The Economics of Spanish Sex

Deviance’s foreign correspondent considers the legislative and financial forces behind Barcelona’s sexual permissiveness

Feature by Kate Pasola | 13 Jan 2014

There's something about public displays of affection that leaves me feeling profoundly repulsed. It's an irrational and confusing form of bitterness, and not an attitude I've always held. A few years ago, I found myself in that sickly, gut-bending type of relationship exclusively reserved for hormone-saturated adolescents. Uninhibited public affection and appropriation of cinematic romance occupied my mid-to-late teens, until the novelty wore off and monotony crept in. Over time I became a subscriber to more British, grown-up standards – a cynical Scroogieness leaves me wanting to drag public snoggers off one another and tell them to wipe the saliva off their faces. Call me a hypocrite, call me a convert, but these days I can´t stomach public loving.

My impatience was in superb company in the UK, but moving to Barcelona was a completely different story: women perched backwards on their boyfriends' handlebars; pelvic grinding on the night bus; dreadlocked couples piggy-backing by the Montjuïc fountains... this place is underdog competitor for the most love-drenched city in the word. Barcelona's tolerance, diversity and eroticism has attracted bohemian adventurers for centuries, and it's now a European hub of sexiness and liberation. Midway down the main street, La Rambla, is the Museu de l’Eròtica – Spain's only erotic museum – which exhibits the progression of human sexuality since the beginning of time. From phallic art to Oriental eroticism and even its own 'Erotic Garden,' the museum has curated a dynamic collection of the truly unexpected. It even gives patrons a sneaky peak into the porn stash commissioned by King Alfonso XIII – quite the voyeuristic afternoon activity.

The funny thing is, the museum – along with Barcelona's dozens of other sex shops – is sleaze-free and matter-of-fact. It's not a case of slinking down an alleyway and into the glow of red light bulbs – it's situated directly across from the infamous Boqueria fruit market, and at peak times a cheery Marilyn Monroe waves from the balconies to bemused tourists. Sex isn’t a silent, sinful burden: it's everywhere, it's normal, and it's up for grabs for whoever fancies it.

Unsurprisingly, it seems like this destigmatisation of casual sex, kinkiness, and public expression of attraction is all wrapped up in economics. Prof. Nezih Guner at Barcelona Graduate School of Economics has identified a strong link between the advances of contraception and a rise in pre-marital sex. In his words, as quoted in a 2010 GSE article: 'We can look at the decision to engage in premarital sex as a cost-benefit analysis. The joy of the sexual experience must be weighed against the cost – the possibility of an out-of-wedlock birth that could impact a young woman’s prospects.'

Parents, churches and the state often bear the financial burden of non-wedlock children, so it makes sense that, as contraceptives have improved, those most concerned about costly accidental pregnancies have relaxed a bit – and as a consequence are less compelled to indoctrinate children against casual sex. This has wonderful implications for our ability to halt the brimstone of prejudice that sexually liberated women usually endure. Take away the financial incentive from slut-shaming, and perhaps we'll also remove its sting.

Slightly problematic, though, is the fact that the newly elected conservative Spanish government has taken a bit of a U-turn when it comes to contraception. Progress was being made in 2011 towards the end of Prime Minister Zapatero's leadership. A fan of LGBT rights, equal marriage, abortion-law reform and fighting gender-based violence, Zapatero was making efforts to widen access to state-funded and subsidised contraception. However, Spain's current right-wing government slammed a lid on this progress, and it can now cost a woman anywhere from €12-15 per month to protect herself using oral contraception. Pretty steep, especially as, according to the European Commission, 55% of Spanish young people are unemployed.

So what's the alternative? A pharmacist I spoke with told me the only state-funded contraceptive left, Diane 35, is a controversial option. Because of a whole host of health risks, it isn't even acknowledged as a safe form of contraception in many parts of Europe. He explained: “I discourage use of Diane 35 – it's very unsafe. But people cannot pay for monthly contraception. I regularly have young women coming into the shop, crying for me to give them free emergency contraception. I lose a lot of money because I cannot bring myself to refuse them.” The morning after pill costs between €18-25, and the pharmacist disperses his monthly stock so rapidly that there is often no option but to close his shop early at weekends. Otherwise, he's left at the mercy of his own conscience, rooting deeper into his own income to provide the protection that should be the responsibility of the state.

If Guner is right about the merits of accessible effective contraception, then it seems like charging young women €150 a year to protect themselves is a gigantic leap in the wrong direction. I'm still shell-shocked from the amount of sexiness that's been chucked at me since my arrival here, and I continue to find my impulse to knock shared ice-creams out of the hands of dickhead couples difficult to manage. But there's no denying that this city cultivates a unique environment of diversity, freedom and tolerance – and if I'm prepared to give up my seat on the night bus to a pair of drunken tonsil-wrestlers, then I think something's got to give in the government too.