The idea of having a sexual fantasy was something I didn’t want to go near when I first launched into the world of sex and dating. It felt too exposing, too advanced — like being handed a pop quiz on a subject no one had ever taught me.
When men would routinely ask, “What do you like, babe?” I’d cringe. I was already naked in front of them — and now I was expected to give them detailed instructions on how to make me cum? It felt overwhelming.
And the truth was, I didn’t have an answer.
I was surprised by the assumption that I would know — at the very cusp of adulthood — what exactly turned me on. But when I’d tell them “I don’t know”, they rarely believed me.
They assumed I was being coy. Demure. Playing the good girl. Holding back. Just waiting for someone to draw out the real, naughty girl . (A surprisingly normcore kink, I’d come to realise, for many straight men who pride themselves on being very open-minded.)
They’d push — gently, sometimes insistently.
“I won’t judge.”
“I can handle it.”
“Try me.”
But the truth — “I don’t know” — never seemed good enough.
Sometimes I wished I did have an answer. That I could tell them to suck on my ear while they fucked me, or trace a line down the lower part of my back, or apply gentle pressure to that external part of my vulva that would tip me over the edge — just like the women in Hollywood sex scenes always seemed to know.
But instead, I’d throw the question back at them: What do you like?
Looking back, that exchange says a lot. It speaks to one of the core challenges we face around sex, intimacy, and pleasure today: no one teaches us how to talk about it.
I didn’t know what I liked because no one ever taught me about my body. No one told me what female pleasure could look like, let alone how to find it. Sex wasn’t something to explore — it was something to be wary of. Female desire was either shamed or silenced. The only places I ever saw masturbation or period pain mentioned were in the sealed section of a magazine, or whispered about in the back corner of the girls’ bathroom.
So when men asked me about my fantasies — when they expected me to know them and perform them with ease — it felt strange. Jarring, even. Their desire for my sexual self-awareness was at odds with the way the world had treated me up until that point. When I asked questions about sex, or admitted I’d had it, or spoke about it publicly, I was labelled a slut. But now, suddenly, I was supposed to be some kind of expert?
That’s the double bind of female sexuality: You’re supposed to hide it — and understand it. You have to know how to make yourself cum, or risk making someone else feel inadequate. You’re expected to educate your partner on your body — but no one ever told you how it works.
Until now.
I’m here to talk to you about it. I’m here to tell you that learning about your sexual fantasies will set you free.
It’s not about being dirty, or promiscuous, or daring. It’s about learning what you like, why you like it, how to do it, and how to talk about it — in the bedroom and beyond.
Here’s why that matters:
You’ll learn more about your body — and how to care for it.
We grow up being warned about our bodies, but rarely taught how they work. There’s shockingly little accessible information about the nuances of the female sexual system. Hormones? Misunderstood. Painful sex? Often misdiagnosed. And the full internal anatomy of the clitoris? Only properly mapped in 2005. (Yes, really.)
So when it comes to things like arousal, lubrication, orgasm — most of us are left to figure it out alone. Fantasies offer a way in. A clue, a spark, a direction. They help you tune into what feels good, what doesn’t, and what deserves more attention.
Having trouble getting wet? It could be hormonal. Feeling pain during penetration? You might be dealing with something like vaginismus. Exploring your fantasies might not “solve” these things — but it will make you curious enough to ask the right questions, seek the right support, or find products (hello, lube that feels sexy and luxurious) that make you feel more at home in your body.
You’ll feel more confident — in your body and in the bedroom.
There’s a special kind of self-assurance that comes from knowing what your body responds to. When you discover the specifics of your own pleasure — whether that’s deep, internal stimulation or light teasing on your outer labia — you stop outsourcing your satisfaction.
You become more in touch with yourself, which makes you more confident with others. You stop hoping your partner will “just know” what you like, and start feeling empowered to show them. And that’s hot — not just for them, but for you.
Talking about sex becomes less awkward — and more connected.
One of the hardest parts of intimacy isn’t the physical act — it’s the conversation around it. The “what do you like?” and the “was that okay for you?” and the “do you want to try this?”
When you know your own desires — and boundaries — those conversations become easier. You have a language to speak from. You can ask questions, express needs, offer feedback — not from a place of fear or performance, but from curiosity and connection.
This is how the sex gets better. Not just technically — but emotionally, energetically, even spiritually. When two people (or more) feel safe enough to be honest, sex becomes expansive.
It helps you identify what’s not working — and walk away from bad sex sooner.
When you don’t know what good sex feels like, you’re more likely to accept bad sex as the default. Or worse, blame yourself for not enjoying it.
Understanding your fantasies — and the sensations, power dynamics, or emotional themes that turn you on — gives you a sense of what to seek and what to steer clear of. If something feels off, disconnected, or transactional, you’ll know. And you’ll be less likely to stick around just to make someone else feel comfortable.
It gives you permission to explore — without shame.
The act of even thinking about what turns you on can feel taboo — especially if it doesn’t align with what you’ve been taught sex is “supposed” to look like. But fantasies don’t have to be literal. They don’t need to be acted on. They’re a playground for your mind. A way to explore power, pleasure, curiosity, softness, dominance, submission, love, lust — whatever your body is craving in a given season.
When you give yourself permission to fantasise — even just in your own mind — you begin to untangle your desires from your shame. You start choosing for yourself.
And that’s what freedom looks like.
