Sex, Shame, and Society: A Journey From Guilt to Empowerment

I first encountered the concept of sex when I was about 11 or 12 years old. I came across the words “seduction” and “debauchery” in a book, and I had to know what they meant. I instinctively knew I was not supposed to know what it was and my curiosity was amplified by this. So, I asked the adults around me. They, predictably, dodged the question. Frustrated, I turned to the only source I trusted at the time: my dictionary.

Coincidentally, my best friend had also stumbled upon the same words in the same book. Together, we embarked on a quest for knowledge, careful not to raise suspicion as we poured over the dictionary’s definitions. What began as innocent curiosity turned into a rabbit hole of technical meanings and clinical explanations. By the end, we had understood human reproduction in its most basic terms. 

I was intrigued. I hadn’t yet experienced puberty or desire, so my fascination was purely intellectual. Yet, I could sense an undercurrent of shame surrounding the subject, though I didn’t fully understand why. That moment marked the beginning of a long, fraught relationship with the intersection of sex and shame in my life. 

In Indian society, the mere mention of sex often triggers embarrassment, shock, or outright disgust. This cultural aversion has far-reaching consequences. It’s no coincidence that India—a country where open discussions about sex are scarce—has high rates of population growth and frequent incidents of sexual violence. The repression of healthy sexual expression festers into tension, misunderstanding, and harm.

Despite this, the stigma persists. Sex is shamed for happening, for being enjoyed, for simply existing. It is bizarre to me. No one is shamed for sleeping when they are tired, eating when they are hungry, or using an umbrella when it rains. Why, then, are people shamed for engaging in consensual fucking when horny?

My initial understanding of sex, shaped by dictionaries and books, was technical and detached. Yet, I couldn’t comprehend why something so seemingly natural was cloaked in so much secrecy and guilt. When I tried to discuss it with family or peers, I encountered silence, humour, or judgment. Much of this negativity seemed disproportionately directed at women and exclusively framed within heterosexual contexts.

As I transitioned from childhood to adolescence, my journey with shame and stigma, which had so far been distant, had now become personal. I began to experience desire, and with it came a profound sense of guilt. Despite knowing my feelings were normal, I couldn’t shake the shame that had been ingrained in me by my surroundings. This internal conflict was isolating, compounded by the lack of trusted sources to help me navigate these emotions.

I consider myself fortunate. Many of my peers—like countless others—learned about sex through unfiltered internet searches, pornography, or misinformation from friends. In fact, pornography remains a primary source of information about sex for over 70% of young Indian men, per a 2019 Youth Ki Awaaz survey. This exposure led to harmful misconceptions that could have been avoided with proper education. In contrast, my method of discovery — books, dictionaries etc., while unconventional, were at least accurate and credible. Still, I struggled to reconcile my curiosity with the stigma I saw all around me.

I eventually realized that the adults in my life, too, were products of a repressive system. Their judgment and discomfort were the result of their own societal conditioning. But this realization did little to ease my frustration. Why had generations accepted these dogmatic views without question? Why did no one challenge the validity of this shame?

It wasn’t until high school that I began to find an open haven. My exposure to open-minded peers provided me with the tools to question societal norms and develop a healthier perspective. For the first time, I met people who spoke openly about their desires without deflecting to humor or shame. It was empowering to know that I was not alone, that my thoughts were not perverse. It was nice to know that the only pervasive thing was the attitudes that surrounded sexuality and sexual expression around me. 

In college, I encountered individuals of all genders, sexualities, and levels of sexual experience, which broadened my understanding further. This was not about “freedom to fuck around,” but the freedom to view sexuality as something normal and human. More than anything, it emboldened in me a sense of agency and choice. Societal shame had so far disallowed me from being a free agent of my own understanding. 

Professors and mentors played a pivotal role in this transformation. They encouraged me to critically analyze the origins of stigma and to challenge repressive attitudes. Through these experiences, I was finally able to fully understand and as a result shed the guilt and shame that had shadowed my early understanding of sex. What emerged was a sense of empowerment and acceptance—a recognition that desire is not only natural but integral to the human experience. While I did not enjoy participating in this newfound sense of free action, it was nice to know that I could allow myself to indulge, without shame, if I pleased. 

But in my community, sex is still a hush-hushed affair which is still being used as a tool for shame and guilt. I have known countless examples of friends going away to seedy hotels to engage in clandestine encounters. Of peers fearing being filmed and revenge porn. Women who secretly go on to get abortions without any support from their loved ones. I know tales of betrayal and heartbreak that cannot be shared with parents and relatives. Girlfriends hiding the fact that they enjoy pleasuring themselves. Boyfriends afraid to come out of the closet and openly admit their sexuality. Because what will people say? 

The consequences of sex-shaming extend far beyond awkward conversations or misinformation. They foster fear and distrust of one’s own body and desire, turning something fundamental into a source of guilt and inadequacy. This stigma is isolating and often dangerous, placing the people I care about in vulnerable situations where judgment precedes empathy. Even now, my relationship with sex and shame remains complicated. I’ve unlearned much, but the echoes of those early lessons linger. They show up in subtle ways—a hesitation before speaking openly, enjoying content that promotes healthy sexuality etc. Perhaps that’s the lasting impact of stigma: not a definitive scar, but a faint, stubborn shadow.

I’ve come a long way from the child pouring over a dictionary, trying to decode forbidden words. But some questions remain unanswered. Why do societies persist in policing something so universal? What’s the cost of this silence? At the end of the day, it really is just sex. 

Yours Truly,

Tinderella