Trigger Warning: Rape
I have never been touched by a man. Not sexually. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not romantically.
When I say this, you might think, “Surely, you’ve had sex. You’ve had experiences, right?”, to which I’d answer, I have.
But the sex I was having didn’t touch me. Penises entered me, yes. I was penetrated, yes. But the emotional and psychological aspect of connection was always absent for me. I never felt seen or worshipped or beautiful with any of the men I laid down with. I can count on one hand how many dates I’ve been on: two. I can count on zero hands how many Black men were patient with me, despite me always being patient with them. I can count on zero hands how many times any Black man ever advocated for me and fought for me and my existence. I can count on both hands how many times I’ve been disposed of like trash by men, even my own father. All Black men. That makes it extremely hard for me to trust them. This was something I had to unpack in therapy. I always feel like a coon for saying this, but that is my truth. I do not trust them because my experiences had made me wary. That’s not my fault. I have yet to meet a nigga who shows me I can trust them. Again, that’s not my fault.
My sperm donor— The first man who was supposed to ever make sure I knew how to move with men and the first man who should’ve been there for me has not been in consistent touch with me since I was 18. And he lives ten minutes away from me. I always just waited for my dad to accept me and realize he was wrong and come back, but that’s never happened for me. So I sought validation in some dangerous spaces.
Let’s start with sex: I have a complicated relationship with sex and intimacy.
Huh?, some might think. Heauxsome Black Girl?
Let me clarify. I’ve been fucked before. I’ve had sex before. But I’ve never been touched. Touched as in, I love you. I want to make you feel good. I care about your pleasure. I will be patient with your body and your soul.
2025 was a complicated year for me. I came to terms with the fact that some of my experiences were rape. Some of my experiences were incredibly rushed. Many of my experiences were not truly something that I wanted to do. Many of my experiences consisted of men acting as if they wanted what I wanted just to get in my pants, which is another form of rape. I’m also autistic, which made me even more prone to men who were extremely predatory and wishy washy in their behavior with me. I couldn’t pick up on social cues and it had me out here in the wildest of situations with men that were borderline dangerous and risky. Because I didn’t want to be in victim mode and I was subconsciously in denial of not having the experiences I truly desired and dreamed of, I’d act as if I was enjoying myself. I’d act as if it was thebomb.com, because I wanted the man to feel good and I wanted to feel in control. In reality, I wasn’t.
I struggled with advocating for my body and my pleasure.
Where does this come from?
For one, I was raised in an extremely religious, conservative household. While cultured as far as the Arts and Black history, my parents held views about sex and dating and women that just screamed Republican. I was always the outcast because it just never aligned with my spirit.
Also, I never seen my mom be wined and dined by my father. I never seen them hug or kiss. I vividly remember them arguing all the time, her always crying and making sure his lunch was set for work the next day. I never seen my mom basking in her sensuality or caring for herself. I never seen my mom showing her figure off or anything. I never seen my mom be treated with care. She was always in survival mode. Conversations surrounding sex were, “Just don’t have it.” She never really talked to me about it. Masturbation was a dirty word. When she found out I was sexually active, that was a particularly traumatizing experience for me and a year I don’t really like remember. It was my senior year and she ruined that for me in every way possible. I don’t have any senior graduation pictures because I was so depressed from being slut shamed in my own household that I hid myself. Her blasting to the household that I was having sex and painting me to be something to be ashamed of. Almost like I was a Jezebel or something. I was punished, humiliated, and abused for having sex, which ultimately led to me moving out and into the home of someone who was cool at first, but over time became violent and emotionally volatile.
I was taught in more ways than one that I do not matter. So, I silenced myself.
I’ve had okay experiences, but I’ve never been touched. The sex I was having was surface level sex, never anything real or similar to spiritual ascension. Sex was rushed and I was never touched. There was plenty of sex with zero emotional connection. I couldn’t even relax or be cool because I never really knew the men I was dealing with. Are you having sex with someone else? Are you using me to get back at your ex (because yes, I did experience that)? Do you even really like me? I’ve had intellectual connections with men. I’ve had a friend type vibe with these men. But, I never emotionally connected with them. And what I’ve realized is that emotional connection, a sense of stability and security, love, time, effort, dates, and a spiritual connection are prerequisites to a man ever touching me.
I always wanted the kinda sex where I’m asked, “Do you want to do this?” “Does this feel good to you?” “I want everyone to hear you” “You’re so deserving of this” kinda sex, but I never really got it.
Men are often impatient and not willing to learn women’s bodies. They don’t ask questions. They expect you to be super wet with zero investment of time and energy. And perhaps, that works for plenty of women. But not me. I was new to learning about feminism and womanism and grew up around a time period where women were finally embracing sexuality and being participants in hook-up culture in a way previous generations of women weren’t really as open with. I loved that. But, it’s a tricky thing. You see, I lied to myself and tried to convince myself that casual sex could work for me, but time and time again I’d find myself wondering why I would put myself in situations where the sex was casual, when nothing about me gives off casual.
There’s an archetype of a woman, actually. Many call her The High Priestess. The Empress.
These women are women with very ancient souls. The kinda ancient that makes her stand out in today’s current landscape because of the levels of self awareness and introspection she has confronted in her own personal fire. These women usually help in jumpstarting other’s spiritual journeys, not because they are trying to, but because their mere presence forces one to face the ugly parts of themselves in the mirror that they tend to ignore. The High Priestess is extremely intuitive with a connection to Source (ancestors, spirit guides, deities, etc.) that cannot be duplicated. She knows things without tangible proof. She reads the energy of others. She was birthed into this world with ancient ancestral codes that usually are not revealed to her until Spirit finds her good and ready. They’re sensitive, these women. These women usually find it incredibly difficult to find their equal, as she’s craving something deeper. She’s craving something so ancient and tender, that today’s men just don’t satisfy her. Not sexually. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not intellectually. She doesn’t like superficiality and she’s not interested in status, finding value beyond her material world. To be in her presence would require vulnerability, consistency, real, raw conversations about the unknown and the human experience. She dances in front of her ancestor altar on Saturdays and sits within her ancestors’ warm embrace on Sunday mornings, reading Psalms and connecting.
This has actually always been me. But I felt the need to mask this side of me to be more palatable and perhaps profitable to the World. Flirty, superficial, distant, and carefree, but a sensitive soul who deeply desired connection behind the scenes.
Confession: I don’t know how to date. The two relationships I was in during my early teens consisted of one which was incredibly abusive looking back, and consisted of sexual assault, like stealthing. The other one, it was just… trauma bonding. I know what I want in a partner and I now know what I’m not going for anymore, but reflecting and looking back just makes me think… damn, I really didn’t know any better. Not to mention me having zero awareness of being autistic during those years.
Often times, I’d fall victim to love bombing.
“Let’s go to the Caribbean,” they’d say. Never planning anything. Simply just saying that as a way to keep someone’s interest.
“I love you,” they’d say. Not even meaning that. Simply saying that as a way to rush intimacy so they don’t have to put in any real work.
“You’re my dream girl. You’re just so amazing,” they’d say. “I love how quirky you are. I love how you make me feel.” Really meaning: I love the idea of you. I’m obsessed with how you make me feel, but I like nothing about you. In fact, you’re not even my type. But ima just keep you around via text because you stroke my ego.
And I’d fall for that. Even with me knowing a man for two seconds. Even without any proof of any of these things. No dates. No consistency. No constant communication. Just text threads. Just men following me on Instagram, studying me and my content, and deciding that watching my Instagram stories and replying was enough effort.
“I’m sending DMs to your phone. I’m communicating.”
No you’re not, idiot.
That’s what I’d think in my head. But I wouldn’t say anything because deep down I thought I was worthy of that.
And then, I’d fall for the breadcrumbing. I’d get ghosted during moments of conflict or minor misunderstandings, and here I was overexplaining myself. Trying to get them to see that I meant no harm. No response. And I don’t think men tend to think about how harmful that is. Maybe not to everyone, but for many many people— this is harmful. After ghosting me, these men would randomly watch me on Instagram again. You know… like stories. Reply with laughing emojis. Text me three months later from a Textfree number with an anonymous, “You crossed my mind today,” “Praying you’re doing well.” All ways to see if access is still granted and a way to bait you.
Lazy “love.”
I actually never enjoyed having sex and then being left immediately after or being told to leave. I never enjoyed meeting up with men at their house for the first link. I never enjoyed smoke sessions in the car with men that were “romantically interested” in me. I never enjoyed men rushing me when it came to sex. But I acted like I was okay with it and I didn’t care about love, because it was much easier than admitting I resented the women who naturally got flowers and dates and consistency. That would be too vulnerable and honest.
What I craved was the kinda love I hear in the old school songs. How Stevie was in All I Do? That’s what I wanted. PYT by Michael Jackson? I always yearned to be desired by a man like that. Or perhaps even the way Ezra yearned for Ricki Wilde in A Love Song for Ricki Wilde.
I often listen to love songs by some of my favorite male artists, listening to the way they write about women. I’d be equally in awe just as much as I was also extremely jealous of whoever they were writing about. Why have I never experienced a man feeling this way about me? , I’d think. What’s wrong with me? Why hasn’t any man written about me? I listened to Wale’s Like I and this feeling came up for me.
I’ve always been a very ancient soul craving a very ancient kinda love, void of the influence and pressures of this digital, Western would. I’ve always wanted flowers and surprise dates and for a man to study me. I want to walk into a room full of balloons and rose petals on the ground. And I never got that. I wanted to be asked how my day was. I wanted a man who was curious about me. I wanted a man who took the time out to make sure I was okay. And I never got that.
I’ll be 27 soon, and I’m realizing I’ve never been treated like that by any man I was dealing with. I was only considered worthy of the bare minimum, but that’s also because I believed that’s all I was worth. My dad never took me on Daddy daughter dates. He never danced with me in school dances. He used to ask me if I had money for my meals if we went out to eat together. That’s what I was used to.
So, I’ve flipped it. What does it mean to desire ourselves? Why can’t I give myself the sex and intimacy I’ve been lacking? Not that this is a substitute for romantic and sexual desire, but it serves as a way for you to study and understand yourself. Do you hold yourself and tell yourself that you are safe? Do you whisper to yourself that you are loved? Are we speaking words of affirmation to our pussy? Just like anything we call into our lives, we have to prepare ourselves to receive it.
I had to learn to regulate my nervous system. I’m often in my head a lot, intellectualizing everything, thinking of random things, and stressing myself out doing so. It’s an ADHD thing. Learning how to be still and how to be present in order to connect to my body through EFT techniques, breathing exercises, and meditation. Yoga every morning. Glamour rituals. Eating my meals and taking a moment to taste every spice, every texture, every ingredient on my tongue. Making my home a sacred space that serves as a sanctuary for me in such a chaotic world. Dedicating time to doing my nails, my foot care routines. Investing in my collection of body oils, butters, and creams and taking time to feel my touch and smell the scent of these products as I’m applying them. Buying clothes that make me feel good in my body. Because looking good is a form of spiritual protection. Tending to your body is ancestral healing.
I’m proud to say that starting the year off, I actually found myself scheduling my first therapy appointment with a licensed, Black sex therapist, who is skilled in working with Black women who have experienced sexual abuse and trauma and I’m excited. I’m reading books like The Pleasure Gap and Come As You Are. I’m reading more erotica. I’ve been listening to The Age of Pleasure by Janelle Monae.
You see, pleasure is a radical and revolutionary act for Black women. Historically, there has been repeated attempts to strip us of our body connection and sensuality. We’ve been objectified and made to feel that our warm and loud embrace of our bodies is demonic and ungodly. I often think of Saartjie Baartman who was forcefully stripped naked, objectified, and made to be of some sort of freak show for not only the White, male gaze, but for the women as well. She did not have agency or choice over her body, at no fault of her own.
I think often of how much Black women are making her proud up in the astral realms when we choose what to do with our bodies and choose to actively fight against religious and political systems that want to rob us of our pleasure, sensuality, bodily autonomy, and agency. When we choose pleasure on OUR terms, we’re always the course of discussion, because it’s not something we are supposed to do. The Black female body has been commodified, objectified, dehumanized, and politicized.
Dating is not on my agenda right now. I’m not closed off to love if it comes in in the midst of me living, but I’m traumatized by Black men and I see I have plenty of work to do, not in the typical introspective healing department where I read self help books and drown myself in shadow work, no. Been there done that. But moreso, healing by way of living, having fun, laughing, building a better connection to my body, having more pleasurable experiences, and by becoming devoted to my self care rituals/routines and glamour magick. 2026 is my pleasure era. I am reclaiming my time and my pleasure after having a host of experiences that were not pleasurable to me and pushed me into altered states of anxiety and mania. After being in survival mode for damn near my entire life, I am ready to find joy and true desire and devotion to myself and my femininity before ever considering dating anyone.
When I do start dating again, I’m dating everyone who aligns with me and I have zero desire to place pressure on myself to only deal with one man, especially if he’s not the only one interested in me. I’m not closing myself off to one person like I usually do, because I’ve learned that this is an inherited behavior in Black women. We meet one man, throw away all our other prospects, and devote ourselves to them early on because it’s a reflection of what some of us seen growing up. I’ll be dating with intention, while still exploring my options and having fun with many, many men like I am 50 Cent. I only want to date Black men who are emotionally available, soft, tender, gentle, deeply romantic, and maybe a little neurospicy like me. I want to date Black men who know what they want. I want to date revolutionary Black men who place an emphasis on community and advocate for the rights and experiences of Black women. I want to date Black men who have zero desire to see me overextend or overperform for their attention. I want to date Black men who have already deeply met themselves and are dedicated to emotional growth and the breaking of ancestral trauma. But until then, I am stepping into my year of pleasure. I am living my best life and going with the tides of life. Never forcing, always flowing— just like Yemaya. I’ll be giving myself pleasure. I’ll be cuddled up with Rosequan. I’ll be wearing all the sexy outfits this year and seducing myself. Being patient and gentle with myself.
I deserve a love where I’m loved both privately and publicly. A love that doesn’t leave at the first sight of conflict. A love that sticks with me, even if it doesn’t work out long term. All Black women deserve a love that regulates their nervous system.
May we all find it.
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Essay referenced:
