Good Girls Don’t, But We Do: The Silent Sexual Revolution

Growing up as an Indo-Caribbean Muslim girl in a predominantly South Asian community was like playing a game where the rules were never quite clear, but the punishments were swift and severe. Sex was forbidden, sex was shameful, sex was something good girls didn’t think about—but also, sex was everywhere you turned your head. In Bollywood, women like Katrina Kaif are celebrated for their sultry on-screen presence, yet if a woman in real life carried herself in the same manner, she is scorned. The message to me, was loud and clear: sexual expression is for entertainment, not for actual women to embody.

From an early age, I knew sex was something to be hidden, especially as a girl. Boys could make crude jokes, boast about their “conquests”, and face nothing more than a lighthearted slap on the wrist. Girls, on the other hand, were expected to be modest and obedient. Good girls didn’t talk about sex, let alone have it. The unspoken rule was that if you did cross that line, you were somehow used, broken, and unworthy of respect. I learned that lesson the hard way when my high school boyfriend’s mother (who was a little…intense) showed up at my house and told my parents that I was having sex with her son. Now, she wasn’t wrong—I was. But I hadn’t exactly planned on broadcasting that information, because in my world, girls who had sex weren’t just “rebellious” or “wild. They were a disappointment. My dad was abusive, so you can imagine how well that went. And beyond the physical punishment, I was treated as if I had lost my value, like I had done something irreversibly wrong. My parents looked at me like I was used up, and for a long time, I believed them. I was just a teenage girl navigating her first relationship; yet, I was a disgrace.

As a Muslim, sex outside of marriage isn’t just frowned upon—it’s forbidden. So, on top of the cultural shame, I had religious guilt to deal with too. I lost my virginity very early on, in high school, and for years, I carried that secret with the kind of shame that ate me alive. I felt dirty, wrong, like God hated me. And yet, I loved sex. It made me feel connected, desired, and human. But the contrast was always there. I wasn’t just battling culture—I was battling faith, something I still hold dear to my heart.

As a brown girl, you grow up understanding that there are two types of women: the good, modest, obedient ones who uphold family honour, and the bad ones who do whatever they want. And even now, in my late twenties, that stigma still follows me. I still have to hide relationships, still have to be careful about who knows what, because the judgment never really goes away.

And yet, men can talk about it freely. And if men can proudly rack up their body count like it’s a high score in a video game, why should women have to pretend that we don’t love sex just as much? South Asian men often get a free pass. They can sleep around, explore, experiment, and then one day, settle down with a woman who has been expected to stay pure, untouched, and “low mileage” as they call it. Even younger, more modern South Asians talk about sex in whispers, only with close friends—never publicly, never too openly. And if a woman does? If she owns her sexuality, if she speaks on her desires? She’s crucified. It’s the same hypocrisy that fuels Bollywood actresses, who are worshipped for their sex appeal. But if an average woman dared to embody that same confidence? Lo kya kahenge? What will people say? They’ll call her shameless. They’ll tear her down. Because it’s okay to watch a woman be sexy—it’s just not okay for her to actually be.

For a long time, I believed the things I was taught. I believed that women who had sex were dirty, less than. I believed that my body was something to be ashamed of, something to guard so fiercely that I never truly understood it. And then I met my best friend. A South Asian, openly bisexual, and fearless woman. She introduced me to the idea that sex could be something beautiful, something empowering, something to be celebrated rather than feared. She taught me about sex toys, different positions, and how to communicate desires without embarrassment. Seeing her confidence in rejecting cultural norms gave me the strength to start reclaiming my own sexuality. I started seeing sex differently—not as something sinful or secretive, but as something that belonged to me. Not to men, not to my culture. Not to anyone else but, ME.

I learned what made me feel good, what turned me on. I learned that I could cum sixteen times in one night, AND squirt thirteen of those times (which, honestly, deserves a damn medal), and that wasn’t something to be embarrassed about—that was power. I should be proud of my body and how it experiences pleasure. I had spent my entire life being told that sex took something away from me, that it made me less. But the truth? My sexuality is my own. It doesn’t make me less—it makes me whole.

The problem with South Asian culture isn’t just the shame—it’s the silence. Women aren’t taught about their bodies, about pleasure, about ownership. They’re told not to press the button, but never why. And of course, when you tell a child not to do something without explaining it, they just want to do it more. Sex is only acceptable if you’re married, and even then, it’s barely discussed beyond the expectation of producing children. Women are conditioned to believe that their sexual energy should be suppressed, hidden away, or worse, given away without question to a husband who may or may not care about their pleasure. That’s how you get generations of women sneaking around, experimenting in secret, without the knowledge or support they need. And when things go wrong—when an unplanned pregnancy happens, when a girl is ‘caught’—her family feels disgraced. And instead of understanding, there’s punishment, to the extremes such as honour killings. Because controlling women’s bodies is more important than protecting them. The culture claims to be “protecting” women, but what it actually does is rob them of autonomy.

And then here is my  added layer of Indo-Caribbean identity. Among South Asians, Indo-Caribbeans are often viewed as “less than”—as watered-down, overly Westernized versions of “real” Indians. West Indians tend to be more open about their bodies and sexuality, embracing dance, movement, and expression in a way that can seem almost scandalous to more conservative South Asian communities. Because of this, I often felt like I didn’t quite belong in either space. Too Indian for my Caribbean peers, too Caribbean for my Indian ones. It was a constant push and pull between expectations, leaving me feeling like I resonated with both and neither at the same time.

At some point, I had to stop caring about fitting in. I realized that my sexual identity wasn’t something to be ashamed of—it was something to be cherished. I don’t want to be controlled. I don’t want to be told what I can and can’t do with my body. I don’t want to carry the weight of a community’s judgment, just because I exist as a woman who enjoys sex. And I know I’m not alone. South Asian women love sex. We’re women after all. We crave it, we enjoy it, we own it. We just… aren’t allowed to say it out loud.

True sexual liberation isn’t about mindlessly rebelling against tradition—it’s about owning your choices, setting your boundaries, and understanding that your pleasure is just as important as anyone else’s. It’s about rejecting the idea that a woman’s worth is tied to her sexual history. It’s about recognizing that the so-called “biological clock” is a patriarchal construct designed to make women accept less than they deserve. It’s about saying, “Yes, I love sex, and that doesn’t make me any less valuable.”

When I was younger, I let the passive-aggressive comments get to me. The judgment, the disapproval. But now? Now, I see it for what it is—a projection. A bitterness that older generations carry because they never had the chance to choose. But I do. I get to break these boundaries. I get to redefine what it means to be a “good” woman. And that is power.

So yeah, lo kya kahenge? What will people say? Who cares? Let them talk. I’m busy living.