Why Your Story of Sex Matters
Sex is… more complicated than we think. Increasingly, I am finding people coming to my office to understand why sex isn’t working for them like it used to. Even though this is one of the most common presentations, it is notoriously one of the more difficult, or at least longer phenomena, to unpack. This is because outside the physiological expression of sex as we know it (erections, engorgement, lubrication), the psychology or ‘stories’ we hold about sex (and relationships for that matter) are uncomfortably influential. These ideas are nothing new, and have infact been thought about for decades. I do however want to give a nod to the work of sex psychologist Suzanne Iasenza, who wrote Transforming Sexual Narratives: A Relational Approach to Sex Therapy. Her understanding and articulation of sexual narratives have become a bedrock in how I conceptualise and work with clients who are struggling in this area.
Before I begin, I should say here that such a presentation is complex, and in no way will this blog post give a comprehensive answer to such a question. This is just one direction such therapy can go.
How it begins…
Our understanding of sex and relationships is a story we start writing from our earliest memories, piecing together a personal narrative from all we observe and experience. Some of these messages are explicit. They can be harsh, like a homophobic slur shouted in the school playground or a sex-ed class that only ever talks about infections. They can also be connecting, like a parent reassuring you that who you love is okay or a direct conversation about the importance of consent.
But most of our story is written by the implicit messages - the ones we absorb without ever being taught directly. We learn from the unspoken curriculum of family: the space between our parents’ hands, whether they clasped easily or kept a careful distance. We take from the dramatic sagas of our siblings' loves. We absorb the fairy tales we read and the sunlit couples we see on TV to the harsher, contrasting messages scrawled in graffiti or found on the cold metal of a condom machine. From this collage of impressions, we begin to write our script, or as I prefer, our story.
The Unconscious Blueprint
This story, written throughout our life not just in the ink of childhood experience and observation, doesn't just sit on a shelf. It becomes the unconscious blueprint for our adult connections. It functions like an operating system running silently in the background, dictating our expectations for love, intimacy, and conflict. It informs what we believe a 'normal' relationship looks like, how affection should be expressed, what a good sex life entails, and how arguments should be resolved. It doesn’t just stop in adolescence either. It continues to be written and re-written with every relationship we have. Messages being reinforced or reinvented by the intimate exchanges we are met by.
One person’s story might dictate that love is proven through grand romantic gestures, because that’s the narrative they absorbed from films. Another’s might say that love is demonstrated through quiet, practical acts of service, like making a cup of tea, because that’s the language their parents spoke. Neither story is inherently right or wrong. But they are different. And a long as they stay unconscious or unexpressed, they can cause a collision.
The Collision of Stories
This is where we run into trouble. When we enter a relationship, we aren’t just bringing our present-day selves; we are bringing our entire, unread storybook with us. The core of most relationship conflict is, in essence, a collision of stories. It's like two actors on a stage, trying to perform a play together, but each is reading from a completely different script.
The person whose script defines love through grand gestures feels unseen and unloved by their partner’s practical offerings. Meanwhile, the partner who shows love through practical acts feels their constant, quiet efforts are unappreciated. They are both speaking a language of, what they have come to know as love, but their internal stories have taught them completely different dialects.
They end up arguing about "the dishes" when the real, unspoken conflict is about this fundamental difference in their blueprints: "You aren't showing me love in the way my story says you should." This is where intimacy breaks down. This friction, born from colliding stories, doesn't just cause arguments; it often manifests physically and emotionally. It can show up as a confusing loss of desire, difficulty maintaining an erection, or a pattern of mixed behaviours that leaves both partners feeling disconnected and hurt.
Becoming the Author of Your Story
The good news is that we are not bound to these initial drafts forever. The most crucial step toward healthier, more conscious relationships is to make the implicit, explicit. To become the author, you must first become the archaeologist of your own story. And this is what I do in my practice with clients. However, for those who do not have access to a therapist, I recommend the following:
Become Curious: Start by asking questions. Where did I learn this belief about sex? What messages did I receive about conflict? Does my idea of a perfect relationship serve me, or does it set me and my partner up for failure? This isn’t about blaming your parents or your past; it’s about understanding the material you’re working with.
Share Your Scripts: The next step is vulnerability. It involves sharing your story with your partner (or future partner) and, just as importantly, becoming a curious and non-judgemental reader of theirs. It’s moving from "Why can't you be more like this?" to "Help me understand why that is important to you."
This dialogue turns a collision into a collaboration. And with collaboration, understanding and emotional attunement, we can find increased safety, intimacy and erotic charge.
Ultimately, while the first version of our relationship story was written for us, we hold the pen now. By understanding the narratives we bring into our connections, we gain the power to consciously edit them. We can choose to keep the chapters that bring us joy and connection, and together with our partners, we can begin to write a new, shared story—one that is uniquely and authentically our own.
And this is why your story of sex matters.
