The Demonization of Sexual Expression and Open Sexual Discourse in Digital Spaces

7 min read

Just now

The creation story is often told in a manner that suggests that the forbidden fruit that thrust humanity into the world as we know it was sex. You hear it in the pauses, the side comments, the warnings that young women absorb long before they even understand their own bodies. Yet the truth is that the fruit Adam and Eve consumed was never lust; it was knowledge. Centuries later, sex has become the most common commodity, and still, knowledge about it remains demonised.

My favourite Bible story comes from the days of the prophet Elisha, in 2 Kings 6:1–7. The prophets who were staying with Elisha decided that the place where they were living was too small, so they wanted to build a new place to meet and work, a kind of spiritual workspace. One day, as one of the prophets was cutting down a tree for the building, his iron axe head slipped off the handle and fell into the river. He cried out in panic, “Alas, master! It was borrowed!”

Elisha, seeing his distress, asked, “Where did it fall?” The prophet pointed to the spot. Then Elisha cut down a stick and threw it into the water there. The iron floated to the surface, and Elisha told him to pick it up. Just like that, physics was defied.

That story has followed me for years, not because of the miracle itself, but because of what it represents: sometimes the only thing standing between sinking and rising is the right piece of knowledge at the right time, a stick, something that shifts what physics insists is impossible.

When it comes to sexual health, especially women’s health, we are still stuck at the bottom of the river.

You see it clearly in today’s digital spaces. People talk about sex all day long — jokes, threads, confessions, banter. People tweet about sex with their full chest every single day, joking, confessing, fantasising, oversharing, narrating. Yet the moment a woman speaks about contraceptives, the atmosphere shifts into a revival ground. Eyes widen, and suddenly the vial of holiness is overflowing with the oil of ignorance.

“Jesus, what am I seeing?”
“Why will a woman need that?”

For a generation that insists it’s nothing like our parents, we aren’t any different. We’re eager to migrate overseas but unwilling to move towards difficult conversations. We don’t interrogate our own thoughts; we parade reductive answers instead. LGBTQ? “They’re possessed.” Sex? “Your toto don gbim.” Is this really how we plan to respond when our own children start asking questions?

I choose to assume the second reaction is rage bait. A man with only two bodies after eight first dates becomes an online spectacle, but a woman who dated four men in a year becomes a target of slut-shaming. The contradictions are exhausting, but they are not accidental. They are cultural.

This is the same culture that watched Kamala Harris speak about legal abortion access and immediately branded her an agent of darkness on that single premise, as though her insistence on bodily autonomy was a threat to their lives. Meanwhile, the man paraded as the one who would “restore America to God” is a convicted felon for rape. The hypocrisy is not subtle. Neither is the story of the Ohio doctor who forced abortion pills into the mouth of his pregnant girlfriend, yet the loudest outrage is triggered when women simply say, “my body, my choice.” The last U.S. election proved that conversations about women’s bodies make men tremble more than actual crime. Also, adult men want to have sex without thinking about the consequences.

The consequences show up everywhere, especially in how women’s health is treated. Obidi Ojochide captured it well in her piece Dear Women, Stop Researching Men, when she said we suffer the cost of being an afterthought. You see it in medicine, research priorities, and how conditions affecting women are still dismissed as mysteries.

Take endometriosis, for example. Despite its global burden — 1 in 10 women live with it, often in unbearable pain, and surgery is the only true cure — scientists somehow found time to study how endometriosis affects the husbands of the women who have it. When women themselves tell doctors they can’t stand straight, research funds the emotional wellbeing of the people standing beside them.

It becomes even clearer when you follow the money. Only 5% of global research funding goes into women’s health, and of that, only 1% goes into maternal health, the very area that determines whether women survive childbirth.

Back in October, a heated discussion about men experiencing postpartum depression sparked women to share their childbirth experiences. For some reason, that entire conversation got derailed because men tried to centre themselves in a situation that is clearly not about them. Doctors have no obligation to educate people on the timeline, but a couple of them do educate. Thankfully. I lowkey expected them to debunk the laughable concept of postpartum depression in a demographic that is incapable of childbirth, but it was crickets from their end. But the moment a woman mentioned postpartum pepper soup and how it aids recovery, medical Twitter mocked her instantly. Intrigued and annoyed, I researched her claim. There is scientific reasoning behind it; the ingredients actually support the clearance of lochia. She may not have framed it perfectly, but she was not ignorant. Research on this is not as extensive as it should be, but there is something there. She was echoing centuries of women’s lived knowledge, knowledge that deserved respect, not ridicule.

In a bid to redirect the conversation to underfunded women’s health research and how we need to collaborate instead of hurling insults at each other, one individual tried to derail that intention by pointing to breast cancer funding, not realising that breast cancer is well-funded because men can get it too. It is not strictly classified as women’s health. That is how shallow the understanding is. That discussion also revealed that “medical misogyny” is a foreign term to many doctors, even as research shows women are less likely to survive cardiac arrest because CPR mannequins do not have breasts. If the default human model in medicine does not include you, imagine what that means during an actual emergency.

All of this circles back to why we must talk about sex openly, not only through jokes. The hush culture around sex does not protect women; it endangers us.

For example, do you know that some contraceptives contain oestrogen, which is unsafe for women over 35 who have migraines, hypertension, or a family history of clotting or heart disorders? How can we discuss these things when the moment a woman mentions contraceptives, the conversation shifts from health to morality?

Let us start what we have come into the room to do

I say this with no tongue in cheek: contraceptives should be for men. I will go further and hold your hands while I say this: you do not need a “healthy excuse” to be on any form of contraceptive. Legs intertwining is no permission for two extra tiny legs. That alone is reason enough.

Contraceptives are medical tools designed to prevent pregnancy and regulate reproductive health. According to the WHO, an estimated 164 million women of reproductive age have an unmet need for contraception. This is often due to limited access, restricted choice of methods, fear or experience of side effects, cultural or religious opposition, poor quality of available services, and gender-based barriers.

Contraceptives work in different ways. Some prevent ovulation, others thicken cervical mucus to block sperm, and some create an inhospitable environment in the uterus. Broadly, they are divided into hormonal and non-hormonal methods. We will begin with the non-hormonal methods:

Barrier methods: physically block sperm from reaching the egg and include male and female condoms, diaphragms, cervical caps, and sponges.
Permanent methods, or sterilisation: involve surgical procedures such as vasectomy for men and tubal ligation for women.
Natural or behavioural methods: rely on tracking fertility and include fertility awareness methods or withdrawal. They are generally less reliable.
Emergency contraception: used after unprotected sex to prevent pregnancy and includes emergency pills such as Postinor 2 or other progestin-only “post pills,” as well as copper IUDs.

Hormonal methods use hormones to prevent ovulation, thicken cervical mucus, or thin the uterine lining. They include short-acting methods( like pills, patches, vaginal rings, and injections) and long-acting reversible contraception which includes implants and hormonal IUDs. Hormonal contraceptives often contain oestrogen and progestin. Oestrogen regulates the menstrual cycle and suppresses ovulation, but it is not safe for everyone. Women over 35, smokers, or those with hypertension, clotting disorders, or a predisposition (family history) to heart disease should avoid oestrogen-containing contraceptives because of increased risk of blood clots, stroke, or cardiovascular events. Progestin-only options are generally safer and include mini-pills, injections like Depo-Provera, implants such as Jadelle or Implanon, and hormonal IUDs like Mirena, Skyla, and Kyleena.

Emergency contraceptives available in Nigeria, including Postinor 2, are progestin-only pills, so they are safe. Always consult a doctor to choose the contraceptive that is safest and most effective for your body and lifestyle.

Although ignorance is a disease, it does not have to be our disease.

Even the Bible says, “Wisdom is the principal thing; in all thy getting, get wisdom.” It is knowledge that begets wisdom. So why should sex be any different?

The notion that silence is holiness is a farce. The knowledge women need as regards their bodies has been sinking for too long. It is time to put the stick in the water and let the heavy things rise.