When was the first time you felt sexy?

As simple as the question is, it’s kind of loaded.

Growing up as a first-gen Nigerian, I think I can speak for many when I say that topics of love, sex, and relationships were seldom spoken about in my household. If we did partake in such taboo conversation, it was often reserved for the occasional rebuffing of someone else’s—usually a woman’s—sex life.

Lessons on chastity and value were inherently tied to my virginity. And in my household, these lessons were taught through the banning of secular music, male friends, or girlfriends deemed too “saucy.” Though it wasn’t as awful as it sounds (or maybe it was and I compartmentalized it), my upbringing very much fell in line with the Madonna/whore dichotomy. It’s a very common binary that society places on women where she’s either a saintly woman to be respected and revered (the Madonna) or is...well, a whore—a woman not worthy of respect, care or concern.

For Black women, this concept is even more complex when we think about in relation to the stereotypical tropes assigned to us: the jezebel, the mammy, the sapphire, and the welfare queen. According to my parents, their goal was to ensure their first daughter never became the next jezebel, and remained as “pure” as possible. As a result, there was no conversation about the birds and the bees. Instead, I was chastised against wearing makeup, or wearing trendy clothes; revealing, form-fitting, or otherwise. It’s no wonder that by the time I left for college, I was a complete blank slate about what sex and sexuality meant. My knowledge existed solely within the very rigid and religion soaked misogynistic framework.

As I moved through college and graduate school, I began to form my own feelings and thoughts around my sexual agency, and what being a woman meant to me. I can thank my Afro and Gender & Women’s Studies courses and professors for making sure I was fully engaged with the material. Once I was presented with these new ideas, I started to analyze my life through a Black feminist lens, and subsequently spent my early 20s interrogating how I had been socialized to view my sexuality.

As a fat, darker-skinned Black woman, who’s not thick in the hips, butt, or thighs, sexy is not a word I was used to hearing others use to describe me—blame society’s unattainable beauty standards, and how we continue to perpetuate them. But in confronting this term, I realized that I had internalized everyone else’s idea of what sexy was, and decided very early on that I simply just didn’t “fit in.”

“As I moved through college and graduate school, I began to form my own feelings and thoughts around my sexual agency, and what being a woman meant to me.”

Recently, my sorority sister, Mel, introduced us to her fiancée, a sex coach, who offered group sex therapy sessions at her virtual studio, Misha’s Room. One day, after randomly dropping a sign-up link into our group chat, she encouraged us to register, if we felt comfortable. I figured, “why not?” I didn’t have anything to lose, and I was definitely curious.

I wasn’t really sure how to prepare for a group sex therapy session, but once I made it to Misha’s room, I was committed to the experience. With the initial nervous jitters out the way, we jumped right into talking about sex: what we were taught, what it meant to us personally, and how we navigated our sex and dating lives.

The group session was initially quite awkward, which wasn’t surprising. Despite how ingrained sex is in modern American society, it’s still taboo for some to discuss freely; especially amongst women. At first, I’ll admit, participating in the conversation took some warming up to. But, thanks to Misha’s candor, I loosened up, and before I knew it, we were put into breakout rooms.

Two other Black women joined me in my room—let’s call them Lynn and Maya. Our question: “When was the first time you felt sexy?”

After I read the question aloud, there was a very pregnant pause between the three of us. I even heard an awkward chuckle as we thought about this very simple, yet very loaded question. Lynn decided to tackle the question first. Her answer, in short, was when she first began to wear lingerie. Makes sense, I thought. Lingerie is sexy; the French word personified sexy, and images of women in lingerie were usually very sexy (see: any SavageXFenty model).

Maya went next and talked about her sexiness, in relation to her gender presentation. Growing up in a conservative household, she was forced to wear “traditionally” feminine things: dresses and skirts, and colours like pink and purple. It wasn’t until she traded in her skirts for less form-fitting, more masculine-presenting clothing, that she remembered feeling sexy.

Then it was my turn. I noticed they both talked about what they wore as a means to feeling sexy, but for me, I simply couldn’t relate. To this day, I’ve never purchased lingerie. Not because I didn’t want to, but because nothing fit. My bra cup is a triple G, and as most fuller busted femmes would know, it’s hard out here in these trenches. Even the aforementioned SavageXFenty barely ever has pieces my size, and the extended sizes they do have are slim to begin with; a big critique of mine since the brand launched in 2018.

“I noticed they both talked about what they wore as a means to feeling sexy, but for me, I simply couldn’t relate.”

I found myself thinking back to middle school when I started developing these tig ol’ bitties, and how, at the young age of 11, I began getting objectified by my peers—both boys and girls, but especially the boys. Catcalling, crude comments, unwanted touching, and “hot or not” lists, were a part of my daily nightmare. I specifically remember an incident where a male classmate called me a “butterface,” because I had a fine ass body but my face wasn’t it.

In retrospect, perhaps that’s when others began to label me “sexy” (well, sexy enough to objectify). But what about myself? I thought back to my first relationship, which ended a year ago last May, and lasted just as long. Surely, I had to feel sexy at certain points while I was with my ex, right? As I racked my brain, I couldn’t pinpoint a single moment where I remembered feeling “sexy.” Sure, he complimented me, and called me pretty or beautiful, but sexy? I couldn’t think of a single time he’d said it, or a time where I truly felt it. It would seem that for as long as I could remember, I've always struggled to identify with that adjective. As I explored the origins of this feeling, I realized that a lot of it had to do with my upbringing, and the added social pressures of who we deem to be “sexy.”

“Sexiness is more than putting on lingerie (or taking it off), and it’s more than simply being told you are. Yes, ‘sexy’ is an adjective we can ascribe ourselves and others to, but more importantly, it’s a feeling.”

Talking this through with my group members for about 30 minutes allowed me to begin to see sexiness as a complex concept and not just a concrete state of being. Sexiness is more than putting on lingerie (or taking it off), and it’s more than simply being told you are. Yes, ‘sexy’ is an adjective we can ascribe ourselves and others to, but more importantly, it’s a feeling. A feeling I thought I couldn’t experience because of my upbringing, my lackluster dating life, or the fact that I wasn’t the right kind of thick. I let everyone define what sexy meant and failed to examine what I wanted (or needed) it to mean for me.

Though I still can’t specifically pinpoint the first time I felt sexy, I can say that it’s a word that doesn’t feel so foreign to me anymore. Sometimes I feel sexy in sweats and a hoodie, while other times it’s when I perfected my wing liner (a rarity, given my astigmatism). But most all, I feel sexiest when I affirm it for myself.