I always knew Sinfull Heart was going to be controversial. I always knew the things I write about would make people uncomfortable. And honestly, that’s part of the point.
But the real question is: why does writing about sex, specifically gay sex, make so many people uncomfortable?
The answer is simple. We live in a heteronormative, sex-negative world.
That message gets reinforced everywhere. In school curriculums. In religion. In culture. From a young age, we’re taught that sex isn’t something you talk about openly. It’s something private. Something taboo. Something you keep contained.
So when someone talks about sex the way I do, openly, analytically, and without shame, it gets read as something else. Suddenly it’s not “interest,” it’s “too much.” It’s not “curiosity,” it’s “hypersexual.” It’s not a valid topic for everyday conversation, it’s “perversion.”
I’ve been called hypersexual more times than I can count. A label that gets thrown at the gay community constantly. Like we’re all just a bunch of sex-obsessed freaks.
But here’s the reality. If you have a healthy relationship with sex, if you’re engaging with consenting adults, if you understand your own desire, you do not have to apologize for your libido. You do not have to shrink yourself to make other people more comfortable.
Society isn’t used to the kind of relationship queer people have with sex. It’s used to a very different script. One where sex is private, limited, and rarely talked about openly.
So when a queer person speaks about sex without shame, or engages with it more visibly and frequently, people react. Words like “hypersexual” get thrown around quickly.
But what people are actually reacting to isn’t excess. It’s the difference. A difference in visibility. A difference in openness. A difference in how sex is allowed to exist publicly versus privately.
When something falls outside of what people are used to seeing, it can feel bigger than it actually is. More intense. More frequent. More extreme. Not because it is, but because it’s unfamiliar.
A lot of people have a complicated, often negative relationship with sex. Not clinical issues like performance anxiety or compulsive behavior, but something more internalized. A belief that sex is inherently inappropriate, something that should stay hidden, something that loses its “value” when talked about openly.
That’s sex-negativity at work.
I was recently told that because of my interest in sex and sexuality, I should be more mindful of how often I bring it up, because it can make people uncomfortable.
And to an extent, that’s fair. Not everyone wants to talk about sex. But that’s true of any topic. Some people don’t want to talk about fashion. Or politics. Or religion. Or astrology.
We don’t expect people to suppress their interests in those areas. So why is sex treated differently?
If someone doesn’t want to engage in that conversation, that boundary should absolutely be respected. But their discomfort isn’t something I need to internalize or manage on their behalf.
I’m not going to watch what I say just because it makes you uncomfortable. I will always respect a boundary, but then don’t be surprised when I start finding people who want to talk about this with me, and dedicate more of my time with them.
Talking about sex, to me, is as normal as talking about anything else.
And when I say I “talk about sex,” I don’t mean I’m going around sharing explicit details about my personal life. I’m not recounting hookups or narrating what happens in a dark room. I save those kinds of stories for the people I know genuinely want to hear about them and talk about them.
I’m talking about sexology.
I’m talking about gender identity. The psychology of kinks and fetishes. Theories of love and intimacy. Sexual dysfunctions that people quietly struggle with. The myths people carry about sex, and the reality that challenges them. I’m having conversations about sex that need to be had so that the sex-negativity lens that shapes society can be dismantled.
Sex is not just behavior. It’s identity, psychology, culture, power, connection.
But when people are operating from a sex-negative framework, they reduce all of it to something crude. They hear “sex” and think it begins and ends with explicit acts.
And that’s the limitation.
Because the world of sex is so much bigger than the stories people tell about it. And until that expands, discomfort will always show up first.
And when that discomfort shows up, people often treat it like evidence. Like the feeling itself proves something about what’s being said.
If they feel uncomfortable, then it must be uncomfortable. If it feels wrong, then it must be wrong.
But that’s the same cognitive trap us therapists are constantly working through with clients. Emotions feel convincing, but they aren’t facts. They’re signals. They tell you something is being activated, not that something is inherently bad or inappropriate.
Discomfort doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong. Sometimes it just means something unfamiliar, or something that challenges what you’ve been taught, is coming into focus.
Listen to your emotions, and start asking yourself some questions. Why am I feeling like this? What about this topic is making me uncomfortable?
The craziest thing is, I’ve been told more than once that my career will be affected by the way I talk about sex. By my blogs. By Sinfull Heart’s Instagram.
And here’s the truth.
First, I’m going into the sex field. So no, it won’t. A sex therapist who writes about sex? Oh my god, the horror.
Second, those people aren’t entirely wrong. There are absolutely places that would see my work and discard my application without a second thought. Not because I’m unqualified, but because I talk about sex openly. That’s sex-negativity at work.
And it’s everywhere. It shapes what’s considered “professional,” what’s considered “appropriate,” what’s allowed to be said out loud.
I’m not worried about it, though. Because I would never want to work in a space that requires me to shrink something so fundamental.
If anything, it makes the direction clearer.
This is the work.
As a queer man, I feel a responsibility to push against that discomfort. To normalize conversations about sex. To make space for people to talk about it, to explore it, to actually enjoy it without shame.
Sex is one of the most human things we do.
So I’m not going to stop writing about it.
I’m not going to stop talking about it.
And I’m definitely not going to stop living it.
Sex is a beautiful thing. Sex is powerful. Sex is art.
I know I’ve thrown myself deep into it. I study it. I’m building a career around it. I’ve built an entire platform around it. And I did that intentionally, because I started to see just how tight of a chokehold sex-negativity has on people.
It dictates what’s acceptable, what’s “too much,” what needs to be hidden.
And I’m not interested in playing by those rules.
If anything, I want my legacy to be the person who stood up against that. The one people tried to label. The “too sexual,” the “hypersexual,” the “slut.” The one who refused to shrink and, in doing so, helped shift how people think about and talk about sex.
So the next time you feel the urge to tell me to dial it down, to be quieter about it, to make it more palatable, I want you to pause and actually look at where that reaction is coming from.
Because more often than not, it’s not about me. It’s about the discomfort you’ve been taught to carry.
And if you’re not ready to question that, that’s fine. But I’m not going to censor myself to make it easier. You can leave me and my world of sex exactly as it is.
No shame. Just Questions