I am Sexually Insecure

I am sexually insecure. 

I am aware—especially as an adult—that this is not unique to me. As humans, we all carry sexual insecurities; we simply find different ways to deal with them or avoid them altogether. In my case, my immediate environment—my family—discouraged sex until I reached a certain age. Even then, because of my older sister’s behavior, any form of sexual curiosity or activity was framed through negative comparison. Sex became something both warned against and encouraged. 

Then there’s the era I grew up in. I came of age during what I think of as “the age of sex.” If you asked most people my age when they first were introduced to porn, I’m sure many would say somewhere between middle school and high school—maybe even younger. On top of that was society’s message to women: that attractiveness is currency, that attention and opportunity are earned through desirability. Race and colorism belong here too, because they absolutely shape who is seen as desirable—and who is not. 

I’ve always known I've carried these insecurities, but it wasn’t until I began my poly journey that I realized how deeply they affected the way I interact with men and with myself. What’s complicated is that my current knowledge both confirms and contradicts the beliefs I grew up with. I know better now—but knowing doesn’t automatically erase conditioning. 

I’ve started to think of insecurities as a tree. For some people, insecurities are roots—they live there constantly. For others, they’re branches strong most of the time, but capable of breaking under pressure. And for many—probably most—insecurities are leaves, coming and going depending on season and circumstance. My sexual insecurities have always lived somewhere between the roots and the branches. 

As I mentioned earlier, I grew up in a home where sex was discussed both positively and negatively. It was every stigma rolled into one: sex is great, men only want sex, orgasms and masturbation aren’t bad, don’t become too loose, and—perhaps the one that’s haunted me most—don’t end up like your sister or you’re acting like your sister. As you can imagine, receiving those messages as a hormonal teenager, layered with societal expectations and personal experiences, caused lasting damage. 

I lost my virginity the summer before high school, at fourteen—the same summer my grandmother passed away. I understand now that grief played a role. My mother was often in Virginia with her girlfriend and sometimes took my younger sister with her. My older sister ran away with her boyfriend. That left me alone in the house a lot. 

That summer, I slept with three different people. I remember every thought that crossed my mind each time: 
Do I really want to do this? 
Are they using me? 
They probably don’t find me attractive. 
I hope they’re enjoying this. 
Why don’t I feel anything? 
This isn’t like porn. 
I must be broken. 

That last thought—the belief that I was broken—is the one I still struggle with the most. I know now that this insecurity is a “leaf.” It comes and goes, but it has never fully disappeared. 

Until about seven months ago, I was able to hide these insecurities. Even during my marriage, they stayed mostly dormant. But when I entered my first poly dynamic, they came rushing back—especially the sexual ones. 

I am fully aware that the person I’m involved with sleeps with other people. I can admit that the sting of that reality has softened over time, but it still triggers old thoughts. Recently, those thoughts have felt louder. We spent time together, shared intimacy, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. He even told me—honestly—why he enjoys our experiences together. 

And yet, despite knowing my insecurity was present, I found myself quietly fighting negative thoughts as he spoke. I’ve cried to him before about my sexual insecurities, so I know he wasn’t speaking carelessly. He told me he appreciates that we focus on the experience of each other rather than whether or not we finish. 

A part of me wanted to tell him the truth: that I focus on the experience because if I focus on the fact that I struggle with finishing, I feel like a failure. That I worry he has better sex with other people. 

I didn’t say it for two reasons. 

First, because I trust that he was being honest and speaking only from his own experience with me. 

Second, because I know those thoughts are insecurities—not truths. They have nothing to do with him or with what we share. I genuinely enjoy our time together. And while I still feel moments of shame about not finishing, that feeling passes more quickly than it used to. 

My inner voice calls this a “sexual failure mindset.” I know that’s unhealthy—especially given what I now understand to be true. 

Porn isn’t real. I grew up watching produced performances, not real sex. Everything—from the exaggerated reactions to the scripted confidence—is designed to sell a fantasy, that does not reflect reality. 

Sexual education is male-focused. For most of history, sex has centered on male pleasure. Even today, many people don’t understand the full anatomy or purpose of the female reproductive system. I didn’t learn until my mid-twenties that 80–90% of women need direct clitoral stimulation to orgasm—and that foreplay is not separate from sex, but part of it. 

And societal beauty standards are deeply harmful. I am Black. I am a darker-skinned Black woman. I’ve been told—by Black and non-Black people alike—that I am not attractive, whether because of my appearance or how I carry myself. I’ve received backhanded compliments like you’re pretty for a chocolate girl. I’ve learned, repeatedly, that darker skin is often treated as less desirable. Compliments have focused on my body rather than my personhood, contributing to body dysmorphia. 

These messages are damaging, whether they are framed as preferences or opinions, because they elevate one group while putting another down. 

I’ve worked through some of this. I’ve educated myself, spoken to my gynecologist, read books, and have begun exploring kink to reclaim my sexuality. Some insecurities have loosened their grip. Others—especially those tied to racial desirability—are harder to unlearn. I didn’t realize how deeply embedded they were until I caught myself comparing my desirability to that of other women he is seeing, even while knowing better. 

There are moments when I can stop the thought and remind myself that it doesn’t reflect my beliefs or his actions. But just as I wasn’t taught real sex education, I wasn’t taught that my sexual expression matters. I was taught to please, not to be met. 

This isn’t about me being unattractive. Sometimes it’s simply about not being someone’s type—and about how society conditions desire. That conditioning affects everyone, including the growing influence of conversations within Black communities that discourage dating outside of one’s own race. 

I know this writing is messy, because healing is messy. When I feel sexually insecure, my mind runs through what I was taught, what I believed, what I now know, and what I’m still learning to believe. We want clean, black-and-white answers—but belief systems don’t work that way. New information and experiences will always challenge us, and that instability can be uncomfortable. 

I can’t promise that I’ll ever be completely free of sexual insecurity. I don’t know if that’s realistic. What I do know is that insecurity doesn’t mean something is wrong with me. It means I’m human. 

We all have sexual insecurities. These are mine. Yours may look different—but you’re not alone, and there’s nothing wrong with having them. Talking about them—whether with a friend, a therapist, or a sexual partner—matters.