I’ve always been curious about sex. Maybe it was the way my parents quickly covered my eyes during movie scenes that went beyond kissing, or how taboo the whole subject was in my Catholic-Indian household. Maybe it was the fact that sex, even hinted at, seemed to carry so much mystery and power. Yet no one talked about it, and it led to a major source of shame.
In Catholic school, our “sex ed” was taught through Fully Alive—if you know, you know. The only thing I remember is everyone flipping straight to the anatomy page and giggling at the pictures of genitals. That was the introduction to sex. A bigger question comes to mind looking back at it now, If female anatomy is still misunderstood today, what hope did we have as young girls trying to make sense of our own bodies?
TV didn’t help. Most portrayals of sex normalized surprised kisses and objectification resulting in sexual intercourse. No one talked about consent, about communicating desire, or what it even meant to enjoy sex on your own terms. The unspoken script was that sex just happened to women. It was something we were supposed to be okay with. If we were lucky, we climaxed at the exact same time as our partner, effortlessly. No questions asked.
Thank goodness for Sue Johanson. Watching her speak so openly about sex, without shame, without jokes, was a game changer for me. For the first time, I felt like I was in a safe space, where curiosity wasn’t punished but welcomed. I craved that kind of conversation.
That craving followed me into university, where I enrolled in a course on Language and Gender. I considered myself a feminist at the time, but I wasn’t prepared for what that course would unpack. The dominant sexual vocabulary we use “penetration,” “scoring,” “losing virginity”—all centered around the male experience. Women’s perspectives were virtually absent. The course introduced the term “enveloping” as a way to describe sex from a woman’s point of view. I remember laughing because it sounded so absurd to me. My 20-year-old self couldn’t imagine using that word seriously. But now, at 40, it makes complete sense.
When I began actually enjoying sex, it wasn’t because of the act of penetration. It was the sensation of enveloping my partner—of being actively engaged, of feeling everything in my body, of having ownership. It wasn’t something done to me anymore. I was part of it. I was leading it. Enveloping captures what I never learned growing up: that sex can be a full-body experience, rooted in presence, connection, and agency. But that took some time and experience and having partners that took the time to communicate with me. That part was maybe the hardest to work through.
It’s taken me a long time to unlearn the idea that pleasure is a bonus or something to be ashamed of. And this isn’t a how-to piece about better sex. It’s about the need for a better kind of sex education—one that centers female anatomy and experience without shame or censorship.
Women’s bodies aren’t a mystery. They just haven’t been made a priority to understand. The reason we know more about male biology is simple: men were at the forefront of science, and they studied themselves first. That’s slowly changing as more women enter those fields. But we still need open, honest conversations that normalize female pleasure, curiosity, and bodily autonomy. Because if you’re not part of the conversation, how do you know where you fit in?
