People who choose abstinence, monogamy or sexual restraint are made to feel as though something is wrong with them. True sexual freedom should include the right not to participate.
First, I must admit that I might be out of my depth here — these are simply personal musings about life as I currently understand it. I welcome responses and critiques, which I would take seriously.
Now in my late twenties, conversations about sex and relationships have become more common among my friends. One recurring question we debate is — who has it easier when it comes to dating or finding a partner for sex?
To be clear, I recognise that relationships exist in many diverse forms, far beyond the traditional, monogamous, heterosexual model. I don’t claim to fully grasp the nuances of every type of relationship. For the sake of focus, however, this reflection concerns relationships between male- and female-presenting individuals.
I used to believe that female-presenting individuals had it easier when it came to dating, largely because they typically aren’t expected to initiate interactions or make the first move. In many cases, it seems they just need to dress up and show up and there will be no shortage of people vying for their attention. Of course, I now recognise that this perception is heavily shaped by “pretty privilege”, which disproportionately benefits conventionally attractive women.
A friend once challenged my view by pointing out that this dynamic — being pursued rather than pursuing — can be disempowering. It places women in the passive position of waiting to be chosen which, upon reflection, doesn’t sound empowering at all.
Some of my female-presenting friends argue that men, particularly heterosexual men, have it easier. They are seen as the ones who do the choosing and, crucially, enjoy broader social backing for their behaviour. For example, a man who has multiple sexual partners is often celebrated or, at the very least, not judged harshly — whereas a woman who does the same is frequently shamed.
This discrepancy reflects deeper patriarchal structures that centre men socially and culturally. These structures often allow men to navigate life with fewer social constraints and less moral scrutiny. While it’s arguably true that men benefit from these systems, I don’t believe that societal validation necessarily confers moral legitimacy. The fact that society might praise or excuse a man who sleeps with many women doesn’t make the act inherently admirable or ethically sound.
Building on arguments like the one above — which only begin to scratch the surface — I’ve come to believe that the more important question is not who gets sex more easily, but rather, what are people’s orientations toward sex? In today’s world, either party in a heterosexual dynamic can theoretically have as much sex as they want, although it’s true that society often treats one more favourably than the other for doing so.
I support people exploring their sexualities freely but I believe two important considerations are often overlooked. The first is self-control. Does experiencing a sexual urge automatically justify acting on it — or even having multiple partners to satisfy it? A common retort is, “It’s just sex.” But, in reality, it isn’t just sex. Like in physics, every action has a consequence — though these might be less visible in the moment.
Every sexual act, I believe, involves an exchange — not only of physical presence, but of something deeper. For example, bodily fluids like saliva or semen contain DNA, which is foundational to our biological identity. While these exchanges might not have immediate or visible effects, I suspect they register somewhere in our being, perhaps even subtly shaping how we relate to ourselves and others.
Moreover, sexual intimacy triggers powerful hormonal responses. Oxytocin, often called the “bonding hormone”, is released during and after orgasm, creating emotional and psychological ties between partners. These biological realities are often minimised in favour of momentary pleasure but they suggest that sex carries more significance — physically, emotionally and spiritually — than we often admit.
The second point — and, in fact, my main motivation for writing this piece — is the subtle but growing pressure placed on those who choose not to “explore” sexually, particularly those who, by personal conviction, do not wish to have multiple sexual partners. A striking irony is emerging in contemporary discourse — while many champion sexual liberty and personal choice, that freedom is often only respected when it aligns with dominant expectations. In other words, you’re free to do what you want — as long as what you want is what everyone else considers liberating.
Increasingly, people who choose abstinence, monogamy or sexual restraint are made to feel as though they’re missing out, failing to live fully, or even that something might be wrong with them. The pressure to “just have sex” or “have more partners” can be subtle or overt but it undermines the very principle of autonomy that sexual liberation claims to uphold.
This is deeply problematic. True freedom should include the right not to participate, the right to say no without shame and the right to define one’s values and boundaries on one’s own terms. People should be supported in expressing their sexuality — or their decision not to — regardless of whether it aligns with cultural trends or popular narratives. Authentic self-expression sometimes means going against what is expected. That, too, is a valid form of liberation.
Sex, as a deeply pleasurable act with the profound potential to create life, deserves to be acknowledged for what it truly is — something far more significant than just another casual activity or physical exercise. While people are free to explore their sexuality and have multiple partners if they so choose, those who decide otherwise should be equally respected. Choosing restraint, monogamy or abstinence is no less valid than choosing openness or experimentation.
Ultimately, sexuality is a deeply personal journey. Different people have different values, goals and paths toward fulfillment — and they should be free to navigate those paths without judgment or pressure. True sexual freedom lies not in doing what is popular or expected but in having the agency to choose what aligns with one’s own convictions, however that may look.
Emmanuel Anoghena Oboh is a PhD student of philosophy at the Center of Applied Ethics, Stellenbosch University.