A Decolonized and Liberated Sexuality
Embracing the vulnerability of pursuing pleasure and enthusiastic consensual experiences.
IG @salem_afangidehSexuality is the space where a lot of us experience deeply colonial and patriarchal ideologies that equate morality with our desire to give and experience pleasure. It’s where careless judgments are often made about women who pursue and seek pleasure, and on men based on who they chose to pursue sexually. It’s where women are seen as subjects to be acted upon, only in a particular context, often only marriage. It’s a space where a lot of us experience shaming and traumas with no direction of what freedom and safety can feel like.
In the face of these pressures and socializations, when we are faced with connections where there is romantic and sexual chemistry, we may be reluctant to give ourselves the opportunity to lean into them with presence and vulnerability, to show up willing to learn and honor boundaries, and communicate specific intimacy needs. Sometimes women tend to approach those spaces with passivity, and skepticism. And men may approach such spaces with entitlement. How can we deepen authentic connection, share fulfilling intimacy, and expand our emotional intelligence by leaning into our sexuality with bravery, consent, and vulnerability?
My vision for a decolonized sexuality is one that centers and celebrates the pursuit of pleasure of men, women, and non-binary folks. A world that does not shame people for wanting to feel good or for who they want to engage sexually with. I envision a world with safe sexual contexts for all people willing to engage externally in sexual play. A world where solo sex is as respected as partnered sex, and seen as a valid and accepted way to engage in sexual play.
I have spent a lot of time thinking about sexuality both as a political exercise and as a personal exercise. I grew up in Calabar, Nigeria, in a fairly sexually conservative household in a community that was quite sexually charged. In Nigerian spaces, the Efik women of Calabar are known for their sexual openness and magnetism. Throughout my upbringing, women talked openly about their sexual experiences, and this had a profound impact on me. Being raised in that larger community served as a decolonized backdrop for learning sexuality even when the pressures of the Church and its own limiting beliefs about sexuality were being taught to me.
While I was quick with the sexual fantasies and on learning about sexuality, my own sexual coming of age was rather slow, which allowed me to develop a framework for free sexuality before engaging in a sexual context externally. I had my first crush at age 7, and felt my first real overwhelming desire to kiss someone when I was 20. I was in Ethiopia on the whirlwind trip that I affectionately refer to as my own “eat pray love” adventure. I had just spent a lovely day with a beautiful soul, and after I got back to my Airbnb, I fell unto my bed literally covered with glitter and sparkles from putting together gift bags for the event the previous day, unbothered by how much glitter was around me, deeply filled with desire. I was admittedly extremely confused by this level of deep desire. I was well-versed in having crushes, but the deep desire to be so intimately entwined with another human? That was a new level of desire for me. I leaned deeply into it, closed my eyes, and imagined what I thought it would feel like. I smiled deeply.
One perk of growing up in a fairly conservative Christian context was having the space to take as much time needed to grow into my sexuality without feeling the need or pressure to have certain sexual experiences at a certain time. Learning how to cultivate relationships where my sexuality was off the table served me well in knowing my boundaries and being able to name what I wanted. However, learning how to cultivate sexual energy and to not disassociate from myself as a sexual being was difficult.
A challenging part of growing up was being taught that my sexuality existed as a gift to be unwrapped on my wedding night. While growing up in the society and familial structure I was given, one of the tools I picked up on as a way to experience my own sexuality and stay true to what I knew to be true, was to welcome and observe desire without feeling the need to act on it. Which is why on that cloudy cool evening in Ethiopia, while laying on my bed and wishing I could run out of my airbnb and into the arms of my crush, I did not. I welcomed that desire, sat with it, and immersed myself in what it felt like to be that connected physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And then I closed my eyes, caressed my body, touched myself, orgasmed and went to sleep.
“...a way to heal and find safety again when my sexual boundaries were violated...”
A self-pleasure practice
Growing up within patriarchy and navigating one's sexuality is a very confusing thing. I was out here unpacking why female sexuality tends to be commercialized and yet also policed. Simultaneously understanding the power of sexuality, and yet seeing how rampant sexual abuse was felt really jarring. For me, self-pleasure served as a way to make sense of it all. It provided a way for me to connect with my body when I was taught to disassociate from it, a way to heal and find safety again when my sexual boundaries were violated, a way to figure out what pleasure was when nothing in life felt easy and familiar. Being committed to exploring my body -- spending time familiarizing myself with my desires and my own pleasure for years before sharing my pleasure -- was a big act of cultivating a healthful sexuality. My self-pleasure practice was the school in which I learnt self-trust, pleasure consciousness, and agency.
For most of that time, I felt more comfortable understanding sexuality and witnessing it than engaging with it with another person. While I did not engage externally through much of my teenage years, I frequently fantasized about sex. I immersed myself in romance novels and feminist literature. I knew about sexually liberated and empowered women, therefore casting a vision for what sexuality could like when it was free, safe, fun. As I look back on that time of my life with the critical lens of my adult self, I realize that I needed that space to know that I could create my own sexual rules -- to have a slow unfolding into an experience that wasn’t rushed. I’m grateful for the pace of that unfolding.
In contrast to my teenage years, and I like to say because of the space I gave myself as a teenager, I walked into my 20s with a sense of sexual curiosity, sexual readiness, and a deep confidence. I understood sexual energy and felt it when it was present with certain people. I felt enough agency to build my boundaries in ways that felt empowering. I felt comfortable walking through the world as a sexual being without the constant anxiety of trying to police my dressing. I felt empowered to know and understand my body -- all of her in the fullness of her being. I took boudoir photos, attended belly dancing classes, learned proper female anatomy from books and paid courses, developed a relationship with my gynecologist, learned what pleasure meant to me, and had conversations about my sexuality with people that felt safe, in ways that felt empowering.
“The vulnerability, intimacy, and power present in those encounters are some of the most transcendental things I’ve witnessed — even when they’ve been completely casual. ”
Shared sexual experiences
When I finally had my first kiss, It felt like I had spent a great deal of time cultivating a sense of sexual awareness and confidence within myself, for myself, and I was now ready to share my sexual space with someone. I felt ready, told my friends that I wanted it, and worked on a logical and strategic way to make it happen in a way that made me feel safe. It wasn’t magical. It wasn’t horrible. There was no desire for a relationship with the person I shared my first kiss with. We had an amazing date and it happened. Multiple times. It felt good. There was no shame in that. There hasn’t been shame present in any of my subsequent sexual experiences. While they’ve become more spontaneous and less strategic, the boldness and language to communicate exactly what I want and need has been there from the moment I chose to begin engaging. The courage to show up fully in the moment and be in the vulnerability of the moment. My intimate partners have respected my sexual boundaries. I’ve asked for and modeled enthusiastic consent. I’ve stopped things when I was not ready and communicated what I was not enjoying in real time. I’ve sought and encouraged feedback on how my partners were experiencing me in real time. The vulnerability, intimacy, and power present in those encounters are some of the most transcendental things I’ve witnessed — even when they’ve been completely casual.
At this present iteration of myself, it’s due to my experiences that I know the conditions and contexts I need to thrive as a sexual being. The people who are closest to me know those conditions as well, but I hesitate to share that with others as a blueprint or a road map for their own sexual journey. Sexuality is such a personal thing. We all have different desires, needs, unique contexts where we thrive. I learnt this from having honest and open sexuality enlightening conversations with my mom as an adult. She’s very different from me and needs a very particular context. Two women, one from the other, have contrasting ways of approaching sexuality -- this has taught me that no two people are alike in their sexual journey. In general, there are commonalities we all need: safety, pleasure, agency, and access to a well-rounded and adequate sexual education. However the details of how we choose to navigate our sexuality is an intimate process and all people deserve access to spaces where we can explore this without shame or fear.
In my own solo sex journey, my sharing sexual space with others, and from talking to my community about their own sexual experiences, my biggest lessons have been that my sexuality is mine before it is shared. That I have agency about what happens to and with my body. That I deserve safe access to pleasure. That my sexuality is not the most important thing about me and I am not defined by it. And that spending money on anatomically sound sexual education books written by women is one of the best investments I will make in my journey.
Lately I find myself wanting to hold my sexuality journey close to me. Not out of shame. Not out of regret or pride for what I have/have not done. But because we come to the table with such a wide array of sexual stories. It takes a lot of work to untangle the mess of sexuality we are given, and it is tempting to rely on “experts” to hand us a formula rather than do the work of unraveling and reconstructing our own sexual path. As a sexual being, I hope this narrative essay inspires you to trust your own process. To be grateful for your own growth. You are the expert of your own experience. You get to be on the frontlines of witnessing your own growth. Know that your timing is perfect for you! I want you to see sex as a space to play and a way to build deep vulnerability and trust first with yourself, and then with a partner. I want you to prioritize communication and consent. I want you to embrace a decolonized politic of pleasure in your own sexual liberation journey.