Hear me out. I don’t hate sex, but I hate the way it makes me feel.

Fear. Anxiety. Dread.

My body hasn’t exactly been a safe place. It’s been poked and prodded, turned into something clinical instead of personal. Add in the stigma around reproductive issues, and now when I think about sex, it’s not excitement; it’s pain and fear. That’s the association, and once your body learns that, it’s not exactly something you can just switch off overnight.

The irony? I’m just like every other girl—reading fantasy smut, romanticising the kind of love that feels like it could alter your brain chemistry and make life a little less mundane. The idea of romance and lust? I love it.

When I was a young girl, I genuinely believed dating would be exactly like it was in cheesy 2000s rom-coms and Barbie movies. The man would turn up to the first date with flowers, yearning unequivocally. Our first kiss would be accompanied by metaphorical fireworks, triggering a mutual epiphany that we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together.

Then I started university.

My boyfriend had just made things official, and we were about to take things a step further. We were sharing what I genuinely believed was an incredibly intimate, beautiful moment. My heart was beating frantically in my chest as I finally said the three words that had been dancing on the tip of my tongue for weeks.