Womanist Sapphic Reflections on Sex, Desire, and Power by Chaz J.

**This post is based on my personal experience, research, survivor of the purity movement, and professional experience as a therapist and spiritual advisor of 5 years.

**Sapphic = women loving women <3

Everything is sex, except sex- which is power. Now ask yourself who is screwing you. – Janelle Monae

Desire, a flame that flickers, not always fanned to embers of the flesh, but today, let’s speak of its carnal heat, its dance with power, its intimate embrace with sex. 

A tempest roils within, desire’s current a raging, untamed beast. A lifetime shrouded in the gloom of putrified dread, where yearning was condemned, branded a scarlet path to eternal fire, has left its indelible scar. The hollow pronouncements of warning, like the venomous whisper of James 1:14-15, still slither within, etched into the marrow of my bones: “Temptation comes from our own desires, which entice us and drag us away. These desires give birth to sinful actions. And when sin is allowed to grow, it gives birth to death.” These words, seared into my soul, a brand of shame, a constant, gnawing reminder of the perceived treachery of wanting, the supposed sin of simply feeling and wanting.

I once believed desire was a mark of my own brokenness, a devil’s snare laid for my ruin. Evangelical purity culture, a twisted theology, brainwashed me to flee from yearning, lest I become stained with sin, a thing defiled, forever needing absolution. “Damaged goods,” they whispered. My youth pastor’s words echo still, a hammer blow: to succumb was to drive nails into Christ’s own flesh. This toxic creed stole from me a healthy relationship with my own body, with the very essence of desire and sexuality. Jesus Christ, what unbearable weight to place on any soul!

To feel desire is human, a fundamental truth. I have spent many hours praying for God to remove my desire. This is sad. The purity movement, I now see, carries the stench of cult-like manipulation. Unlearning this poison has been a long, arduous journey. A decade it took to loosen the grip of guilt and shame, to dare to embrace the pleasure of the moment. Even now, I must consciously remind myself: it is okay. My relationship with desire, with sex, with the vibrant energy that flows through me, is still in metamorphosis, a constant becoming.

Decolonizing my mind, untangling the twisted tendrils of imposed shame, was a long winding path to hell. In fact, it forced me to challenge my beliefs and fears of hell and understand how my fears and attachment to hell were exploited and manipulated. Only then could I begin to embrace my own sexual energy—that vibrant, erotic life force and a powerful source of transformation, personally and socially, that flows within every human being, as bell hooks and Audre Lorde so eloquently taught. To see it as neutral, a power within me, mine to subdue and direct, mine to utilize in ways that nurture and empower me.

We, the survivors of the purity movement, carry unseen wounds, sexual dysfunctions that manifest in myriad ways, as “Purity Culture and Its Effect on Mental Health” so starkly reveals. From broken trust and intimacy to the desperate grasp of sex and love addictions (as well as  many other addictive behaviors which are a source of emotional pain).  The damage runs deep. Victoria Monet’s words echo our shared experience: “girls can’t never say that they want it, girls can’t never say how.”

My own journey has been profoundly shaped by these ancient, patriarchal beliefs, these insidious whispers about desire and sex that still cling to the unconscious. They are the remnants of evangelical indoctrination. My sex life, my self-esteem, my body image, the very lens through which I perceive gender—all bear the imprint of this toxic ideology. Purity culture, in its extremism, its utter lack of realism, breeds only self-loathing, a deep and abiding hatred for the very essence of our humanity.

This is why I find solace in the yogic concept of brahmacharya. Though often translated as celibacy, modern teachers and scholars illuminate its deeper meaning: moderation. I prefer to think of it as balance. Sexual energy, a force of immense power, capable of creation and destruction, demands respect. Discipline, equilibrium—these are the keys to a healthy relationship with this potent energy, with the very current of desire.

Don’t get me wrong, there were episodes in my life in which I was on fire for a boyfriend. I dated a man for 4 years in college and the long term commitment allowed time for us to be comfortable enough to know each other intimately in a multi dimensional way. Sex was a meditation where we were both able to be present. No matter how hard I tried, I would inevitably be present to the immense shame and guilt I felt during and after my sexual encounters. I have had very few long term connections since then. 

Guilt and shame, those unwelcome bedfellows, have haunted my intimate life. I feared my yearning for love, for connection, for the simple joy of touch, had vanished, becoming nothing more than smoke. The fire that once burned so brightly (due to hormones), threatening to consume my very soul, seemed to have been extinguished. I blamed the weariness of single motherhood, the endless demands of raising a spirited child. But the truth, when it finally emerged, was a revelation: I had not been living authentically in my unique sexuality. Giving myself permission to explore my attraction to women was like striking a match to tinder. The extinguished torch burst into flame, not just a flame, but a blazing star, radiating the power of creation, a sacred sun within.

Giving myself permission to unfurl, like a flower finally reaching for the sun, into the fullness of my authentic sexuality—it was a revolution of the self, a rebirth of the soul. It was one of the most natural things I have ever done for myself. It was less of a reach and more of an embrace.

Sex with men vs women

“Enlightened women want fulfilling erotic encounters as much as men, but we ultimately prefer erotic satisfaction within a context where there is a loving, intimate connection. If men were socialized to desire love as much as they are taught to desire sex, we would see a cultural revolution.” – bell hooks

My experience with men has often felt like a transaction, a scratching of a primal itch. Practical, urgent, the energy a harsh, aggressive thing—a style many find desirable, a flavor I myself once thought I craved, before self-discovery opened my eyes to other possibilities. Yet, always, there was an emotional chasm, an inability, perhaps even an avoidance, of true intimacy, a connection I yearned for with the desperation of addiction. The hungry ghosts are what kept me pining. This craving, this attachment, this constant seeking of emotional fulfillment, drew me back, again and again, to men incapable of meeting my deepest human needs. 

Even as an awakened woman, I am still susceptible to the whispers of unconscious programming. The last time I lay with a man, it was out of a sense of obligation, a “should” rather than a “want.” I wasn’t fully aware of this at the time. The encounter itself brought no joy, only a creeping discomfort, especially physically. In the days that followed, flashbacks surfaced, triggering a visceral cringe. Months later, unexplained aches settled in my hip and back. As the prospect of another encounter loomed, a nervous dread took root, making intimacy impossible. Even he acknowledged the forced nature of our connection. This experience illuminated, with stark clarity, the puppeteer strings of power dynamics embedded in my own psyche that had controlled my sexual life for so long. Being with women, experiencing true equality (outside the bonds of sisterhood) for the first time, felt foreign, disorienting, and even frightening.

Hannah Mayderry (LMHC) speaks truth: purity culture, with its evangelical roots, can breed “aggression, a lack of impulse control, and making excuses for behavior that is not at all acceptable.” Toxic masculinity, a pervasive cultural cancer, thrives in this environment of unchecked power, where accountability is a ghost and acting on impulse is normalized. Purity culture, in its twisted logic, shields men from the consequences of their actions, perpetuating the very system that polices women’s bodies and actions, a system that so easily bleeds into the realm of abuse. *** Not all men of course!

Since delving into the wisdom of yogic philosophy and tantra, where sex and sexual energy are revered as a life force, a pathway to the divine, I have yearned for an experience of sacred sexuality. Yet, the partners I chose were incapable of meeting me there. Lacking intention, willingness to restructure our sexual connection, emotional availability, maturity, and intelligence, clinging to rigid gender roles, conditioned to excuse their “uncontrollable” urges, they could not be present with me. And I, still carrying the weight of purity teachings, was disconnected from my own body.

Sapphic love (women loving women)

My experiences with women, while varied, share a common thread: emotional maturity and intelligence, self-awareness, respect for boundaries woven through open and honest communication, vulnerability, intimacy, comfort, care, affection, recognition, and a deep, resonant sexual desire. These qualities, echoing bell hooks’ definition of love, have allowed me to feel emotionally fulfilled, to make love both in and out of the bedroom. While love may not have always been the final destination, the journey has been rich with high caliber connection.

In these sapphic encounters, the energy is different—softer, both physically and energetically. It is sensual, a slow burn, a dance of vulnerability. Sensual in the truest sense, engaging all the senses. Sex becomes more than a physical act; it is a yearning for connection that transcends the flesh. It is smooth as butter, as soulful as jazz, a symphony of communication and mutual give-and-take, at least on an energetic plane.

In reflecting on my intimacy with women, I find my words drawn to the subtle currents of energy, the comfort of shared embraces, the whispered intimacies, the love made that spills over into the world, amplifying the love I cultivate within it. It is empowering, a balm to my nervous system, a lullaby, a Gregorian chant that soothes, restores, and balances. Yet, it is also a force, potent enough to awaken me to new realities. And above all, it is mine. My choices, my voice, my hesitations, my preferences, my boundaries—all are honored, all are equal.

For years, I’ve pondered the powerful threads connecting liberated Black women and queerness. Why are so many of my literary heroines, women whose lives are testaments to liberation, justice, equality, poetry, and peace, lesbians? Sharing this observation for the first time, I find it fosters empathy—empathy for homophobic communities gripped by fear of women’s liberation, and empathy for those women who resist liberation themselves, denying themselves pleasurable alternatives, shackled by internalized homophobia, self-ignorance, and the toxic theologies they’ve absorbed.

To say “yes” to liberation is to step into the unknown, a journey I know well, a path strewn with the obstacles of fear. A road to and through hell. While the precise nature of this connection remains a mystery, I am eternally grateful to proudly carry the mantle of “Radical Black Feminist lezbos,” ascended to the ranks of Audre Lorde, bell hooks, Angela Davis, and the countless others who have come before me.

This song by one of my favorite artists that embodies cosmic love sings a song that resonates deeply with me. She introduced this song at her concert that I got to witness as “this is a song about queer Black love.”

She sings, 

Gold, I come from a city of gold
Where I had a lover, Marisol
Adorned head to toe in gold, yeah
She moved me
Addicted to her love and she soothed me
She never ever abused me
Hold my mighty soul in gold.