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  • Trigger Warning: This article contains sensitive topics, including physical assault and sexual abuse, which some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised.

    Meredith* (33) always knew she was different. What she never knew was that the journey toward understanding her sexuality would put her in danger more than once. 

    In this story, she reflects on the turning points that shaped her identity and the dangerous incidents that led her to embrace her sexuality. 

    This is Meredith’s story as told to Mofiyinfoluwa

    It was a slow Saturday morning. My mother had gone to church, and my brothers were out. I was hungry but too tired to cook, so my mind went straight to Peace. We often cooked for each other. When I called and told her I was bored and hungry, she said I was lucky. She was at her aunty’s place near my house and had just made rice. If I didn’t want it to finish, I should come quickly. It was only a ten-minute walk, so I got dressed and left without thinking twice.

    When I reached the spot she described, she came out with a tall, lanky man in a black hoodie, a red bandana pulled across his head. She introduced him as her cousin. I greeted them and noticed how her arm was looped tightly through his, and how her eyes kept darting around. I teased her about the 2go crush she’d been telling me about, but she quickly changed the topic. We walked together, talking about the universities we’d applied to, while the man stayed silent the entire time.

    The road led us into a compound that looked nothing like the family house I’d imagined. It looked abandoned, like an old hotel. My steps slowed. I glanced around and realised there was no one nearby. I had barely begun to ask if this was really her aunty’s house when the man’s hand landed on my face.

    My cheek stung. Before I could speak, he started shouting that I was the one spoiling girls in town, that I was a lesbian. I stared at him in confusion and turned to Peace. Tears streamed down her face. It took a few seconds to realise she had outed me.

    He pulled a gun from his pocket and waved it in our direction. Any denial I had prepared died in my throat. He marched us inside the building that smelled of dust and old wood. Somewhere above us, screams echoed down the stairwell. My body began to shake. I stumbled through explanations, swearing I had never done more than hug a woman, grasping for anything that might save me.

    ***

    As a child, I remember playing ‘daddy and mummy’ with the children on my street. Whenever the game needed a husband and a wife, and a boy chose me to be his wife, I would become upset and start to cry. But when it was only girls playing together, everything felt different. I loved the way we would cuddle and pretend to cook together. Those moments made me feel happy and safe in a way I couldn’t explain.

    For a while, I assumed it was because I grew up with six brothers who were always trying to control me. I was closest to them, always borrowing their clothes and running around with them, so it made sense that being around girls felt refreshing. I thought that was all it was.

    It took my first real kiss to make me realise it was deeper than that.

    It happened in 2004, when I was twelve. I had just started secondary school and gone home for the holidays. That was when I met Vera. She was the daughter of a family friend, and because her parents had a program in the town we lived in, they left her to stay with us for two weeks.

    One afternoon, we were playing hide and seek when she cornered me in a quiet part of the house and pressed her lips against mine. The kiss was brief but electric. I felt a tingling run through my body and stood there in shock, waiting to see her reaction. She simply continued the game as if nothing had happened. From that moment, it became a routine. She would kiss me whenever we were alone, and the moment she heard footsteps near the room, she would pull away and act normal.

    I was too young to fully understand what was happening, but my body did. I started to develop a crush on her and look forward to the kisses. When the two weeks ended, and she left, it felt like a part of me was missing. I sulked around the house for days begging my mother to let me visit her, but she refused. I didn’t know how to explain the ache I felt.

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    Around that time, I also began to notice how people around me talked about same sex relationships. My brothers would make jokes about people being gay, and I’d watch them get offended. In church, the girls’ fellowship often prayed aggressively against “the spirit of lesbianism.”

    I couldn’t connect any of this to myself until I was fourteen. I was running an errand when I saw a group of boys beating up a girl in the street. A small crowd stood by watching, not one person stepping in. I asked a passerby what she’d done, and he said she had tried to kiss another girl.

    In that moment, I understood that whatever I felt for girls wasn’t just unusual where I came from — it was dangerous. So I tried to redirect myself toward boys, hoping it would fix whatever was wrong with me.

    Later that year, I got close to Mike*, who liked walking with me around the area. I knew he had a crush on me, but our conversations felt like a chore. Still, I leaned into the friendship, desperate to prove to myself that I could be normal if I just tried hard enough. One evening, during one of our walks, I decided to test myself. I pushed him gently against a wall and kissed him. He kissed me back and started touching me. I let it happen for a moment, waiting to feel something. But there was nothing. It was flat compared to the tingling I’d felt with Vera. I pushed him away and walked home alone.

    Around this period, I discovered 2go. It became my secret doorway to the world. I joined group chats about sexuality and found older people who spoke openly about liking the same sex. They answered my questions and shared their own stories of discovery. I realised that what I felt was not random or strange. They showed me that there were others like me.

    I began to buy magazines and hide them under my clothes, searching for anything that explained what I was feeling. I snuck romance films that had same sex characters and read articles online. Over time, I accepted that I wanted more than harmless kisses. I wanted intimacy, closeness, a body that responded to mine. I couldn’t tell anyone in my physical life, so my online friends became the only people who knew the real me.

    Through 2go, I met Peace in 2012. She was the only person in my town who felt anything like I did. Meeting her in person felt like breathing out after holding my lungs tight for years. By then, my brothers had already begun suspecting me. I behaved like a boy, had never dated one, and didn’t even bother pretending to like any they mentioned. Their questions came like accusations, and each time, I denied it fiercely. Being around Peace made me feel less alone. I even used her as an example when trying to convince my brothers that some girls were tomboys without any deeper meaning.

    Over the year we spent as friends, Peace and I began to experiment with our curiosity. We kissed and cuddled, sometimes letting our hands wander. Each time it happened, my mind flashed back to a girl beaten in the street when I was fourteen, and I’d pull away in fear. I didn’t want that to become my story.

    Eventually, we decided we were better off as friends. Peace leaned more into 2go and started talking to women from there. And a few months later, I found out what it meant to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

    ***

    That Saturday morning, the man kicked Peace aside and signaled to one of the four rough-looking men in the room, who grabbed her and dragged her upstairs.

    He turned back to me, ordered me to kneel, and snatched my phone from my hand. As he scrolled, he said he knew me from 2go. He called himself Snake* and claimed he’d messaged me before, but I’d ignored him. He called me proud and rude. I had no memory of ever seeing his name, but it didn’t matter. My life felt tied to whatever he decided, so I begged and lied that my brothers didn’t let me chat with men.

    While Snake scrolled through my pictures, he paused on one, and his expression changed. He held up my phone and asked who I was with in the picture. When I told him it was my older brother, he burst into laughter and announced that I was Sparrow’s sister. Sparrow was my brother’s street name. Snake said he and my brother belonged to the same cult.

    His attitude changed after that. He told me to stand up, walked me outside, and slung an arm around my shoulder like we were friends. He suddenly became an adviser, saying that I was too beautiful to like girls, and that men were the ones I was meant to enjoy. I nodded and played along, lying that a man had been asking me out and that I was tired of girls and ready to give him a chance.

    After his little speech, he still liked me and wanted me as his girlfriend. We exchanged numbers. Then he said he would only let me go if he saw my naked body.

    The request made my skin crawl, but I would have done anything to get out of there. He led me into a room and watched in silence as I undressed, his eyes following every movement. He told me to turn slowly, and I obeyed. When he was done, he pointed toward a smaller room and said I should dress up, then leave.

    Peace was there, sitting on the floor in her underwear, rocking like a child. Her eyes went wide when she saw me. She started talking at once, saying they had caught her with another girl from 2go before I arrived and brought them here to be raped. When my call came in, they searched her chats and forced her to bring me too. Her words poured out in a rush, but I couldn’t absorb any of them. I wasn’t ready to feel pity for someone who had just led me into this. 

    When I ran out of the building, I could still hear screams coming from inside.

    ***

    I blocked Snake and Peace and deleted 2go. The trauma felt like a heavy coat I couldn’t take off. Peace had been my only real-life friend, and now every memory of her was tied to the event I wanted to forget. For almost two years after that, I buried my sexuality and tried to pretend it didn’t exist.

    Things changed when I met Chidera in 2014. She became my first real girlfriend, and to my surprise, the relationship was great. We still had to hide, but we were honest about our feelings and talked about our future together. But when she left for school in 2017, the distance pulled at us. Eventually, she told me she’d met a man and wanted to end things.

    It shattered me in a way I didn’t expect. I started questioning everything again. Perhaps it was truly unnatural to like women, and social media had just influenced me. Those thoughts pushed me toward the idea of dating men, just to see if I could be “normal.”

    There was an older man at the hotel where I worked as a waitress. He’d been showing interest in me, so I tried to let myself imagine being with him. We talked more and spent time together, but the day he asked me to be his girlfriend, I broke down crying. I told him I didn’t see him that way and confessed that I liked women but was terrified of what that meant for my life.

    To my surprise, he handled it gently. He told me to stop forcing myself to like men and advised me to find happiness in a community where I felt understood. Around that time, Badoo was becoming popular, so I created an account.

    One of my first matches was Anita*. We started talking regularly, and before long, I found myself falling for her. She posted pictures often, and I spent hours staring at them, thinking she looked so beautiful. We exchanged numbers and began talking on the phone. Anita was direct and confident in a way I had never encountered. She sent suggestive pictures, and I didn’t hesitate to send mine. 

    She wanted us to meet in person, but she lived in another town, and my job made it hard to travel. After about two months, I finally managed to get a day off. It was raining that morning, and she promised to make pepper soup. We spent the night before talking about how the day would go. I even bought her small gifts.

    I told my mother I was going to see a friend and might sleep over if it got late. The town wasn’t far, so she agreed. When I arrived and called Anita, expecting her to be at the park like we’d planned, she said her mother had sent her on an errand. She said her brother would come to pick me up instead and described the junction where I should wait.

    I called and texted for nearly two hours, but got no response. It was getting dark when a random man walked up and asked for my number. I snapped at him. I was cold, frustrated, and just wanted to meet Anita. When it started to drizzle, I gave up and began walking back toward the park.

    While I was leaving, Anita finally called. She said her brother had been waiting at the junction and hadn’t seen me. Instead of going home as I should have, I turned back. She described him as wearing a black hoodie with a bandana on his forehead, and I spotted a man resting beside a tree. I waved at him.

    But as he pushed off the tree and started walking toward me, every hair on my body rose.

    The person coming toward me was Snake.

    I could have run, but fear made my legs heavy. I remembered he had a gun that Saturday morning as he grabbed my arm. People were passing by, but it felt like the whole street had emptied, leaving just the two of us.

    He grabbed my arm and said I hadn’t changed. He claimed he’d been using Anita all along, waiting for another chance to catch me, and that the way I reacted to the man he’d sent earlier proved everything. My tongue felt heavy. I just stared at him, unable to form a single word.

    He held out his hand and demanded my phone, saying he wanted to delete his number since I’d ignored him. The moment I gave it to him, he turned and walked into a side street. I followed, begging him to return it. That was when he shoved me aside and ran. I screamed, and a few people joined me in chasing him, but he vanished into the streets. Eventually, I stopped. I was exhausted and shaking. All I could do was turn around and go home.

    I cried the entire way home. When I got in, I told my mother and brothers that my phone had been stolen, leaving out everything else. By then, I was already shivering with fever from the shock. They believed I would not stop crying because I was ill, and ended up taking me to the hospital.

    When I got a new SIM days later, I kept calling my old line. One afternoon, Snake finally picked up and said the phone had already been sold. I wanted to report him, but held back. If things escalated, my family could find out everything about my sexuality. 

    I cut my losses and moved on, but when I got a new phone and restored my WhatsApp, I was met with blackmail using the nude photos I’d shared with Anita. Snake demanded money if I didn’t want him to send the pictures to my brother. 

    First, I sent 40k, which was my entire salary. Later, he asked for 50k more, and I borrowed from my friends at work to send it. Still, he kept threatening to post the images. When he asked for 100k the third time, I told him to do whatever he wanted and blocked him.

    For a long time after that, I held my breath, waiting for him to expose me, but he never did.

    That second encounter with Snake became a turning point for me. After losing so much to secrecy and fear, I stopped caring as much about who knew I liked women. My family eventually found out a year later when the same brother went through my phone and saw messages between me and a woman. This time, I didn’t deny it. I told my brothers to accept me as I was.

    As they pounced on me and my mother sobbed in a corner, I closed my eyes and thought of the girl I’d seen beaten in the street when I was fourteen. The difference was that, at that moment, I didn’t feel like the frightened child hiding in the crowd anymore. 

    Read Next: Pressure From My Mother Drove Me Into Fraud And Debt

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  • Zemaye* (28) spent years trying to make relationships work, but they always seemed to crumble around the same thing: sex, or more specifically, her lack of desire for it. Each attempt at love ended with her being misunderstood or pressured.

    Now, after coming to terms with her asexuality, she opens up about the failed relationships that pushed her to this realisation and how embracing her truth has changed the way she sees love and companionship.

    What’s your current relationship status, and how do you feel about it?

    I’m single, and for the first time, I genuinely feel good about it. It feels like this is who I’m meant to be. It took me a really long time to accept that.

    What do you mean?

    I’ve come to understand that I’m asexual. I don’t experience sexual attraction, and sex itself has never stirred any emotions for me. That has shaped a lot of my relationships. I tried (and failed) to make it work in the past, but it was never really anyone’s fault.

    Hmm. When did you realise this about yourself?

    I’ve always been this way; it just took time to manifest. I grew up in a strict Christian home and took my faith seriously as a child. I was very active in church, even as a teenager and had little to do with boys. The closest thing I had to a relationship was with a boy I liked after graduation from secondary school. We barely held hands, and I never had sexual fantasies about him. Honestly, I never had any. Sex scenes in movies didn’t move me, and I was generally uninterested in the subject. Back then, I assumed it was normal because of my religious upbringing.

    It wasn’t until university that I really began exploring relationships in a sexual context. From my first, I realised I was different.

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    Tell me about that relationship.

    It was during my third year in 2017. I had this really good coursemate, Isaiah*. He was kind and smart, and he helped me with physics assignments, which I really hated. Over time, we got closer and decided to give dating a shot. We spent a lot of time together, cuddling and making out, so after a few months, sex seemed like the natural next step. He wanted it, and even though I’d never been that keen on sex, I was curious, so I considered it.

    I expected it to be exciting, but when it finally happened, it was awkward and very underwhelming. I was anxious throughout, cried my way out of the situation, and it wasn’t just about pain. It took two failed attempts before he could even penetrate, and I detested every second. My experience was rather shocking because my friends seemed to enjoy sex — at least that was what I gleaned from the way they spoke about it.  When I shared my experience, they said it was probably just first-time problems. But many more attempts with Isaiah confirmed I hated sex.

    Initially, I thought it had to do with feelings of guilt from my religious background, but it was more than that. I just didn’t enjoy that form of intimacy. I eventually started resenting Isaiah because each sexual encounter felt forced. Later, I  avoided sex with him altogether. We never really talked about how I felt. 

    Why?

    Looking back, it was partly because we were young and didn’t know how to have those conversations. I also tended to avoid addressing what was happening to me because I didn’t fully understand it myself. In the end, we broke up after a year.

    How did you handle that separation?

    I felt guilty most of the time. Isaiah wasn’t at fault, and I knew things were just different for me. I had shared my concerns with a nurse a while ago, and she told me it was natural for some women not to like sex. So, I held on to her explanation for the longest time. Still, I couldn’t relate to how others talked about sex like it was the best thing in the world. I was almost relieved I didn’t have to do it.

    But I had to face it again in 2020 when I got into another relationship.

    I met Chuks* during my service year at a work retreat. He was reliable, caring, and I fell in love with him. I put off having sex with him at first, hoping that when it eventually happened, it would feel different since I liked him more, but I was wrong.

    Like with Isaiah, I barely enjoyed kissing him. Physical intimacy in general never excited me, but sex was the worst part. With Chuks, I coped by mentally detaching. I’d talk myself into it beforehand and zone out while it happened. If I didn’t detach, I felt disgusted. He soon noticed and complained that I was passive in bed. I couldn’t explain that it didn’t feel good. 

    The experience with Chuks also helped me confirm that this wasn’t a phase; my libido was barely existent. One of my friends, who was aware of my situation, mentioned the concept of asexuality. She had come across it in a book and said it sounded like what I was experiencing. I took an interest in what she shared and did my own research. Almost immediately, I felt understood. It captured exactly what I was going through.

    Did you tell Chuks?

    No, I didn’t. I was still figuring it out myself, so I convinced myself sex was just necessary. I started to read about how asexual people navigate sex. I learnt I could focus more on the emotional bond than the act itself. It was something I could give because I knew my partner enjoyed it. It didn’t mean I started enjoying sex, but it made the process less overwhelming, and things got a little better between us. 

    But when he moved abroad on a scholarship in 2022, I felt relieved. The distance meant sex would no longer be an issue. I thought it’d make our relationship stronger. Unfortunately, he stopped texting me, and the relationship fizzled out a few months later.

    I mourned it because I genuinely loved him, but knew I had tried all I could. That’s when I decided that before getting into any new relationship, I’d be honest about how I felt about sex.

    Share your own story here.

    I see. Have you tried dating since then?

    Yes, I met David in 2024. We were seated next to each other on a flight. He was friendly, and we realised we lived in the same city. We went on a few dates, and I told him upfront about my asexuality. He quickly said it was fine, and I was surprised he didn’t probe further.

    But over time, I realised he didn’t really understand. He believed I just hadn’t had “good” sex yet. He’d say things like, “You can’t know till you try”, and “It’s all in your head.” He insisted he could change my mind. That irritated me because it wasn’t a choice. After barely two months, I blocked him. I’ve been single ever since.

    Fair enough. How have all these experiences shaped your idea of love?

    Honestly, a lot of love is tied to sex, and that feels almost cynical to me. Every relationship I’ve had crumbled because of it. We underestimate emotional connection outside of sex, and it makes me question the sincerity of love. I’ve realised love alone is never enough. There’s a level of intentionality that should go into being with someone.

    Do you still have hope for dating?

    Yes, but cautiously. I’d like to believe I could meet someone who’d love me enough to find a balance and put in the effort to be with me. I’m very loud about my asexuality now, from the first date or even before. I’ve learned some people can be dismissive about it, so I establish boundaries early. Love and companionship would be nice, but I’m not desperate.

    So, how would you say the streets are treating you? Rate it on a scale of 1-10

    Can I give it an 11? I actually love being single. I have no worries, and loneliness isn’t overwhelming because I have a strong community of friends. Love is fine if it happens, but it’s not a priority.

    Read Next: We Were Together for Over Two Years, but She Refused to Meet in Person

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  • Growing up in a deeply religious household, Hannah* (19) learnt to fear everything that didn’t align with a rigid moral script. In her family, having an opinion was a gateway to evil. But after leaving home, her transformation began. 

    In this story, she talks about unlearning fear, embracing her sexuality and feminism, and the cost of choosing herself over her parents’ approval.

    This is Hannah’s story, as told to Mofiyinfoluwa

    I grew up in a strict, deeply religious household where every little deviation was labelled the devil’s handiwork. As I got older, I realised just being myself was enough to cause alarm. If I wasn’t quiet or submissive enough, if I dared to question things or voice an opinion that didn’t align with my parents’ version of God’s will, I was accused of doing something wrong. I didn’t have the language for it back then, but I understood what it meant to be punished for not fitting into the mould they had designed for me.

    By the time I got to university, something in me cracked open. Exposure to new ideas and people made me realise I could have opinions, not just as abstract thoughts, but as beliefs that helped me make sense of my life. I started questioning everything I grew up believing: my religion, how I was expected to behave, and everything I’d been taught to fear. I freely wore trousers, makeup, and jewellery — things I once believed would send me straight to hell. At first, the guilt weighed me down, but more than anything, I felt free.

    My parents, on the other hand, were horrified. I went home and they were convinced I’d joined a cult. They assumed  I’d embraced witchcraft and prostitution. All because I was finally becoming my own person.

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    I always knew my dad could be careless with his words, but after I started rebelling, I saw a darker side of him. He flared up over the smallest things, like a delayed greeting or how I dressed. The first time he called me a prostitute happened after I confided in my mum about a lecturer harassing me in school. I was scared and wanted help, but my mum told my dad, and he held on to it with no intention of addressing the problem. He waited until one of my school breaks to weaponise it against me during an argument. He accused me of sleeping with lecturers for grades and claimed I hung out with prostitutes. It hurt to hear him say that, but I’d grown up with that kind of emotional abuse, so I wasn’t surprised. My parents always cared more about how righteous we looked than how emotionally safe or loved we felt at home.

    Another time, I wore shorts out of the house, and instead of a calm conversation, my dad threatened to disown me and drop me off at Oshodi to do prostitution as a full time job.

    I’ve tried having conversations with my mum since she’s easier to talk to. I talked about how hard it is to be a woman constantly sexualised and pressured, especially by my own dad. But somehow, she always found a way to centre him. For her, supporting my feminist thoughts meant supporting those who want to overpower men. That’s the lens through which she viewed everything I said.

    At some point, I stopped feeling guilty for holding my beliefs. I started skipping prayers whenever I didn’t feel mentally present. But even that wasn’t allowed. My dad exploded after I missed morning prayers for three days in a row and called me a witch. He genuinely believed I was doing something demonic. In his world, everything boiled down to God or the devil— no in-betweens, or space for questions. That moment made me realise I could never win their approval. Anything outside their narrow expectations would always be labelled as evil. 

    I stopped believing in their version of God, a version that didn’t make room for women like me who questioned things and loved differently. I came into my bisexuality in my second year of university. The feelings had always been there, but I didn’t know what to call them until I developed a crush on a girl. It felt as natural as liking boys, but carried more shame than I knew how to handle.

    I still remember the first time I ever heard the word “lesbian”; I was just a child at a church retreat. I and a girl my age were playfully touching ourselves when, out of nowhere, some adults surrounded us and started shouting “lesbians”. I didn’t even know what that word meant, but I understood it to be the worst thing imaginable to have triggered fury. For years, I internalised the idea that something was wrong with me.

    I’ve never told anyone about my sexuality. I’m still figuring it all out, learning how to approach women and finding spaces that feel safe, away from the fear I was raised in. I don’t know many queer people yet, and sometimes, I still feel alone. But for the first time, I’ve made peace with my truth.

    These days, my relationship with my parents feels distant. We barely speak. I talk to my mum occasionally, but my dad? Only when necessary. He never calls, and I’ve stopped trying. They still see me as a disobedient child, not a  person with my own thoughts, desires, and a life beyond their expectations.

    I dreaded going home during the holidays for a long time. I still do, but now, I push back in small ways. I dress the same way I do in school and do what I want. When the nagging starts, I don’t shrink back or explain.  I let them tire themselves out. 

    I’m proud of the woman I’m becoming, but knowing I may never have their approval still hurts. A part of me knows they might cut me off if they ever know me for who I truly am. But every day, I’m learning to choose myself, in case that ever happens.

    Read Next: The Woman Who Found Her Way Back to an Ex After a Bad Marriage

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  • Aside from artistes displaying the lavish spoils of being rich and famous — exotic cars, parties, sporting clothes too thick for the hot Lagos sun — sex and sexuality are major themes that have dominated contemporary Nigerian music.

    Male musicians have mastered the art, singing about all kinds of sexual activities that defy human abilities. “Fuck me till your body speaks to me again / I go respond when you don feel am for you belle oh / Underwear dey leak / She dey wet my bedsheet,” Victony cautions his lover in his hit, Risk.

    On social media, there have been multiple campaigns for women to tap into their sexuality, express that they have desires, unabashedly and unafraid, sexually liberated in a modern world. 

    If you listen to any of the music by the female acts topping the charts, this has barely been the case. A few female musicians have tapped into sexual liberation, most notably Niniola, but only in the periphery. This was not always the case.

    The reign of Omotoyosi Janet “Saint Janet” Ajilore in the 2010s is a classic “you had to be there” period in Southwest Nigeria. Those who had liberal parents or were exposed to secular underground music by their environment are likely to be familiar with the name. She’s a sonorous musician whose patron saint moniker would give a normie the expectation of a sanctimonious gospel artist. But her music would leave a chorister fervently singing more about the end times because of the sexual escapades she preaches in them. Some may argue that her music style models after Rosaline “Yaboskan” Iyabode, a UK-based female artist who reportedly debuted in 1980. Apart from writeups about Yaboskan’s remastered old albums, there are few of her songs online.

    Yaboskan’s “Satisfaction (Itelorin)” album, released in 2009, a year before St. Janet’s debut album.

    It’s no secret that conversations around sexuality in Nigeria are inconsistent, scarce, and largely close-minded. These conversations mostly exist within the “respected and accepted” context of marriage and gender. Anything out of the orthodoxy quickly gets the public’s side-eye, with participators branded immoral, perverse, and promiscuous. But unconfined by society’s moral standard, Saint Janet’s music casually invites listeners to talk about sex.

    St. Janet needs no introduction to the members of St. Bottles Cathedral, an assembly of her music lovers who are characteristically liquor guzzlers anticipating their next gbana session. She sings mainly in Yorùbá, borrowing influences from Juju, Fuji, Highlife and Tungba, including church hymns and gospel songs. But there’s a twist in her music: she flips the Christian songs into obscene, jaw-dropping sexual narratives of lustful desires. Interestingly, at the beginning of every song and performance, she leads with slow-tempo praise-and-worship, acknowledging that a higher power gave her her talent and then welcomes her audience. Then, an introduction of herself, St. Janet, AKA the General Overseer of Sinners’ Chapel, before she bursts into her high-tempo erotic tunes.

    On a keener observation, it’s easy to tie her gospel influence and the “saint” in her name to her religious background as a chorister in the Cherubim and Seraphim Church. But the name came from Los Kenge, her former boss and Juju musician, who observed she had a calm demeanour and always kept quiet, except when she got on the mic. After St. Janet ventured into her solo Juju career, she infused vulgarity to blow up and secure bigger bags. If an attribute of early Juju music was to use sexual innuendos to troll modesty, and a selling point of Fuji is to sketch euphemisms to court carnal desires, Saint Janet aims to distribute it everywhere, all up in faces like the posters of politicians. Call it flagrant, indecent, or blasphemous—you may not be wrong. But you’d also be correct to say there’s a heady sense of feminism and sexual liberty in her music.

    There’s also a humourous side to her songs, from big booty worship and praise of aphrodisiacs that can help men dickmatise their wives, to the legend of Iya Lai, a neighbourhood adulteress. The song is a parody of the popular Christian song He’s Alive, Amen.

    Even her switch from a devout female chorister to a singer of sexcapades is a reference point of freedom from our deeply conservative society. No wonder the Music Advertising Association of Nigeria (MAAN) and Performing Musicians Association of Nigeria (PMAN) placed a ban on her music after the release of her “Faaji Series” live audio CD in 2010, in which she also sings explicitly about sex, restricting her to only live performances. It’s hard to ignore the ban on her music as a hypocritical sexist move in a climate where barely-clothed female vixens have become a regular fixture in the music videos of male musicians. 

    Contemporary acts like Ayra Starr and Tems have been offered to the public as perfect examples of modern hypersexual women, rocking big hair, tiny clothes, cutting men off, flirting with men. But the flirtations of their lyrics pale in comparison with St. Janet, who is deeply rooted in the business of courting her partners. This is the form of female sexual liberation that’s missing. [ad][/ad]

    For Chiamaka Dike, features editor at the women’s magazine Marie-Claire Nigeria, it’s the hypersexual branding that has sucked up the air and compelled women in music to shy away from talking about the sex they had and enjoyed in mainstream music. “Sex sells. Music companies and artists know this. It’s why these days, in the songs and music videos that babes put out, they sexually objectify themselves. So, it’s no longer natural for Nigerian female artists to express their sexuality and sex life as art,” she said.

    But she acknowledges the role that a conservative society plays in making this the case. “It’s hard to see women that are unapologetically themselves and break away from the popular approach to music. The ripple effect of being sexually liberal in music is public criticism.”

    St. Janet has addressed eroticism in her music as her butter and bread, and stated vulgarity isn’t new and peculiar to her alone. In an interview with ThisDay, she said: “In my music, I’ve not said anything that’s not been said before by the likes of Sir Shina Peters, Obesere and King Sunny Ade. The entire Hip-Hop generation of today’s about sex. So what have I done wrong? Is it because I am a woman? Women are the ones who’re used as mere toys for sexual appeasement of the male in many musical videos. Why does anyone not see anything wrong in that? I’m fighting for women.”

    8 Nigerians Tell Us The Nigerian Songs They Have On Their Sex Playlist

  • Navigating life as a woman in the world today is interesting. From Nigeria to Timbuktu, it’ll amaze you how similar all our experiences are. Every Wednesday, women the world over will share their experiences on everything from sex to politics right here.

    Photo by Lucas Andrade

    Let’s start at the beginning

    When I was about four, my father donated his compound for a friend to use when he was starting a church, so you can say I lived in church growing up. I was immersed in the culture around church, religion and spirituality, and I loved it so much. 

    My childhood friends were children of ministers and workers who were also always in church — my home. I wasn’t as close to my primary school friends because I was always excited to get back home and hang with the church kids all evening. I was also excited about Sunday School and the Bible stories and lessons we were taught. 

    The church had all these activities for the kids: drama, dance, singing and competitions. I used to win all the Bible-related competitions like Bible sword, reciting memory verses, etc. 

    Sounds so nostalgic

    Yes. My favourite things about that period were the beautiful Christian picture books I owned, with vivid illustrations of the creation story, the nativity. I especially loved the depictions of Egypt — the stories of Moses and Joseph. 

    I’m a digital artist today because I fell in love with art while replicating those picture book scenes with my paper and crayons, and later, watercolours. I’d paste my replicas all over the walls of my room. I found art through Jesus. 

    I grew to love Jesus because He was so good, kind and caring. I still love the idea of being connected to and loved by such a divine figure. I had such a beautiful, happy childhood. I didn’t really notice anything missing until I entered secondary school.

    If you’d like to be my next subject on #WhatSheSaid, click here to tell me why

    What was missing?

    I discovered what it meant to be poor or rich, pretty or ugly, lonely or popular. 

    I always felt my parents were comfortable because they’d give stuff away and help people with money when they were in need. But they weren’t really; we were just getting by. Before secondary school, everyone hung out with everyone because the concept of being popular wasn’t a thing. But my church friends made new friends at their own schools and didn’t attend church as much. A lot of them even japa’d with their families or went to boarding school, or just weren’t as outgoing as we were when we were younger.

    And how did you navigate all that?

    I found singing, again, through Jesus. 

    While my school was secular, the owner was a devoted Christian, so there was strict assembly and devotion every morning with at least 30 minutes of praise and worship. In JSS 2, I volunteered to lead those. I did so well the first time that I was selected to lead the morning assembly once every week. I eventually became chapel prefect in SS 3. 

    Having that, and of course, studying to get good grades, gave me purpose, but I still struggled with loneliness. 

    Why?

    Things happening at home made me terribly sad. 

    My parents were constantly fighting abusive and violent fights at this point. They’d leave me and my siblings alone at home until nighttime. And as the middle child of three, I felt scared and neglected. I wanted to kill myself all the time. I’d lie in bed, seriously considering it because I didn’t have anything to look forward to. I wasn’t happy anymore. 

    But Jesus, and the thought of continuing my suffering in hell, stopped me from doing that.

    Did adulthood help these feelings?

    Adulthood comes with its own struggles — from family drama to work pressure to money wahala. There’s also the depression that comes with not achieving your dreams or goals. I find that I’m always struggling to find joy in the little things just to get by. And then, finding that I wasn’t straight didn’t help matters.

    How did that happen?

    In secondary school, I crushed on up to ten different guys, especially in senior school. I felt I was really attracted to these guys. I’d stare at them and some ended up being my friends. 

    But I only dated one guy towards the end of SS 2. We broke up in SS 3 first term because I didn’t know how to commit. I “liked” this guy, but I didn’t really want him in my personal space. I didn’t want to always hang out with him, which makes sense because I was 16 then. I think back to my classmates now and wonder how they could be so committed to their boyfriends at that age.

    READ THIS: What She Said: I’ve Given up on Teaching in Nigeria

    That’s a good question

    Exactly. But then for university, I went to a Christian private school, so it was more church culture, and I immersed myself in it. It was my comfort zone, after all. I joined the choir and was generally at peace until I realised I didn’t like any of the guys. It’s not like I was caught up in dating, but you know at that stage in life, it’s a huge focus for most.

    At one point, I thought I was a misandrist, but I didn’t have a problem being friends with guys. In fact, I get along with guys a lot. Most of my friends are guys today. But once they try to get romantic or remotely sexual, I get turned off. I’d just literally switch off and freeze up before I even notice. 

    How did your church preach about sex? Do you think that affected your perception of it?

    I don’t think so.

    My alma mater was strict regarding sex and relationships: if you were caught alone with a guy or even holding hands walking down the streets, you could get anything from a warning to suspension from school. But that didn’t stop anyone.

    I wouldn’t say my church affected my perception of sex, but maybe my personal relationship with God did.

    All right. How did you figure out what the problem was?

    Towards the end of 100 level, someone told me I behaved like a lesbian, and I was so confused. Until that point, I thought lesbians had to be tomboys. I’m quite feminine in my dressing and behaviour. Well, actually, I’m in between. I’m quite sporty and tend to be assertive, things people wrongly associate with being manly. But other than that, I wouldn’t consider myself a tomboy. 

    In 200 level, I realised I had a crush on my roommate. We were roommates for three years, and we’re still friends today, but she still doesn’t know I like her. In school, I wondered how boys weren’t falling over themselves to date her because she was so attractive.

    So you’re not attracted to men at all?

    No. I can’t stand them romantically, TBH. 

    How they talk once they’ve decided they want to date you or get in your pants? It’s off-putting to me. They aren’t all like that, of course. Some are actually serious about liking you and being committed, but on a fundamental level, I don’t really connect to how men think or process things. 

    Even their build and essence turn me off. When I think back now, all the guys I ever crushed on — secondary schoolmates, celebrities — were all almost effeminate. I know my friends would never be able to wrap their heads around this, but it really just feels natural.

    For more stories like this, check out our #WhatSheSaid and for more women-like content, click here

    Got it. And how’s it been since you discovered your sexuality?

    Uneventful. I haven’t had the nerve to approach women sexually or even search for communities where I’ll be welcome. I’m still very much in the closet. No one knows. Not one single person I know knows I’m gay. 

    Not even your family?

    My mother and siblings know I’m a pride ally and speak up against homophobia and for gay rights, but that’s it. I’ve tried to hint it to my mother because we’re like besties, and I’ve noticed she’s been much more respectful of the gay community, but she just zones out anytime I try to connect myself directly to it. 

    One time, while we were having a conversation, I told her I sometimes understand lesbians because I can’t stand men romantically, and it was like I didn’t even say anything. She just went on with what she was saying beforehand.

    She’s a Nigerian mum after all

    True. And I’m not really upset with it. But finding my sexuality in university brought back that feeling I had entering secondary school. I felt and still feel lonely, alone with my thoughts and wishes. Oh, and guilty because Jesus doesn’t love gay people.

    About that. How do you reconcile your faith with your sexuality?

    By not trying to date women? I don’t know. I don’t really reconcile it, and that’s why I’m so miserable right now. I’m not exactly active in church, but I never miss Sunday service. I find my relationship with Christ ironically uplifting when I temporarily suspend my interest in women.

    Do you have an escape this time, at least?

    My art and listening to music still. But I know I’m going to break and find a woman who’ll love me soon because I’m dying of loneliness. 

    How do you plan to find someone?

    I’ve reached an age where my worldview has expanded, especially with work and social media. 

    During COVID, I found out one of our freelancers was gay when my ex-boss told me about it in this scandalous tone as reason for cancelling her contract. My ex-boss never would’ve guessed I, too, was a lesbian. Through the freelancer, I’ve discovered a couple of other people like us. Honestly, I feel relieved because Nigeria can be so homophobic, right?

    Right. Would you ever come out to your friends and family?

    I don’t want to think that far. I have no idea. I’m so sure they’d just not get it. 

    I have this feeling I’d elope with a woman one day and leave my parents to believe I chose spinsterhood. Or maybe I’ll do nothing and just try to conform to being straight and a proper Christian. I’m not sure I’ll ever let go of the guilt otherwise. I’ll always think of how Jesus is disappointed with me. 

    He saves me from taking my own life every day, so maybe my sexuality is a small sacrifice to pay to show gratitude?

    RELATED: What She Said: Feminism Led Me to Atheism

    Can you handle the hotness of Zikoko’s Hertitude? Click here to buy your ticket and find out.

  • Are you dating someone who doesn’t really fancy your kind? Or are you confident that your partner definitely swings your way? Take this quiz and find out.

  • Sex Life is an anonymous Zikoko weekly series that explores the pleasures, frustrations and excitement of sex in the lives of Nigerians.

    The subject of today’s sex life is a 26-year-old lesbian woman who is rediscovering her attraction to women. She talks about the rumours that made her start dating men, the guilt that came with having sex with women and currently reexploring her attraction to women.

    Tell me about your first sexual experience 

    I was 13 years old and in SS3 when a friend of mine and I rubbed up on each other for the first time. On that day, I was talking to some of my friends about how I missed my two boyfriends and wanted to be kissed. And she kissed me. Although it was dark, people saw the kiss happen and laughed. We talked after and she told me to teach her how to kiss because that was her first kiss. We made out every day for two weeks before she called it off because she felt guilty. 

    RELATED: 9 Nigerians Talk About Being Queer and Religious

    That’s a lot of sexual activity for a 13-year-old 

    I knew I liked women since I was in secondary school, but I never really knew what to do about liking women. Boys at school used to ask me out a lot because I was very pretty. One boy in particular was so persistent. He was constantly buying me gifts and begging to be my boyfriend. At a point, my classmates started begging me to say yes to him. 

    So I started accepting their proposals so they’d stop. Since I was saying yes to everyone, people started calling me a slut. 

    The slut-shaming made me decide to actually start acting like who they thought I was. I’d date one guy and his best friend because that’s what was expected from me. I just never had sex with any of them until I was 15. 

    What happened when you were 15? 

    I had a 20-year-old boyfriend. I was doing my A levels, and he was in university. I was peak in my reclaiming my sluttiness era and felt in control of my life. 26-year-old me realises I was a minor without any real control of any situation, but 15-year-old me felt on top of the world. 

    That’s why I decided to have sex with him. I felt I knew what I was doing. Plus, I got tired of him constantly hinting at sex and decided to just have sex with him. It became a continuous thing that lasted for three months into the relationship, and five months after, we broke up. 

    The funniest part of having sex with him was that I kept convincing myself I enjoyed it and that’s what sex was supposed to be like. When I had sex with a woman a year later, I realised I had been deceiving myself. 

    Tell me about this woman. 

    I met her on Facebook and got a sense that she was gay. I liked her and asked if she was queer but she flat out denied it. She was so defensive about it, so I apologised and went my merry way. Only for her to switch up on me the next day and start telling me she wanted to see me and all of that. 

    I was still doing my A levels then, so she came to see me in school. While we were trying to take a picture of ourselves sitting together, she turned around and kissed me. From there, we went to the bathroom and had sex. 

    Was this when you accepted you were queer?

    I wish. After sex with this woman, I didn’t even come out to myself as a lesbian yet. I already knew I liked women, but having sex with the woman wasn’t enough to cause that. It just made me more aware of my attraction. I still felt I needed to have a boyfriend or like men. However, I still liked women and developed deep feelings for these women. My solution to this was to a boyfriend and a girl I was sleeping with by the side.

     I had fallen in love with another friend when I was 17, but I thought it was just me being “freaky”. I didn’t come out to myself as a lesbian until I fell in love again at the age of 19. 

    How did that happen? 

    Well, I had a boyfriend who was emotionally and physically abusive to me, and I was cheating on him with a male friend of mine. The male friend introduced me to a babe, and the girl and I got really close. 

    She had a boyfriend as well, but we hooked up. Comparing the sex I had with her to the sex I had with the men helped me realise I didn’t want to continue having mid sex with men. The satisfaction I got from her romantically and sexually was the kind of life I wanted to live. 

    She was also very political and gave me books about lesbianism. We’d talk about my attraction to women and running away together. It helped me realise I had been suppressing myself and the fact that I had slept with men didn’t mean I wasn’t a lesbian. I broke off my relationship with the guy, and although he was angry, I moved on.  

    Did you and the woman make things official?

    We were together for about four years. The relationship was too toxic for us to continue and I decided to end it.

    Explain toxic…

    It was a lot of emotional abuse. She’d shut me out, and I’d get so angry. I’d say hurtful things toward her. We were terrible for each other. 

    RELATED: 5 Nigerian Women Talk About Being in Toxic Relationships

    What happened after the relationship ended? 

    After it ended, I had one more sexual partner before I got into another relationship. This was my second relationship after coming out as a lesbian. The sex was soft and sweet. I was in love with them and whenever they touched me, it felt like butterflies. The sex was very vanilla and a stark contrast to what I had in my first relationship, but I was in love. 

    Did you miss the less vanilla sex? 

    I won’t say I missed it. I don’t think one type of sex is better than the other. Especially because it was a bit different. What I do know is that I enjoyed that new dynamic with this second partner. 

    A year into our relationship, we opened it up and I got a chance to explore other people. We eventually closed up the relationship when we knew we were going to break -up. Closing the relationship up made me realise I miss the freedom to explore other women. That’s why I did just that when we broke up. 

    How do you know you’re going to break up with a partner?

    We were fighting a lot, so we talked about breaking up six months after we opened the relationship. We loved each other and didn’t want things to end, but the fighting was a lot. The six months was so we could be more intentional about loving each other. 

    When we broke up, I started exploring other women. 

    Tell me about that.

    The relationship ended in 2020, and I’ve used the last two years to have a lot of sex and discover not just myself but also women. 

    One thing I’ve learnt about sex is that with every new partner, there might be a different dynamic that comes with the relationship. The person I am currently sleeping with is a talker during sex. She’s constantly asking me what I like and how I like it. I really enjoy that. That’s a dynamic I wasn’t exposed to in the beginning. 

    For me, sex is more of the journey than the destination. My goal when having sex is to not have an orgasm but instead to pleasure myself, and I’m doing a lot of that now. 

    So, what’ll you rate your sex life on a scale of 1-10? 

    I’m getting a lot of pleasure from the sex I am having. I’m having sex with women who are sure of themselves and their sexuality. There’s no guilt attached and I get to learn so much more about myself. Definitely going to give it a 9.5. 

  • Growing up as men, the world has continued to hammer on things we should or shouldn’t do as we try to “protect” our masculinity. As the world continues to change around us, we are beginning to understand what’s toxic and what isn’t. Despite these changes, some men still struggle to shake off societal standards and beliefs on masculinity. These six Nigerian men spoke to Zikoko about the times they didn’t feel like men. 

    Donatus, 41

    I hit a rough patch financially when my daughter was just starting primary school. Before this happened, we’d had a deal where my wife took care of little things in the house, while I paid the main bills like rent and school fees. But things got  so bad my daughter was refused entry into school.   So, my wife had to gather the money herself and pay. My wife has probably forgotten about it now, but the fact that I’d failed at my responsibility to my family broke me. There are a lot of things I’ve connected and disconnected from manhood over the years. However, the one thing that still makes me feel less of a man is not being able to provide. 

    Ishaya, 30 

    I was super religious in university and remained  a virgin up until my third year, even though I  drank alcohol. After our final paper, my friends and I went out for drinks. We all picked up girls from the club and took them home. I lost my virginity that night. I regret having to pay for the sex   I felt (and still feel like) shit every time I think about it. I haven’t paid for sex since then and I’ll never do it again. I don’t believe in having to pay for sex, as it makes me feel like I’ve failed as a man. 

    Aliyu, 33

    The day I felt less like a man was the day I realised that my ex had been cheating on me with some other guy in our social circle. The cheating part hurt because I loved her, but the part where everybody knew and I was just the mumu playing love? That part messed with my head. I couldn’t go out for months and I cut everyone off. People still think it was the pain from the break-up, but for me, it was the embarrassment that stuck. I had become a joke in Lagos. Anyway, that’s why I keep serving breakfast left, right and centre. It will reach all of us. 

    Jeremiah, 29

    Do you know how after break-ups we all assume women gather with their friends, hold hands and recite words of affirmation? Well, this was me when I went through a bad break-up in 2016. I was crying every day like somebody died and I couldn’t call my friends to join me because they would’ve slapped some sense into me. I didn’t even think it was a big deal until I came online and saw that this babe had gone to Dubai with another man while I was in Surulere weeping. It was serious first-hand embarrassment for me. People say she might’ve been sad too, but it’s my own I know. Men can cry, but crying over someone that doesn’t want you is just pathetic please. Never again. 

    Uzoma, 24

    So I was hooking up with this girl one time and she tried to peg me. We were having missionary sex as the Lord intended, and this babe just started sliding her finger towards my butt. The next thing I knew, it was in and I liked the feeling. She continued for a bit and then asked if she could use her strap. Now, hollup! The West African in me took back control and I was like “Hell, no!” I said it in a jocular manner sha, even though I was firm, so I wouldn’t ruin the vibe. The crazy thing is that I liked it, but the toxic part of me was like, “We don’t do that ere! ” God abeg! 

    Tonye, 30 

    If you can believe it, I’m a 30-year-old closeted bisexual who still believes sleeping with other men makes him less of a man. While I had always liked women, I hooked up with this guy once after our office’s Christmas party. He was someone’s plus one that night, but went home with me. It was great and everything, but I woke up the next morning feeling like shit — it’s not like I’m religious or anything. I think it goes back to my uncle always telling me not to behave like a girl when I was a child, which is something I struggled with growing up. I rarely hook up with guys because that feeling keeps coming up. I’m seeing a queer-friendly therapist now and hopefully, I get over it and enjoy my life. 

  • Being a bisexual man in Nigeria opens you up to many questions and emotions. Some of these questions are internal ruminations interrogating who you are and what you want, while others come from a society that views your existence as the inability to make a “choice”. We spoke to five bisexual men about discovering their sexuality. 

    Tayo, 29

    So the interesting thing is, while I had always found men attractive, I’d only dated girls. Having a thing for men in Nigeria is not only “shameful”, it’s very dangerous. Like, lose-your-life level of danger. Knowing this, I pushed my attraction down for the longest time because I was scared. However, in 2012, out of boredom and having met a couple of queer guys, I went on the gay hookup site Grindr. I found a guy, invited him over, and we had sex. Even though it was confusing and chaotic the first time, I really enjoyed it. I didn’t want to hook up with the queer guys I knew because what if I was wrong or things got messed up? Anyway, I have a girlfriend now, but I’m still trying to muster up the courage to tell her. I’m scared she’d either think I’m gay or that I just want to be sleeping with everyone. Women are already scared you might cheat on them with other women — imagine adding men to the mix.

    Brian, 25

    I like to say I knew I liked boys from the day I was born. The first person I ever found attractive in primary school was a boy, and it had always been that way up until my final year of university when I came out to a couple of people that I was gay. But in my final year, I realized I had a thing for this girl I used to have study sessions with. I told myself I liked her in a “Hey girlfriend!” way, but I found myself thinking of her and jerking off. . I finally told her how I felt.  She liked me too, so we hooked up. It was great and we continued for like a year after school. These days, I hook up with both men and women, sometimes at the same time. It took me a while to tell my gay day ones sha, because in some way, it felt like a betrayal to the gay community, like I wasn’t part of the inner circle anymore. It stings that I can’t connect with  them about this part of my life, but they are doing their best and I accept that. Hopefully, with time, they’ll get it. But until then, I’m living my life to the fullest. bi and proud!

    Josh, 28

    I found out I was bi after I got invited into someone’s marriage by way of a threesome. So I had been hooking up with the wife because they had an open thing, but I never really knew what her husband looked like because we were trying to keep things as casual as possible. On the  day, she invited me over and her husband was there. I had never hooked up with a guy or described a guy as sexy until I met this man with his salt and pepper beard. After a couple of drinks, we got into it and I f*cked both of them. I was already a very sexual person before my first experience, so I figured if I was a hoe with women, why couldn’t I be a hoe with men? People think bisexual women are intriguing but when it’s men, they must be confused? Me, I don’t care.  I still meet up with the couple once in a while; sounds cliché, but they opened my eyes to what I’d been missing.

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    Uche, 25

    People think bisexual men are greedy sluts, men going through a phase, or men with internalized homophobia. I believe all these assumptions are bloody lies. Why? I’m none of those things. I even wish I had the energy to actually be slutty. I don’t know how I knew, but I’d always felt an attraction to both sexes. Typically, as a Nigerian, my first relationship was with a lovely girl. It was good and we were happy. After that, I dated another girl before I relocated to the UK  and found my current boyfriend. A lot of people assume I only started dating a guy because I moved to London. Well, yes and no. Yes, because here I can hold my man’s hand and go grab coffee. And no, because I had always found men attractive, I just didn’t find one willing to commit openly back in Nigeria. I also wasn’t ready to date someone in secret, if I love you, I want to love you loudly and freely.

    Olusola, 22

    I had always thought I was gay. Because I had a preference for men, I did my best to invalidate my attraction toward women. I thought I was losing my “gayness” and conforming to society. I felt like I had to pick one because it didn’t occur to me for a very long time that I’m just bi. I’m a virgin so I haven’t exactly had penetrative sex with either of the two, but I don’t think sex validates attraction. I’m also tired of the questions: “Are you more into men than women?”; “Who will you end up with?”; “Is it a phase?”; and my personal favorite, “Are you sure you’re not gay and in denial?”. My answer to all of these questions is that my life is nobody’s business. 

  • Masturbation is the act of pleasuring yourself by stimulating your private parts. Like everything in life, masturbation should not be done excessively or done to a point of addiction. 

    There are a few advantages of masturbating, especially for women and here are a few of them.

    1. It helps reduce anxiety. 

    Orgasms are a good way to reduce anxiety and that’s due to the oxytocin hormones released when you cum. It is also proven that orgasms help balance your blood pressure. Masturbating can help you reach orgasm faster than any man you know. Many men don’t even know where your clitoris is.

    2. Helps you sleep a lot better.

    Oxytocin and vasopressin are hormones released when you reach orgasms and they are both associated with sleep. You get to sleep a lot better when you masturbate. The issues bothering your life won’t follow you into your dream when your sleep is orgasm induced.

    3. It helps you learn your pleasure point.

    No one is a better teacher than you are to your body. Masturbating helps you know how you like to be touched and where you want to be touched. It also makes you love your body a lot more when you know how to satisfy her.

    4.  Gives you the best post-nut clarity.

    Post nut clarity is a moment of sudden realization and some of that realization might include leaving the person who keeps leaving your messages on read. It’s a good way to realign your energy. The more intense the orgasm the more intense the clarity.

    5. It helps you enjoy sex more.

    Masturbating improves your sex life because you get to communicate the tips you learnt while pleasuring yourself to your sexual partner and you know where and how you want to be pleased.

    6. Your fingers and sex toys won’t disappoint you.

    Human beings can’t be trusted to help you achieve orgasm as much as your fingers or sex toys can. You are also not at the risk of being stood up by a person when all you need is yourself and a safe space.