The treatment of sex, ancillary to all this romance, also meets specific fantasy needs. The people who watch the soaps are not old-fashioned or naive; they know as much as anyone about new sexual lifestyles, erotic marriage manuals and casual sex. But this doesn't stop them from watching soap operas that romanticize, or minimize sexuality. Most soap operas are sexually unrealistic. They appeal to the still-present need in most of us to see sex the way our grandparents did—which means with eyes half closed. This has little to do with actual lifestyles, or the stimulation viewers might seek from other media.
Soaps differ in the amount of sexual activity they can show. But the audience needs that are played to are pretty constant. There is no noncommital sex, no hip sex, no sex for sex's sake (a striking difference from other popular media). There is no raunchy fun sex on the traditional shows (and even on the newer shows it's left to the unsympathetic characters). Sex is not usually a motive for romance; nor does romance necessarily lead to a sexual relationship. (If it leads to anything, it leads to marriage or endless frustration in pursuit of marriage.) Of course, as the illegitimate birth rate indicates, there's a fair amount of sex anyway. But here again, the portrayal is in line with what we have tended to see as the feminine romantic fantasy. There are no realistic physical details, no discussion of the act, and no preparation for its consequences.
Though some passion is generally indicated, it is not a matter of importance whether or not intercourse took place. A kind of wishful womanly ambiguity surrounds the actual events. (And writers feel that ambiguity leaves more options in the direction of the story, for example, possibilities like, "I'm giving him up before it gets too serious," or "I'm pregnant.") Certainly sex is not confronted as an issue prior to the act. Mature adults rarely concern themselves with matters of contraception. All this offends the critics, who point to the unrealistically high incidence of surprise pregnancies on the soaps. Yet this conforms to the old-fashioned need we sometimes have to believe that sex is naturally romantic and magic—not something we anticipate with diaphragms, not something we work at, or for that matter, have fun at.
Soap operas argue that love and sex are mostly a verbal phenomenon. (There is some evidence that this is true—that for women, words really are the greatest turn on. No mind: this is another area in which soaps are said to be unrealistic, hence offensive.) Dr. Dan Stewart (As the World Turns) confesses to Kim Dixon that he loves her before he's even kissed her. Ruth Martin (All My Children), though soundly married, suddenly inspires articulate declarations of love. Cupid's arrow seems to strike most characters in the tongue. Words count more than any action. People are obsessed with hearing them.
Men, who tend on the soaps to be insecure, will say things like, "I want to hear that you love me," which is apparently what the audience also wants. Men will make exquisite differentiations between the love they feel for one woman as compared to another, or for the same woman at different times. Especially on older soaps, a great deal of time is consumed by characters merely deciding whether or not to express their feelings. All this caters to the feminine need to hear words, words, words of love from a male population seldom so articulate in this or any other area of human relationships. The emphasis on emotional language, and the minimization of physical or casual sex are conventions one can easily ridicule. But they fulfill fantasy needs not met by other contemporary forms.
The same might be said about conventions surrounding the presentation of children. Many critics have complained that there are only cute and mysteriously born infants, and teenage children— that "overnight they turn into voting age monsters." (Time Magazine). This is usually explained as a practical ploy on the part of directors, or idiocy on the part of the writers. No attention has been given to the needs which this unrealistic picture satisfies. Bearing children can be romantic, and having grown children requires little time. But in the intervening years, ages 1-15, parenthood is time- consuming and often difficult. (Parents never fantasize about those years; they never wonder what it will be like when their child is eight, but there is endless speculation about what a child will be "when he grows up.") Soaps simply translate the parental fantasy into drama.
Children are brought home from the hospital, are sent upstairs, and then are either forgotten or re-emerge a couple of years later fully grown. There are some exceptions: children will occasionally appear as dramatic devices, that is to complicate romantic or domestic situations. Six-year-old Phil Tyier (All My Children) was always mentioned as the main obstacle to Tara and Phil's marriage (though, conveniently, he tended to spend most of his time at "Timmy's"). Young Tommy Hobart (General Hospital) had to be shielded from the alcoholic rampages of his stepfather. And children like Betsy Stewart (As the World Turns) do sometimes help place in perspective the love affairs of their parents. But these cases are exceptions. For the most part, school-age children are neither seen nor heard. They represent objective responsibilities and the audience in fantasy wants to be free of them.
As we can see, romance is the foundation and rationale of the soap opera storyline. It explains the absence of children, the absence of birth control, and a number of other unrealistic soap tendencies. However, the way in which a story will be worked out—what will happen from day to day—is another matter. There are things that almost never happen either because of convention (no lesbianism) or because of the upper middle-class environment of the soap opera (few poor blacks). On the other hand, there are a number of incidents that always seem to happen. Among them are some of the genre's least realistic moments—some of the material that best satisfies audience fantasies in the afternoon.
One typical and unbelievable incident is the hero's discovery of a new and unsuspected parent. On shows like Days of Our Lives, there is hardly a character who has not had (or cannot look forward to) this unusual experience. In the soaps, people are not stuck with their parents. They can find new ones. If this seldom happens in real life, it does happen in fantasy. Many psychologists have pointed out that the identity crisis typically involves fantasies of acquiring new sets of parents. The teenage child imagines that his parents are not his real parents. Perhaps, as in a fairy tale, they are a king and queen, a politician or film star. Or conversely, they may be villains. The possibilities are at once exciting and fearsome.
In the real world, parents losing track of their children (or vice versa) is hardly an everyday event. Losing both parents "seems like carelessness," says the literal-minded Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde's "The Importance of Being Earnest." But on the soaps losing track of one or both parents is a way of life. People regularly discover that they have new or additional fathers and mothers. Secrets of infidelity and illegitimacy lie smoldering for years only to be abruptly revealed by a jealous rival or a blood test taken at a fatal moment. Sometimes the character finds out that the new parent is worse than the original one; other times better. The results are unimportant. The fact that the fantasy is satisfying keeps it fresh from year to year, and show to show.
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