Why can't I write about sex?
Written by Sia Mehta
roses
On writing uncomfortably and trying to be brave, Substack, and sex. Conceived on a plane from Bangkok to Tokyo, edited on the flight back to New York.
My favourite pieces to read are about love and sex and the intersection of the two. Hands down. So why can’t I write about those things?
I’m enamoured with the way in which other authors — well-known, up-and-coming, ancient, or otherwise — are able to write about sex and the sheer eroticism of it; sex that feels not like porn but like poetry or cinema or fantasy. When I find a piece of writing that captures the beauty and overwhelmingness that come with sex, or with being in love with someone, I read it start to finish and never once feel dragged along. This dragged-along-ness, this happens sometimes with more scholarly essays and manifestos of girlhood on platforms like Substack (I recognize the irony of me saying that in this piece); which is not to say that they are bad, uninteresting, or overwritten. They are good, and interesting, and usually just as long as they need to be, give or take. They just don’t sell like sex.
boyfriend and butterfly
The pieces about sex eat at me, and in return, I feel driven to eat them right back. I have to consume those pieces; hang on to their every word, feel the rush that the author describes, close my eyes and think back to people I have loved, past and present. I picture the face of the boy that I love now. These words — maybe they’re vessels, maybe they’re stand-ins for when we’re apart, maybe both — open my brain up to the things I really want to think about. The writing is like almond oil; moistening, softening, and creating space for my own most internal thoughts to take over. My imagination rushes in that moment.
Sometimes, a piece about sex and love does the opposite of evoke such positive enrapture in me. It’s not uncommon for these pieces to be about the ways that sex and love have caused the authors, or their characters, immense pain. Pain is, after all, one of the most lasting stains of love and all things physical. Grief, memory, bodily and mental scarring: these things hurt because there was a time when they brought so much joy, a joy so intense that we as a human race still don’t have a collective word for it, a name that properly describes the feeling of being in love and having sex with someone who you are in love with.
I say it now: if you are reading this, and you have experienced sex with someone you are in love with, I know that you are feeling exactly what I am feeling as I type this. A clap of thunder somewhere deep within you, a rustle in your stomach, a tremor, a wave. A flashing image or a sound. All of it at once. Overwhelming, pushing, sinking. It doesn’t have a name. When the wave is gone and effectively lost, when heartbreak occurs in its purest form, all that beauty — for a while, but not always forever — becomes so, so sharp. Knife to the heart. A pang, a physical pressure. It’s perhaps one of the truest pains a human being can experience. I never believed that, though, until I experienced it myself. I remember it now as a weight; maybe a cold animal, a wet invisible thing on my shoulders, taking root; weight that sinks you into the bed or to the floor and tries to collapse you into something small. That pain.
All this to say that the pieces I read about sex and love in the negative sense do not, somehow, deter me from their beauty. I read them with just as much gusto as I would a piece about the happiest couple on Earth. I’m not even sure why. Why am I so inextricably attracted to these subjects? Is it just natural, normal? If so, why hasn’t anyone else said something about it? It makes me feel crazy, the way that romance and eroticism, good or bad, tug at me so strongly. Is it simply that I am young, and sex and romantic love are things that I discovered only relatively recently, and I still find myself very curious about their nature? Maybe it’s because I’ve rarely felt feelings more intense than those brought on by romance. But even that is untrue. I remember grief, I remember death, I remember immense depression and ideation, I remember illness, I remember betrayal. These things are equally intense and equally sedative to the heart.
So then. If I desire to read about love and sex so badly — and I really, really do — why is it that I can’t bring myself to write about them? It doesn’t make sense to me, except for that the very thought of writing about sex and then posting it publicly for others to read makes me feel sick to my stomach. If this is published and you’re reading this, I’m probably a bit nauseous.
It’s fear, I think. It has to be fear. Fear of judgement, fear of ridicule, fear of disgust. Yes, it must be those things. But judgement, ridicule, disgust from who? Who, by all likelihood, desires in this creative space to bring me down? There’s a reason why Substack, for example, is dominated by women and queer people; the white feminist and empty philosophy discourse aside, it’s because women on Substack, artistic and learning-oriented, tend to support one another and build each other up. I find it rare to see hatred exchanged in young, creative and literary spaces— even disapproval, indifference and distaste are hardly found. This, therefore, does not make sense in the context of my fear of negative reaction. I don’t really think that something I write and manage to release would receive an overly negative reaction, not by any virtue of my skill, but because this proverbial space just doesn’t work like that. At worst, a piece wouldn’t be well-liked or viewed – but that is not something that I fear.
So then what is it? My audience (if I can use that term for readers that I rather lack)? Again, I don’t think so. I would die of embarrassment if my mother were to read any writing of mine that is sexual in nature, but my mom has no idea what I write about or where it is posted or published, and even if she did she has taken a vow of social media and internet chastity and would probably not see it anyway. Other family members don’t know much about my writing either: my brother, aunts, uncles, cousins. There’s really not a high possibility of my family finding my page and my writing. My last name isn’t attached to my Substack account (or my Instagram, for that matter), save for my email address, which is held privately. This is completely on purpose. Were you to look up my full name, this page would not come up. No last name equals plausible deniability.
Furthermore, I don’t even have many of my real-life friends as followers on Substack, which is something I also did on purpose; when I downloaded the app I turned off the ability of my account to automatically connect to my iPhone contacts. I wanted to be able to write without abandon, fear of judgement, or over-disclosure. Somehow this didn’t really work and friends can find and follow my account, and I’m still trying to figure out whether I should fix it or just get over myself and let it be. So far only friends that I trust have followed me; when this happens I am of course, pleased, and follow them back. However, it makes me worry about whether others who have my phone number in their contacts can find me: acquaintances, colleagues…. enemies of the highest order (ex-boyfriends). So perhaps this is one blockade to my ability to write about sex and love. I want to be able to control who can read my most vulnerable thoughts.
the museum of sex (new york, ny)
Strangers are excellent, strangers are welcome! Internet friends are celebrated, for the only reason we are friends is the fact that I’ve heard their vulnerabilities in writing, too. Real-life friends are usually an equal blessing. But everyone else, the place between friends and strangers… no. No, that’s too much. You aren’t allowed to know me like that.
I wondered, briefly, if my concern with writing about sex was that it might turn out sounding like erotica. Overly sexual, bimbo-tastic and horny in the cheapest ways. I very quickly decided that this would not be the case. Some of my favourite young writers write about sex often — Ashley Guzman, Füsun Aydın — and it is never over the top or graphic. Rather, it is writing that comes from the soul, sex that is discussed not because it feels good but because it means something. These authors write about sex in the way that one might imagine to be a piece of gospel. Heavy, in motion, full of quiet sound, in immense beauty. I love their writing, not only because it is excellent but also because it reminds me of the way that I think, and therefore the way that I write. So the possibility of over-sexualization is, therefore, a nonissue.
Most other subjects that I truly love to read about I can also write about. Mothers and daughters — give it to me. I got you there. I could write about my mom and our complications and my endless love for her across the world and back. Fathers and their children — no, can’t relate, can’t understand at all, but I can write about the lack of a father and the empty space it brings. I can write about that quite aptly, and I do so. Friendships broken and unbroken; yes, there are thousands of things I have to say and thoughts I want to share, stories I want to tell and people I will turn into characters. Image, womanhood, race, brownness, ancestry, class, skin, body, eating, childhood, substances, mental illness and health — I can, and will, publicly write about these things as long as I know how to think.
There are only two other things that I haven’t gained the courage to write about, and I’m not sure I ever will. At the very least it will take years. They are so fresh and so painful that I cannot bear to name their subjects outside of my head. They are too dangerous and awful and unspeakable, evocative of somebody that I don’t believe myself to be. Victimhood is complicated. If you are a certain type of person with a certain history of life experiences you will probably understand what I’m talking about, and you probably already know what I mean. It’s just a gut feeling. Intuition. But for now, this is my first foray into writing uncomfortably, and being fucking brave with my words.
Alright. Be brave. So. It’s not my audience. It’s not a fear of criticism. It’s not even really a fear of oversharing, once I take care of that contact-synching thing. It’s not a lack of passion or interest or desire or thought or drive — but we knew that already.
After contemplating — largely through writing this, because I often feel as though I don’t know my thoughts until I write them down — I feel like the problem might just be me. I am the one holding the door closed. I am the one slapping my hand over my mouth, tying my fingers, swatting at my ears. Pulling out my eyebrows over perception. But why?
I think I got it.
mouth sequins skin. the hat reads I <3 JESUS.
It’s shame, guys. Classic, reliable shame. If I write about sex, I lay claim to being a sexual human being. I admit that yes, I have sex and yes, I like sex. God. It sounds so awful, doesn’t it? The declaration? I am a grown up person. I know that it’s okay and it’s acceptable and it’s normal and even expected to have sex, and even to have it often. But why does it make me feel so gross? Why does it feel like something that should never be spoken about publicly or proclaimed or even lightly mentioned? To really talk about sex publicly makes me feel disgusted. To recognize outside of my own brain and my close friends that sex is a part of my life makes me feel a deep shame. Like a slut. To write about sex would be to admit that I am something to be ashamed about, and something to regard with distaste.
This, of course, has a lot to do with the way the world likes to treat women who admit to being sexually active. Slut shaming. Madonna vs. whore – the Virgin Mary or the sexual demon and nothing in-between. If you haven’t heard of the Madonna-whore complex, I highly suggest you look into it; an essential piece of feminist theory and hallmark of a complicated misogyny, you may never again look at men the same way. It is a complex perpetuated by heterosexual males, which places women into two categories: the“ Madonna,” a virgin who is virtuous and pure, or a“ Whore,” a woman who is sexual and promiscuous. A tale as old as time.
Even women who don’t admit to being sexual, and simply dress“ provocatively”, or“ revealing”, suffer these consequences. This has been a subject since humans learned how to record history, and before that, and it will continue to be. It is the undertone of all of my feelings about sex in ways that I’m not sure I will ever escape. But that, we all know. I’m not saying anything new there. It’s honestly not very interesting to talk about anymore, due to the level of which we are all aware. And furthermore, that’s not quite what this piece is about.
The shame, the concept of others regarding me with distaste — they’re probably not true at all. Those probably aren’t things that people, other than myself, would think. Because, again, I read about sex all the time. And I never feel disgusted by the people who are writing. Rather, I feel in awe; I respect them. I regard their bravery and candor with the eye of a girl who grew up reading magical novels and fanfiction.net. Which is to say, with massive admiration, feverish hunger, and deep engagement. So why can’t I turn that eye on myself?
stacking seashells on my boyfriend’s foot while he waits patiently
Why can’t I look at my own experiences and relationships et al, many of which I would probably benefit greatly from writing about, and believe that the story there, too, is worthy of respect and interest? I know, deep down, that to write about sex would not make me disgusting. It would not make me less than, it would not make me the subject of (outward) ridicule. But it’s highly possible that to do so would bring me such extreme anxiety and self-doubt that it wouldn’t even be worth doing. It seems that I still have a lot of bravery to be gleaned, and a lot of confidence to be coddled.
The worst part of all of this is that I have to admit the following: I really think it comes down to body. It truly does come down to my physical presence and the way that I feel about every square inch of my skin and flesh. I have struggled with my body image, weight and appearance for so long — for every waking moment since I was ten years old, the classic (normal? no. expected? well, yeah) experience of a girl. I have struggled so much that when I think about sex and relate it to my physical body and all of the things I dislike about it (for sex is a physical experience at the end of the day, that which you need a physical body to enact and participate in), I think to myself: No, this body is not allowed to experience that kind of pleasure. No, not in the way that better, more polished and toned and respectable bodies can. No, it’s not right. This body doesn’t deserve it. This body is too ugly to be a sexual thing.
I know that’s complete and utter mind trash and idiocy and none of it is true. I know that. But I also don’t know that. It remains the gut reaction I often have when I imagine myself as a sexual being, which extends itself completely into writing about sex and the very notion of it, the very possibility.
“It remains the gut reaction I often have when I imagine myself as a sexual being, which extends itself completely into writing about sex and the very notion of it, the very possibility.”
This is not something that I can improve upon overnight. It will take practice and commitment to healthy thinking. It will take a willingness to jump the walls that one’s brain puts up to shut one out of vulnerability and free thought, to base those things in self-hatred and doubt. I don’t know if I’m even capable of that, and I don’t know how to start imagining myself as able. But for now, I think I just want to be able to write about sex and romance and love and being in love for myself — writing that doesn’t have to go anywhere, writing that can live in my laptop and replay itself in my head until the day comes that I feel ready to share it, if at all.
No one is begging me to share this writing. I am just another ex-teenage girl living in New York City and doing mostly jack-shit with my time, with no career or standing to speak of. It’s more so that, were I courageous enough, I would love to share it. I would love to be able to show others and friends how I write when I am completely honest with myself and in love with the fact that I have been, and am, in love. I would honour the ability to share writing where some of my deepest, scariest pain has taken place, the physical and the mental. I want to escape the box I’ve placed myself in that tells me I cannot share what is most personal, even though it’s most important to me and therefore most worthy of sharing.
I do, however, believe that this piece right here is a step in the right direction. This piece is an opportunity for me to better understand myself and my anxieties, in order to overcome them. It’s a path into what I hope will be a bigger world of honesty with myself. I have been honest in my writing here before, and it’s the writing I’m proudest to have created. I don’t want to diminish my pride. Writing is the greatest gift I have ever given myself — a gift that opens worlds, freezes time, travels unabashedly, gives texture to dreams, and loves loudly. To limit and censor myself would be a disservice to who I am, and who I will continue to be.
So. Maybe I’ll write about sex and love more often, with more freedom, and more truth. But at least now I know why I find it so difficult, and best of all, I know what I have to overcome.
