On the Streets is a Zikoko weekly series about the chaos of modern dating: from situationships and endless talking stages, to heartbreak and everything it means to be single in today’s world.
For Ayaan* (26), intimacy has always felt heavy with pressure. His first sexual encounter exposed struggles he didn’t understand, sending him into a spiral of reckless choices, obsession, and avoidance in a bid to “fix” himself. Now, after all those attempts have failed, he’s learning to confront his anxiety, rebuild his confidence, and redefine what love means to him.
What’s your current relationship status, and how do you feel about it?
I’m single, and I’ve been celibate since the second quarter of the year. It’s a personal decision because I have a complicated relationship with sex. I feel I need to understand myself before involving anyone else.
When did you realise this about yourself?
It clicked in 2020. I was 21 and in my final year of uni when I had my first real sexual relationship. Before that, I’d been with Faiza* for two years. She wanted to stay celibate, and I respected that, so we never got intimate.
Still, I didn’t think I’d have problems when the time came. I went to boarding school, so I was already very familiar with sex and masturbation. When I ended the relationship with Faiza, and started dating Dee* I didn’t expect any issues. I met Dee in a club through a mutual friend, vibed, and exchanged numbers. Then COVID hit, and we spent months talking and dating virtually. By the time school resumed, we’d already planned to sleep together.
How did that go?
I was very anxious and couldn’t get an erection the first time we tried. No matter what we did, nothing happened. We ended up kissing and cuddling, and I brushed it off. I told her I was just tired from travelling back to school that day, but deep down, I was confused and embarrassed because I’d already bragged to her.
Did you try again?
Yes, we did. We planned another date, hyped it up, but it happened again. It was awkward. I could feel her disappointment, even though she tried to be understanding. She said we probably just needed more time to get to know each other.
But the pressure was already in my head. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. Even when I managed to get hard, I couldn’t sustain it. Sometimes I’d lose it before we even started. Other times, I’d finish too quickly. It just made the whole thing sloppy and disappointing. What frustrated me the most was that masturbation wasn’t a problem.
How did that affect the relationship?
It strained things. I really liked her, but every failed attempt chipped away at me, and I found myself withdrawing. She started to wonder if I wasn’t attracted to her, and the frustration showed on both sides. Slowly, a distance grew between us. About five months later, she ended things. She said she wasn’t in the headspace for a relationship since we were graduating soon. She never mentioned the sexual issues directly, maybe so I wouldn’t feel worse, but I knew. I blamed myself. We broke up over text.
How did you handle the end of the relationship?
I couldn’t blame her. I was too ashamed to face it. But it made me feel ten times worse about myself. Even when I realised it wasn’t a physical problem and told myself it just hadn’t worked with her, I still beat myself up.
How did you realise the problem wasn’t physical?
I never confided in my guys. They were always boasting about their sex lives, and I knew they wouldn’t understand. I just stayed depressed. Everyone assumed I was just upset Dee and I broke up.
One night, my friends dragged me out to a party. They introduced me to a girl, and I got so drunk that we hooked up. To my surprise, I was able to sustain an erection, and it lasted long enough that I thought the problem wasn’t me after all.
That moment confused me even more. It made me think the issue with Dee had just been in my head. So I went on a spree to give myself that final confirmation.
What did that look like?
It wasn’t healthy. My guys weren’t the best influence either. We were in our last days in school and lived recklessly. They introduced me to this joint where you could meet women and pay ₦5,000 – ₦10,000 to sleep with them. At first, I was sceptical, but I eventually gave in.
I slept with a few women there. More often than not, I performed fine. I kept returning because I needed to “get it right” once and for all, but I wasn’t comfortable. The fact that anyone could just walk in after me made me feel dirty. Healthwise, it was also very risky. Thankfully, we graduated soon after, and I left that life behind.
What happened after uni?
I was back home and wasn’t sexually active for a while. I played tennis on weekends to pass the time, and that’s how I met Kadija* in 2022.
She was beautiful, smart, and we bonded over the game. I liked her a lot, but I ran when things started looking serious. I literally ghosted her a month into our talking stage.
Why?
I was afraid. From our conversations, I sensed she was sexually active, and I was terrified of disappointing someone again. I couldn’t handle another Dee situation. So instead of risking it, I cut things off without explanation. I even avoided tennis altogether.
Of course, she was hurt. She kept asking what she did wrong, and I told her it wasn’t her fault. I used my NYSC deployment as an excuse to disappear. It felt like another breakup.
Sorry about that. How did you cope with that?
Ghosting her left me isolated again, and I turned to porn. At first, it was research. I thought if I could teach myself enough, I’d eventually overcome whatever was wrong. But it spiralled into an obsession. I became dependent on porn and masturbation, which made things worse.
Did you consider professional help at that point?
Not at the time. Since I’d been able to perform randomly, I convinced myself nothing was physically wrong. But deep down, I was embarrassed and scared to ask for help. Growing up in a traditional Nigerian household, I couldn’t imagine telling my parents I wanted to see a urologist because of sex. Even taking myself to the hospital felt impossible.
I tried to figure it out alone. My research led me to conclude I had performance anxiety.
Did this realisation change how you approached relationships?
Honestly, I was still more avoidant. Instead of addressing the problem, I just found ways to walk around it.
Towards the end of 2023, I met Lee* on Bumble. It was long-distance, which actually made me more comfortable. I felt like I wouldn’t feel too pressured with the space. We hit it off quickly. She was fun, bubbly, and very open. I really liked her. For the first time in years, I thought I could have a proper relationship again.
Did you meet in person?
Yes. Two months into the relationship.She came over around Valentine’s. We went on a date, and when it got intimate, I couldn’t get an erection even with all the sexual boosters I’d used ahead. The only difference was that I didn’t let it consume me this time. We explored other sexual activities, and she didn’t seem bothered. That really relieved me.
But deep down, I felt guilty. Even though she reassured me, I overcompensated. I showered her with gifts, sent her money, and paid for her needs. I had just gotten a proper job but leaned into my savings to keep her happy. In my mind, I was grateful she wasn’t making me feel like a failure.
Yikes. Did that ease your anxiety at all?
Not really. The long distance actually made it worse. Every time she planned a visit, anticipation built up, and it crashed down harder when things didn’t work out. We had good sex sometimes, but those moments were rare.
Meanwhile, the relationship itself was toxic. Lee could be manipulative. If she got angry, she’d go silent on me. But I didn’t address it. I kept telling myself I should be grateful to have someone willing to manage me.
Then, around September 2024, after I did some digging, I found out she was cheating. She actually had another boyfriend she’d been dating even before me. At first, I didn’t even confront her because I felt indebted to her. But resentment started building.
When I finally brought it up in November, her reaction crushed me. In the heat of an argument, she threw my performance issues in my face. Although she apologised, but it never left me. That was when I realised I’d been ignoring the red flags because I thought my issues meant I didn’t deserve better.
I hope that was the turning point for you.
It was. I decided I couldn’t keep running from the issue. If I didn’t fix my confidence and my relationship with sex, I’d keep repeating the same cycle. It was a painful breakup, with months of back-and-forth, but I finally cut her off in March this year.
Walking away made me realise I needed to stop relying on relationships to validate me. Since then, I’ve started working with someone I found online, who went through the same thing. He’s not exactly a therapist, but he’s helping me unpack my anxiety, addictions, and confidence issues. That’s a big part of what led me to the decision to stay celibate for now.
Great. How have all these experiences shaped your idea of love and relationships?
I’ve realised love has to start with yourself. You can’t pour from an empty cup. If you don’t love yourself, you’ll keep falling into toxic cycles and accepting less than you deserve.
When I start dating again, I’ll be more honest and upfront. Looking back, things might have been different if I had been open instead of avoidant. There’s still hope that once I work through my issues, I can be a better partner.
So, how would you say the streets are treating you? Rate it on a scale of 1-10
5/10. For me, it’s 50/50. I thought I’d miss love and sex when I stepped away, but I surprisingly don’t feel bad. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m not about that life for now.
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