This Isn’t About Sex (But It Is)

Issue One: The First Time I Was Asked About My Job Mid-Orgasm

I always enjoy people’s first reaction when I tell them I’m a sexologist.

Some chuckle and ask, “What exactly does that involve?”

Others raise their eyes to the heavens as if they can’t believe such a science exists.

And some—my personal favourites—show signs of genuine fear: pupils dilate, breath goes shallow, fingers fidget, arms cross, and—most tellingly—they stop making eye contact altogether.

After all, sexology is the psychological study of sex.

If psychologists are thought to read minds…

what dark corners of the psyche might a sexologist reach?

The first time someone asked me what I really do for a living, we were both naked.

He’d just finished coming. Hard.

Laid out across my bed like a half-melted sculpture, breathless, sweat-drenched, god-like.

He turned his head toward me and said—without irony—

“So… like, what’s your actual job?”

Naturally, I put the kettle on.

Because… well, how long have you got? People always want to know.

Not just what I do—but how.

And more importantly, how I became the kind of person who can look you dead in the eye while saying the words shame, power, surrender, breath, penis without blinking.

It’s not because I’m fearless.

It’s because I got tired of watching people shrink.

Tired of seeing women apologise for wanting to be worshipped.

Tired of watching men crave emotional closeness but not know how to ask for it.

Tired of people treating sex like a punchline, a performance, a transaction, or a dirty little thing to be managed.

So I studied. I travelled. I listened.

I danced. I fucked. I cried.

And then I listened some more.

Because the truth is—

sex will show you who you are.

And most people aren’t ready to look.

They’ll joke about kinks they secretly crave.

They’ll call porn naughty while watching it in the dark.

They’ll pretend monogamy is romantic when it’s really just the only language they were ever taught.

But how you think about sex, desire it, avoid it, long for it, or numb it—

tells me more about who you are than almost anything else.

Once, I told a guy I was dating that I was conceived on a cool spring night—

after my parents had returned home from a Persian feast.

They made love clumsily in their little house with paint peeling off the walls,

but love—undeniable—hovered thick in the room like rosewater and steam.

My existence began the moment my father rolled off my mother

and collapsed into a food coma, courtesy of my auntie’s irresistible cooking and an excess of sweets and tea after dinner.

That part’s true—my parents did conceive me one spring night.

As for the rest… well, those are mine.

I like to fill in the blanks.

“You imagine your parents having sex?” He nearly choked.

“You don’t?”

I’ve never understood the discomfort some people feel about knowing that we all exist because our parents—at some point—had sex.

It’s not disturbing to me. I find it almost poetic actually.

And that, dear reader, is what this series of blog is about.

Not sex for its own sake—

but sex as mirror, metaphor, and map.

Sex as language. As legacy. As the story beneath the story.

So… welcome.

Take a seat.

Pour the tea.

Let’s begin.