasible.

For example, in the case of Mark and Julia, participants wanted to know more about whether Julia could have been a victim/survivor of sexual violence and if that could shape her behaviour, and exactly how much Mark and Julia may have had to drink:

Avery (woman, 33, single FG): It could be that we don’t know Julia, so she could have a history of sexual trauma, which means that she thinks any relationship or something that this is a normal way to behave, and she has normalised it to a point where this is how she’ll do something regardless.

Carley (woman, 34, mixed FG): Yeah, I would also [want to know] how many drinks Julia took that night, in that case if I was Julia, I would appreciate the guy, like, stop advancing. But if I’m, like, I’m just happy, like a little bit tipsy, like yeah, I guess it would be my decision to go forward.

Abigail (woman, 26, single FG): There’s the outlier of it being vague that they’ve gone for drinks, so I think that impacts it too.

For Avery, the unknown history of Julia could play a further factor in whether she may be consenting to sexual activity, which would then place further responsibility onto Mark for managing sexual communication and consent. For Carley and Abigail, the level of alcohol intake would determine whether Julia would go further. In these cases, the way participants could determine “good practice” was highly dependent on a variety of unknown variables within the scenario.

For Frank and Cassie, participants noted that the dynamic of the couple beyond their relationship status was crucial in determining whether Frank did something wrong:

Sasha (woman, 29, mixed FG): I think it’s really depending on the dynamic of the couple, yeah, and how new is this activity from what they have normally done. Because some couples could be very adventurous and maybe they like surprises, so it just depends.

The sexual activity in question was also an important factor, where participants expressed that the scenario was too vague due to the lack of information about what the activity was:

Danny (man, 23, mixed FG): I think it’s really important to know what it is.

Interviewer: Well I don’t have any, it’s about a new sexual activity

Danny (man, 23, mixed FG): It’s just like really vague, like, it depends on the— because I don’t want to say explicitly if that’s not what we’re doing, but it depends on the level of newness.

Nate (man, 31, mixed FG): I think if it’s not too extreme, not too hurtful, I think there is no reason to, you know, like sort of spoil the surprise, as long as it is within some sort of boundaries that’s already been maintained by the two.

Lenore (woman, 28, single FG): It would really depend on what he tried, to be honest, like if he’s flipped me around and chucked me into a new position, like, yeah, go for it. If he’s slapped me across the face in the middle of sex without clearing that first, no. It would completely depend on what it was and the way that he goes about doing it.

As with the discussion of boundaries, participants expressed that if a new activity was within some predetermined notion of normality (i.e. a different sexual position), it was fine to do. Importantly, the context of the activity determined whether Frank was in the wrong for not asking.

These uncertainties were echoed with Clarissa and Nick around whether Clarissa stopped in time, and if Nick was clear enough in his communication:

Lenore (woman, 28, single FG): We’re also assuming here that when Nick became distressed Clarissa stopped. If she didn’t stop, if she continued, then yes, it is a consent violation.

Anika (woman, 26, single FG): I was just going to say that, that it depends on when Clarissa stopped […] But yes, then it would be a consent violation if she didn’t stop when Nick expressed distress.

Danny (man, 23, mixed FG): It doesn’t say exactly what happened and, like, did Nick as soon as it started happening, did he say no and then she stopped, or is it more like she did the thing and then he decided not to say anything. Because I feel like, generally speaking, you would know if it starts happening to him, he should say no. If you have that, I’m not saying they should. I don’t know, it all depends.

In these discussions, context was needed to determine an appropriate course of action regarding the vignettes. Such context was complex and varied, making it difficult for participants to reach a consensus as to what to do with each situation.

Should Do Versus Did Do

While participants were aware of contemporary good practices on sexual communication and consent, this was not necessarily what they did during sexual encounters. Rather, participants expressed that good practices of sexual communication were hindrances to the enjoyment of encounters and did not necessarily accommodate the fluidity of sex. In the case of Mark and Julia (Appendix A: Vignette A), participants articulated that while they knew best practice, they had been in a similar situation in which they did the opposite:

Lenore (woman, 28, single FG): Sometimes, like, a conversation can almost kill the vibe, like if that moment is, like, really hot and passionate and you’re giving them all the signals and they’re giving you all the signals, and then he was like, ‘So I want to just check in with you for a second’, I would be like, ‘Dude, come on, like, let’s just do the thing.’

Alice (woman, 25, single FG): I would just like to add in there that in my personal experience there’s been situations where it feels like you know everything’s going well, not necessarily perfect, but everything’s going well and we’re hitting it off, and then it moves into the bedroom and things just seem to flow, and I feel comfortable not having to necessarily overtly have that conversation then and there with this situation.

Despite this, however, participants also described when things did not go in that direction, and where engaging good consent practices had created further issues in their sexual situations:

Padmesh (man, 34, mixed FG): Coming from a man’s perspective, it’s kind of like being on thin ice – you’re not really sure what to say, and it doesn’t lead into an argument or a fight, because there have been certain situations where I have asked, ‘This is happening, so what do you want me to do’, and maybe I shouldn’t have asked, I should’ve just understood that it’s alright, but I was just being a gentleman, so to speak, ‘Oh, do you think it’s a bad idea’, and then it just kind of goes away from it. So I’ve realised that just you know keeping shut is a pretty good option.

Jeremy (man, 34, mixed FG): Absolutely, I’m someone, like the previous speakers, I’m someone who believes in, you know, affirmative consent, not just taking your clothes off so that magically means ‘yes, I’m keen for it’. I’ve been in a situation where I’ve regularly asked someone are they having a good time, you know, ‘is this okay’, ‘is this okay’, and be told, ‘No, you’ve ruined the moment’, which I found quite perplexing as someone who believes strongly in making sure there’s always consent.

Here, participants highlighted prioritising the sexual outcome over engaging good sexual consent and sexual communication practices.

These contradictions were echoed in conversations concerning the vignette of Lucas and Kathy (Appendix A: Vignette C), where Kathy feels guilty about wanting sex more frequently and Lucas obliging to her request. Some participants indicated that it was ultimately Kathy’s issue for wanting more sex, and that it was up to her to solve the problem, which included adhering to the wishes of the partner who wanted it less:

Nate (man, 31, mixed FG): If you really like the person, then you should, like— within two people [when] there is disagreement, we should always go with the one who’s wanting the lower end. So for example if you really, if Kathy really wants to have a long-term relationship with Lucas, probably be with him forever, then because Lucas is on the lower end, like he just wants it once or twice, so Kathy needs to compromise.

Julie (woman, 30, single FG): I couldn’t continue to engage in sex with Lucas if he wasn’t down as well. So at the end of the day for me it is a Kathy problem.

In these discussions, there is a stigmatising of a higher sex drive, with the one wanting it more having to compromise with accepting less. Yet while participants highlighted this, others noted lived experiences of this situation that did not play out in this way, whereby they did engage in sex more frequently to please a partner’s higher sex drive:

Slater (man, 23, mixed FG): I mean, I kind of have personal first-hand experience of this one where I was okay with maybe, like, twice a week, at most three times a week, but she was, she said like she would prefer it every day if she could. And there was a mismatch of libido, I suppose, at the time. And I suppose the way of navigating it we did was that even if I wasn’t in the mood to have stuff done to me, I was okay, like, doing stuff to her.

Mary (woman, 19, mixed FG): I know I deal with chronic fatigue but I’m in the age group where everyone’s sort of on a high, and I’m like, you know, maybe I can help, and I’m happy to help in ways where I might not be at a full energy capacity.

In these responses, discrepancies emerged in which good practice calls for all individuals involved in a sexual encounter to be enthusiastic, whereas in these examples, sexual interest was ambivalent or unwanted, but participants engaged in activities to support their partners’ needs. Crucially, participants underscored the significance of the relationship, suggesting that they might not derive immediate satisfaction from the sexual interaction, but they do so within the larger framework of the relationship. Consequently, consent for sexual encounters was not considered in isolation but is assessed within the entirety of the relationship dynamic.

Discussion

The findings suggest that participants had adequate knowledge of good practices for sexual communication and consent, but this knowledge did not always align with their current experiences in sexual encounters or their perceptions of how characters in the vignettes navigate such situations. Gender socialisation and gendered power dynamics continue to play significant roles in how participants navigate encounters for themselves or believe others should. As a result, responsibility for procuring sexual consent or initiating conversations about consent continues to rest on men, while women continue to be framed as providers of consent or gatekeepers to sexual activity. This is compounded with notions that men are more likely to be rational and logical in sexual situations than women, and continues to frame women as lacking agency, more likely to be vulnerable to sexual consent violations, and less reliable in terms of their capacity to confidently say yes or no. Alongside this, participants noted differences in how the characters should respond, whereby the men in scenarios were expected to check in with a more basic “is this okay” while women were expected to not only manage their own and their partners’ feelings but be aware of these feelings prior to encounters.

While a focus on gender equity is an important consideration, especially concerning the socialisation that occurs around sex and often leaves women to experience sexual consent violations and other forms of violence, there is a double bind. Men continue to be framed as having, or needing to hold, power in sexual situations (Jeffrey, 2022). In this awareness of power and its impact on women, it may certainly support more pleasurable sexual encounters that focus on women’s needs and desires. However, this also means that power continues to remain in men’s hands, reaffirming as opposed to challenging the gendered dynamics within sexual situations (Gilbert, 2018). This then means that women either continue to be framed as lacking agency and capacity to negotiate sexual situations or are inherently vulnerable in sexual scenarios. In shifting to a mindset in which both parties are equally responsible for sexual communication and sexual consent, this still leaves the question of who is responsible for initiating the first and/or subsequent conversations. If shifted to women as responsible for initiating, there are several important considerations that make this difficult. First, it adds to the already quite overloaded forms of mental and emotional labour placed upon women apparent in several other spaces when it comes to relationship dynamics with men (i.e. the household and childrearing; see Santhosh et al., 2020). Second, it assumes that women have a strong awareness of what they want and desire in sexual situations, which as Angel (2021) and others have noted, is often not the case due to broader stigmatising narratives around women’s sexuality. Third, it also assumes a level of safety that does not necessarily exist, considering that many women have tried to negotiate sexual communication and sexual consent, only to be assaulted regardless of these attempts (Jeffrey, 2022).

Alongside the complexities of gender, findings from this research also noted competing tensions between what participants felt were appropriate assumptions that could be made in given situations against always needing more context about vignette situations. Participants noted “universal knowns” that should be engaged when entering sexual situations, particularly around what might be considered normative or unusual sexual activities. Yet universal meanings and understandings can be varied due to a host of factors including language differences, upbringing, education, and experiences. Even sexual activities and how they look or feel may vary depending on the person. This is in stark contrast to participants expressing a need for much more information about each vignette, communicating that making assumptions was not adequate.

This also was apparent in their lived experiences, in which it became obvious that knowledge of good practice does not necessarily equate to actual practice. Instead, participants highlighted a diverse range of variables that resulted in different decisions when they themselves experienced similar situations. For some, this meant that multiple similar situations had vastly different outcomes due to those different variables. It can be extremely difficult or potentially impossible to account for all potential factors and variables in a person’s life experience that can be readily captured in a vignette. This has implications for supporting education and health promotion interventions around how to navigate sexual communication and sexual consent, as discussed below.

The gendered make-up of the focus groups may result in different ways of engaging in the discussion. For example, participants in the single-gender focus groups with all women may have felt safer to express themselves and their experiences in comparison to women in mixed-gender groups where men were present. Another consideration is that the men in the focus groups with women may have responded differently in an all-men group, or may have purposely said certain things that would be in alignment with women’s arguments and viewpoints as opposed to their own thoughts and beliefs. While this could be the case, it is important to note that despite this, the findings highlight that participants understand and are able to articulate what good sexual consent practices are meant to look like, and recognise where they may or may not enact it.

Social Policy and Practice Implications

Starting from April 2022, the Australian educational system has taken significant steps to incorporate comprehensive sexual consent education into both primary and secondary school curricula. This move was prompted by longstanding instances where cisgender women have encountered various forms of consent-related challenges and sexual violence, even within the confines of primary and secondary educational institutions. Australia has implemented various national strategies and frameworks, such as the National Men’s Health Strategy (2020–2030), the National Women’s Health Strategy (2020–2030), the National Plan to End Violence against Women and Children (2022–2032), and the Fourth National STI Strategy (2018–2022), all of which emphasise promoting healthy and equitable gender relationships.

Regarding the ongoing debate over verbal versus non-verbal consent, the concept of affirmative consent has gained prominence in Australia, notably integrated into state-based laws and regulations, exemplified in North (2023). For instance, Victoria underwent a significant legal reform in March 2021, known as the Sexual Offences and Other Matters Act (Burgin, 2019), shifting from defining sexual assault based on the absence of a “no” to requiring a clear and enthusiastic “yes” throughout a sexual encounter. These changes aim to improve responses to sexual violence, bolster support for victims/survivors, and foster a cultural environment centred around enthusiastic and affirmative consent.

The findings of this research do not suggest a lack of understanding about what constitutes good sexual communication or sexual consent practices. Rather, they show that application of that knowledge is not neatly applied in real-world sexual situations. Sexual scenarios can be quite unique and individual, and much context is required to make an evaluation of whether those involved enacted sexual consent practices that could minimise harm. Participants were knowledgeable about what constitutes contemporary good practice, but when presented with a vignette, they required unknown details to make their decisions about what the characters should do, reflected different practices regarding what they would do or have done, or fell back on longstanding gendered expectations. This is not to suggest that education about sexual communication and sexual consent is not necessary or failing. Rather, there is a significant gap between knowledge and practical application of that knowledge. This echoes concerns about sexual health promotion and education, whereby knowledge is not translating into practice (Arlinghaus & Johnston, 2018). While we do not have an answer on how to neatly solve this complex issue, we do have three suggestions on ways to get closer to bridging that gap.

We suggest that education and health promotion initiatives are developed based on a clear understanding of how existing education in this area is used and translates into practice. Advocating for education without this understanding may not be as effective an endeavour as intended. This is particularly important considering that relationships and sexuality education (RSE) continues to be hotly contested and challenged across Australia, with pushes for comprehensive RSE often experiencing backlash, alongside significant difficulties in consistent implementation due to lack of training or resourcing (Quinlivan, 2018). Being able to teach effective sexual communication and sexual consent also, as we argue, requires more engagement with concepts such as how to have sex and discussions of pleasure, topics that are generally considered taboo or inappropriate (Darnell, 2020). This would require substantial political and social support.

Second, we suggest that vignettes should be used often in education to support learning activities. In the case of sexual communication and sexual consent, we note that a consideration of vignettes as a tool for exploring the complexity of sexual relations could be useful alongside their use in exploring whether a scenario is consensual. We advocate for the use of vignettes that unpacks ambiguities within sexual situations and supports the development of emotional and communicational skills to navigate those uncertainties. They should focus on not just whether a situation is indicative of consent, or what approach is right or wrong, but rather, what the characters could potentially do to navigate the uncertain situation at hand, what might be some unknown considerations that pop up (i.e. the variables that could be at play), and what challenges may arise in attempting to engage good practice.

Our last suggestion, which broaches a much larger and more complex issue, is that a broader, whole-of-society approach to thinking about sexual communication and sexual consent is needed. As noted earlier, the increase in sexual communication and sexual consent education has not necessarily translated into fewer incidents of sexual violence (Jeffrey, 2022; Pascoe, 2022). Other studies have found that for men in particular, awareness of what constitutes sexual consent is quite good, suggesting that the issue is not necessarily a lack of education about what sexual consent is so much as it is about entitlement to women’s bodies, and broader denigration of women in society across a variety of spaces (i.e. reproductive health) that continues to support men in perpetuating sexual violence (Beres et al., 2019). Alongside this, research has suggested that the lack of social, legal, and political support for women to engage in their sexuality safely, alongside the significant shaming and stigmatising that occurs if they do, means that it can be remarkably challenging for women to understand, and then effectively communicate, what they may want or desire sexually (Angel, 2021).

The reality is that everyday culture alongside larger social, political, and legal institutions continues, in a variety of ways, to devalue and/or oppress women (e.g. denial of bodily autonomy, slut-shaming, and misogyny and sexism in workplace environments among many others), which certainly has a flow-on effect for heterosexual relations. In the gendered violence prevention space, a whole-of-society approach has been deemed necessary to effectively address family, domestic, and intimate partner violence, and gendered transformative approaches are recognised as being needed at the forefront (Casey et al., 2018). This needs to be echoed in education and health promotion on sexual communication and sexual consent.

Conclusion

We note that the efficacy of educational and health promotion approaches to topics such as sexual communication and sexual consent may be limited. That is, teaching young people how to say yes and no, how to read verbal and non-verbal cues, and what is or is not consensual cannot be relied on to solve or work towards solving the issue of sexual consent violations and associated sexual violence. This is not to suggest that these forms of knowledge are not helpful; they certainly are. The efficacy of educational and health promotion approaches to topics such as sexual consent presumes that sexual encounters are always rational, linear, and two-dimensional, and follow simple scripts. But as our research and other research have already suggested, this is often not the case. Sexual encounters can include complex layers of emotions and experiences, shaped by culture, religion, and other intersecting factors, and can be embedded with a mix of shame, pleasure, joy, uncertainty, fear, and anxiety (Angelides, 2019). People may make decisions based on a combination of known and unknown variables in their encounters. Having a deeper understanding of how these decisions are made is necessary to develop education and other resources that can support individuals in navigating complex sexual situations.