Timmy P—my partner-in-crime, my 3rd arm, my 3rd leg, my 2nd brain, and lifelong best friend down south—has been secretly suffering for years. And me? I had no clue. It took a recent urology appointment for the phrase “we walk beside people every day, never knowing the battles they fight in silence“ to hit home. The act of coitus isn’t supposed to hurt! 😢 All this while I believed “one derives pleasure from pain” was some cheeky ode to sex. Turns out, I was dead wrong.
1. From Sacred Celebration to Silent Suffering
Let’s rewind: ancient India was not shy.
- The Kama Sutra wasn’t just porn—it offered comprehensive guidance on relationships, including same-sex love and mutual pleasure.
- Temples like Khajuraho boasted erotic carvings that celebrated sexuality as divine and joyful
- And before Tinder, we had Gandharva marriages—consensual, parents-not-required unions rooted in mutual desire (Shoutout to my man Gxndhrva, for educating me on the same).
Sex wasn’t shameful—it was spiritual, social, and openly celebrated.
2. Enter the Victorians: Chains That Still Bind
Then the British landed with Section 377 in 1861, a frankly ridiculous law that criminalized anything “against the order of nature.” While it did snag genuine nasties like rape and bestiality, the rest was mostly colonial fluff designed to micromanage our bedrooms. This law profoundly criminalized consensual relationships and expressions of identity for the queer community, fostering an environment of deep, generational harm and discrimination.
Without for a moment diminishing that immense impact on queer lives, it’s clear this law cast a long, frigid shadow over the entire Indian community of us, stifling honest conversations about pleasure and consent, even for heterosexual relationships.
It wasn’t just 377 either; the Indian Penal Code of 1860 was essentially a moral straitjacket for a subcontinent that never asked for one. Imagine trying to explain the Kama Sutra to someone who thinks ankle-showing is scandalous – that’s the vibe. They debunked our rich history of open sexuality, slapped “purity” labels on everything, and turned something natural into a shameful secret. This colonial moralizing dug in deep. We ditched the British in ’47, and finally got rid of much of 377 in 2018, but a collective Victorian hangover? Yeah, we’re still nursing that.
3. The Taboo Today: Why We Still Don’t Talk About Sex
- Schools dodge words like “sex education,” opting for euphemisms like “body intelligence”.
- Parents fear “spoiling” kids, fearing promiscuity, so the topic remains hush-hush.
- Data shows only about 12% of young women 15–24 receive any sex ed.
- Even pleasure-positive content creator’s like Leeza Mangaldas note that even talking about sex without judgment is still seen as transgressive.
The result? Misinformation, shame, and suffering—just like Timmy’s.
4. Pop Culture & Modern Ironies
- We’re the most populous nation—obviously, we’re not abstaining—yet we treat sex talk like it’s radioactive.
- Bollywood and Netflix show more skin than schools teach biology—yet parenting remains tight-lipped.
- Gen Z and millennials often get their “sex education” from unverified sources on Insta, Reddit, or anonymous online forums and porn, rather than formal, accurate channels, precisely because the formal channels are lacking. Leading to both misinformation and moments of accidental enlightenment.
5. Time to Reclaim Our Roots—& Timmy’s Dignity
We talk about freedom, rights, and breaking oppression—but when it comes to actual bodies, we’re still colonized. Timmy needs circumcision for phimosis 🥲; that’s not ideology, that’s health—and sex shouldn’t hurt. The real pleasure from sex isn’t about pain—it’s about connection and understanding.
So here’s the whole truth:
We need to decolonise our attitudes about sex. Let’s teach. Talk. Normalize. Because we come from a lineage that celebrated sexuality, not whispered about it behind closed doors.
⚠️ Disclaimer
This isn’t a religious crusade. I respect all beliefs. I’m speaking from a motherland lens—using our own ancient texts and culture—to say: we didn’t lose our sex-positive soul; it was uprooted by colonial shame. Let’s grow it back, openly.
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