A few days ago, I came across a Facebook post that asked a simple question: “Would you date someone who is bisexual?”Predictably, the responses were all over the place. Some people said yes without hesitation. Others responded with an immediate and emphatic no. What caught my attention, however, wasn’t the diversity of opinions—it was how quickly the conversation turned to assumptions about trust, fidelity, and deception.

For many respondents, bisexuality itself was treated as a red flag. The assumption seemed to be that a bisexual person is somehow more likely to cheat because they are attracted to more than one gender. Others argued that bisexuality is merely a stop along the road to being gay: a phase, a form of confusion, or an inability to fully accept one’s “true” identity. These ideas continue to circulate despite years of research and lived experiences that tell a far more complex story.

What’s particularly interesting is that bisexuality is no longer a marginal identity. According to recent Gallup data, approximately 5.3% of U.S. adults identify as bisexual, making bisexual people the largest segment of the LGBTQ+ population. In fact, nearly 59% of LGBTQ+ adults identify as bisexual. Yet despite their numbers, bisexual people often remain misunderstood, stigmatized, and viewed through a lens of suspicion.

I understand why some people may have concerns about dating someone who identifies as bisexual. Questions naturally arise. Will they eventually want something I cannot provide? Will attraction to another gender become a source of dissatisfaction? Am I competing with everyone?

But aren’t these the very conversations we’re supposed to have while dating?

Isn’t the purpose of dating to learn a person’s character, values, and intentions? We ask about honesty, communication, finances, family goals, spirituality, and long-term compatibility. We try to determine whether someone is trustworthy, faithful, emotionally available, and capable of commitment. So if someone is willing to openly disclose their bisexuality—a part of themselves that is often met with judgment—isn’t that evidence of honesty rather than deception? In a culture where so many people hide important parts of themselves, why do we often punish transparency when we receive it?

My response to the Facebook post was simple: As long as the person is honest, faithful, and committed to the relationship, their bisexuality is not the issue.

Because the truth is that sexual orientation does not determine whether someone will cheat. Character does. That led me to ask another question, one that was far less popular: Why do people enter heterosexual relationships every day without assuming infidelity, yet immediately question the loyalty of bisexual people?

The responses revealed something deeper than concerns about cheating. Many people expressed a sense of powerlessness. If a partner cheats with someone of the same gender, some felt there was no way to compete. A woman cannot become a man. A man cannot become a woman. The issue wasn’t necessarily betrayal, it was the fear of being unable to compare. To me, that sounds less like a conversation about bisexuality and more like a conversation about insecurity, gender expectations, and ego.

Let’s be honest: for many people, especially in communities where masculinity and sexuality remain heavily policed, the discomfort has less to do with fidelity and more to do with the idea of a partner who has had experiences outside traditional heterosexual norms. This reality helps explain why so many bisexual individuals continue to conceal parts of their identity, even within otherwise loving relationships.

And that raises important questions:

• Do our assumptions about bisexuality discourage honest conversations between partners?

• Do we genuinely want our partners to tell us the truth, or only the truths we are comfortable hearing?

• If a bisexual person is monogamous, faithful, and fully committed to their relationship, is disclosure about past attractions or experiences always necessary, or is that expectation rooted in the stigma attached to the label itself?

Perhaps the better question is this: When we hear that someone is bisexual, are we responding to who they are or to the stereotypes we’ve been taught to believe about them?

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There is something profoundly sacred about listening to elders tell the truth.

Not the polished truth. Not the social media version. Not the story edited for comfort. The whole truth.

For many Black gay men over 50, survival itself is a testimony.

We came of age in a world that often demanded silence. We learned to navigate racism within LGBTQIA+ spaces while simultaneously confronting homophobia within our families, communities, and churches. Many of us spent years trying to reconcile identities that society insisted could not coexist. Black. Gay. Faithful. Masculine. Vulnerable. Whole.

Yet here we are.

Conversations Over 50 is more than a roundtable discussion. It is a living archive of wisdom, resilience, grief, joy, and hope. I took time to gather a few close friends (Dustin, Curtis, Vincent, and Norris) for a raw, honest, and heartfelt conversation about where we have been, where we are, and what we hope for future generations.

These are not simply our stories. They are lessons.

The Mental Weight We Carried

For many Black gay men over 50, mental wellness was rarely discussed and even more rarely supported. Many grew up in homes where depression was called weakness, anxiety was dismissed as worry, and trauma was expected to be endured quietly. Add the realities of racism, homophobia, rejection, and secrecy, and the emotional burden became immense.

A lot of us learned to compartmentalize. We became experts at code-switching. We monitored our speech, our mannerisms, our relationships, and sometimes even our dreams. Living under constant scrutiny often produced chronic stress, hypervigilance, loneliness, and internalized shame. Some struggled with depression. Some wrestled with substance use. Some even contemplated ending their lives.

The remarkable truth is that despite carrying these invisible burdens, we still became leaders, caregivers, advocates, professionals, ministers, artists, and community builders. Yet survival should never be confused with healing. One of the most powerful aspects of the gathering is the opportunity to speak openly about the emotional costs of living authentically in a world that often demanded conformity.

The Physical Toll of Survival

The body remembers what the mind attempts to forget. Decades of chronic stress can contribute to hypertension, heart disease, sleep disorders, diabetes, and other health challenges disproportionately impacting Black communities.

Let us not forget the impact of HIV. Entire generations witnessed unimaginable loss. Friends disappeared. Partners died. Communities were devastated. Many of us lived through an era when an HIV diagnosis was often perceived as a death sentence. Others became caregivers long before they had learned how to care for themselves.

Even today, aging Black gay men face significant healthcare disparities, stigma, and barriers to culturally competent care. Discussions about aging, sexuality, mental health, and wellness are often absent from public conversations. This roundtable creates space to discuss those realities honestly while celebrating the resilience that has carried so many through difficult seasons.

The Social Cost of Being Different

We understand what it feels like to exist between worlds. Too Black for some LGBTQIA+ spaces. Too gay for some Black spaces. Too spiritual for some circles. Too outspoken for others. This experience often created profound social isolation.

Some of us lost friends we thought would be with us for a lifetime. Some were met with silence from parents whose embrace once felt unconditional. Others became experts at shrinking themselves; carefully editing their words, hiding their relationships, and concealing pieces of their identity simply to remain loved, accepted, or safe.

The result was a loneliness that is difficult to describe. Not the loneliness of an empty room, but the loneliness of sitting in a room full of people and still feeling invisible. The loneliness of being known, but not fully seen. Loved, but only in part. Yet somehow, from that pain, something beautiful emerged. We found one another.

We built chosen families when our biological families could not understand us. We created community where none existed. We transformed our wounds into advocacy, our isolation into connection, and our survival into a pathway for others. Out of rejection came resilience. Out of loneliness came lifelong friendships rooted not in obligation, but in authenticity, love, and mutual care.

We represent a generation that helped create many of the spaces younger LGBTQIA+ people now enjoy. Our stories should remind them that their ability to be “visible” did not happen accidentally. It was built through courage, sacrifice, and persistence.

Love, Relationships, and the Search for Belonging

Love has always been complicated for Black gay men. For many, early relationships existed in secrecy. Holding hands in public was risky. Introducing a partner to family was often impossible. Long-term commitment sometimes required navigating rejection, shame, and fear. Som experienced profound love and many experienced profound loss.

Some lost relationships because society offered few models for healthy same-sex partnerships. Others remained single, not because they lacked the desire for companionship, but because finding safe, affirming love was often difficult. Yet amid these challenges, countless Black gay men built extraordinary lives filled with meaningful relationships, friendship, intimacy, and purpose. Their stories challenge harmful stereotypes and remind us that queer love has always existed, even when society refused to acknowledge it.

What Today’s Youth Can Learn

One of the most beautiful aspects of this conversation is the bridge it creates between generations. Today’s LGBTQIA+ youth have access to language, visibility, representation, and community that previous generations could scarcely imagine. While challenges certainly remain, many young people now grow up seeing examples of queer joy, queer families, queer leadership, and queer possibility. The men of Conversations Over 50 celebrate that progress. But we also offer perspective. Reminding viewers that rights can be challenged. Progress can be fragile. Community requires stewardship. Visibility must be accompanied by responsibility. And most importantly, we remind that resilience is not something we inherit automatically but cultivated through struggle, connection, and purpose.

Why This Conversation Matters Now

Every generation has something to teach. Every generation has something to learn. At a time when conversations about identity, belonging, faith, race, and sexuality remain deeply contested, our voices offer a perspective that is too often overlooked. We are living witnesses to history. We survived eras many younger people know only through books and documentaries. We have endured rejection and discovered acceptance. We have experienced loss and found reasons to keep loving. We have watched the world change. And we are still here.

Laughing.

Teaching.

Challenging.

Encouraging.

Building.

Dreaming.

Conversations Over 50 is not simply about looking back. It is about honoring the past while helping shape the future. Because every story matters. Every voice matters. And every generation deserves to know that they are standing on the shoulders of those who came before them.

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In 2026, conversations about LGBTQ+ people are everywhere. They fill social media timelines, dominate political debates, shape church conversations, and fuel endless commentary from people who often know very little about the lives they are discussing. While visibility has increased, so too has scrutiny. For many LGBTQ+ people, particularly those whose identities are easily recognized by others, visibility can feel less like freedom and more like exposure.

Despite decades of progress, harmful stereotypes and derogatory language have not disappeared. They have simply evolved. While some still use openly offensive slurs, others cloak their prejudice in jokes, social media posts, theological arguments, or political talking points. The message remains the same: some people continue to believe that certain expressions of identity are less worthy of dignity, respect, and belonging.

What many fail to recognize is that LGBTQ+ people are not a monolith. They do not all look alike, think alike, worship alike, vote alike, or live alike. Yet popular culture and political rhetoric often reduce them to caricatures. The loudest voices and most sensationalized images are frequently presented as representative of an entire community, while countless ordinary lives go unseen.

There are gay men and lesbian women who are raising families, serving in churches, leading organizations, mentoring youth, caring for aging parents, pursuing careers, and simply trying to navigate life like everyone else. They are not seeking attention. They are seeking the same thing most people desire: the freedom to exist without having to justify their humanity.

I often think about the unique challenges faced by feminine-presenting gay men. Not feminine because they are attempting to provoke a reaction or make a statement, but because their mannerisms, voice, or expression naturally reflect who they are. These individuals often occupy a difficult space. They are what I describe as “trapped outside the closet.”

Unlike those who can move through society without their sexuality being questioned, feminine gay men are often perceived before they have spoken a word. Their visibility makes them vulnerable. They become targets for assumptions, jokes, criticism, and sometimes violence. While others may have the option of deciding when and how to disclose their identity, many feminine gay men are denied that choice. Society often makes the decision for them.

This reality carries a weight that many people never stop to consider.

Every day requires a level of emotional preparation that others may never understand. There is the anticipation of judgment in workplaces, churches, schools, family gatherings, and even public spaces. There is the constant calculation of safety. There is the burden of wondering whether a stranger’s stare is curiosity, discomfort, or hostility.

What makes this even more painful is that rejection does not always come from outside the LGBTQ+ community. Some feminine gay men face criticism from other gay men who have internalized society’s negative views about gender expression. They are told they are “too much,” “too visible,” or responsible for reinforcing stereotypes. As a result, they often find themselves navigating rejection from multiple directions.

Unfortunately, public perception continues to be shaped by extremes. Society frequently mistakes visibility for activism, activism for radicalism, and difference for danger. We see this dynamic across political, religious, and cultural divides. A person’s willingness to live openly is often interpreted as an agenda when, in reality, it may simply be an act of survival.

Being openly gay does not make someone radical.

The same way a person attending church does not automatically make them a religious extremist, a person’s sexual orientation does not define the totality of who they are. Human beings are far more complex than the labels society places upon them.

The next time you encounter a feminine gay man, challenge yourself to look beyond your assumptions.

Consider what it means to move through the world without the privilege of invisibility. Consider what it means to be evaluated before being known. Consider what it feels like to hear your identity debated in political campaigns, condemned from pulpits, mocked online, and questioned in spaces where you are simply trying to exist.

Then remember that what you see is only one chapter of a much larger story.

Behind every visible identity is a person who has experienced joy and heartbreak, success and failure, faith and doubt, acceptance and rejection. Like everyone else, they are carrying dreams, wounds, aspirations, and unanswered questions. Their lives are layered, nuanced, and deeply human.

The goal should never have been to force people into closets.

The goal should be to build a world where no one needs one.

It is time for the closet door to come down, not simply for those who are hiding, but for a society that still struggles to see the full humanity of people who have been standing in plain sight all along.

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What makes these conversations even more exhausting today is how social media has turned sexuality into a performance review. Every week there is a new viral thread, podcast clip, or “high-value masculinity” debate questioning whether Black men are “really straight enough.” Apparently drinking oat milk, moisturizing, going to therapy, dressing well, hugging your friends, or simply being emotionally intelligent now places a man under investigation. Masculinity has become less about character and more about surviving internet interrogation.

The other day, while scrolling through Facebook, I came across one of those predictable click-bait posts: “Signs He Might Not Be Fully Straight.” Of course, a title like that is designed to provoke curiosity, controversy, and thousands of comments from self-appointed sexuality detectives. I already knew whatever “evidence” they planned to present would have little to do with reality and everything to do with stereotypes, insecurity, and performative outrage. Still, I clicked.

The post read like a parody of modern internet culture. According to the comment section and amateur relationship experts online, a Black man can now lose his heterosexual status for almost anything: skin care routines, fashion sense, close male friendships, refusing toxic masculinity, supporting LGBTQ people, or not behaving like a hyper-aggressive caricature of manhood. At this point, some people seem more committed to policing Black men’s masculinity than protecting Black men’s mental health.

What concerns me most is how easily these conversations blur the line between legitimate discussions about honesty in relationships and outright paranoia rooted in stereotypes. Yes, there are men who secretly sleep with both men and women without disclosing that to their partners. That conversation matters. Transparency, sexual health, and accountability matter. But the internet has weaponized that reality into a culture of suspicion where every Black man is treated like a potential suspect simply for failing to perform masculinity in socially approved ways.

And let’s be honest: much of this obsession reflects a deeper discomfort with expanding definitions of Black masculinity. For generations, Black men have been pressured to appear emotionally hardened, hypersexual, dominant, and detached in order to be considered “real men.” Now that more Black men are embracing therapy, vulnerability, self-care, fashion, emotional intelligence, and authenticity, people are panicking. Social media has convinced some folks that any deviation from rigid masculinity must secretly indicate queerness.

The irony is painful. Black communities often speak passionately about dismantling racism and rejecting harmful stereotypes, yet we continue to create narrow boxes for Black men to live inside. A Black man who speaks articulately is accused of “talking white.” A Black man who prioritizes mental wellness is considered “soft.” A Black man who dresses intentionally or avoids hypermasculine behavior suddenly has his sexuality debated in podcast clips and comment sections by strangers who know nothing about him.

What these viral conversations rarely acknowledge is the damage they create. They reinforce homophobia while simultaneously punishing heterosexual men who simply refuse toxic masculinity. They teach young Black boys that authenticity is dangerous. They tell men that being gentle, emotionally available, artistic, stylish, or compassionate somehow threatens their manhood. And they reduce sexuality, which is something deeply personal and complex, into internet entertainment.

My sisters, brothers, and everyone in between: there is no foolproof social media checklist that can determine someone’s sexuality. Human beings are not algorithms. A man’s sexuality cannot be decoded through his playlist, skincare routine, speech patterns, friendships, or whether he watches reality television. If someone is dishonest in a relationship, the issue is dishonesty, not whether he crossed his legs, owned a candle collection, or knew the lyrics to Sza’s last album.

At some point, we have to ask ourselves why society is so obsessed with proving that fewer Black men are “100% heterosexual.” Is the goal truth? Or is it simply another way to publicly police, shame, and control Black masculinity under the guise of conversation?

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There is something deeply unsettling about watching people weaponize the name of Jesus against those already struggling to survive rejection, shame, and isolation. Over the years, I have heard countless sermons condemning LGBTQ+ people, but what troubles me most in this current moment is how easily cruelty is still being repackaged as “biblical truth” while compassion is treated like compromise. Viral clips, conference sermons, livestream rants, and social media theology have created an environment where public humiliation of queer people is often rewarded with applause, platforms, and amens. And far too many churches remain comfortable turning LGBTQ+ people into spiritual punching bags while ignoring the weightier matters of love, justice, mercy, accountability, and healing.

What grieves me is not disagreement. People will always interpret scripture differently. What grieves me is the absence of humanity in so much of this rhetoric. Too often these messages are rooted less in Christ-like love and more in fear, performance, control, and religious arrogance. We have normalized sermons that ridicule people, question their worth, mock their worship, and reduce complex human lives to stereotypes and talking points. Entire congregations cheer while real people sitting in the pews silently battle depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, self-hatred, and spiritual trauma. And somehow this is still called ministry.

As I discuss throughout my book Faithful and Forgotten, faith-based sexual exclusion does not simply wound people spiritually; it impacts mental health, identity formation, relationships, self-worth, and one’s understanding of God. Many LGBTQ+ Christians are not walking away from God because they do not love Him. They are walking away from religious environments that repeatedly tell them they are unworthy of love, leadership, visibility, and belonging. There is a difference between conviction and cruelty, between discipleship and dehumanization. Unfortunately, many churches have mastered the latter while claiming the former.

I know this personally.

There was a season in my life when messages like these shattered me emotionally. I internalized the belief that in order to be loved by God, respected by the church, or used in ministry, I had to become someone else. I tried to pray myself into another identity. I tried to preach harder, worship louder, and bury parts of myself deeper. I climbed ministry ladders while privately suffocating under the weight of performance and fear. The applause of people became attached to how successfully I could hide. And while many celebrated what they believed was my “deliverance,” internally I was unraveling.

What the church often fails to acknowledge is the psychological toll of living disconnected from yourself for the comfort of others. The pressure to survive spiritually in spaces that deny your humanity creates wounds many never fully recover from. It impacts relationships, self-esteem, purpose, and emotional wellness. It teaches people to perform holiness instead of pursuing wholeness.

Eventually I had to stop asking, “What version of me will the church accept?” and start asking, “Who did God create me to be?” That question changed my life.

Coming to terms with my truth did not separate me from God; it deepened my relationship with Him. I discovered that my calling was never dependent upon other people’s comfort with my existence. God did not partially create me, partially love me, or partially fill me with purpose. I am not an accident that heaven needs to apologize for. And neither are the countless LGBTQ+ believers who continue trying to reconcile their faith with environments that constantly invalidate their humanity.

What gives me hope is that there are still people of faith willing to choose relationship over rhetoric, and compassion over condemnation. Some of the greatest support I have received has come from believers and leaders who may not agree on every theological point, but who understand that disagreement should never justify abuse, humiliation, exclusion, or hatred. Mature faith should produce deeper love, not deeper cruelty.

The Black church has historically been a place of refuge against racism, oppression, and injustice. That is what makes this conversation even more painful. We cannot preach liberation while simultaneously participating in the emotional and spiritual destruction of another marginalized group within our own pews. We cannot demand dignity for ourselves while denying it to others. Silence, avoidance, and selective outrage only deepen the harm.

My concern has never been about forcing acceptance. My concern is accountability. At some point, faith communities must confront the damage caused when sermons become spectacles and queer people become targets. We must ask ourselves difficult questions: How many young people are silently suffering while we debate their humanity? How many have contemplated suicide after hearing they are incompatible with God? How many have abandoned faith altogether because the church chose condemnation over care? These are not abstract theological conversations. These are real lives.

My prayer is not that everyone suddenly agrees. My prayer is that the church remembers the spirit of Christ before it speaks in His name. Because there is nothing holy about breaking people in public for applause. There is nothing righteous about humiliating people under the guise of truth. And there is nothing loving about creating spaces where people must choose between their faith and their survival.

To my fellow Christians: be careful who you publicly crucify in the name of God. History has shown us repeatedly that religious certainty without compassion can become dangerous very quickly. And perhaps the greatest tragedy of all would be discovering that many of the people the church rejected were the very people God had called, anointed, and loved all along.

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What struck me most during a recent conversation with a friend wasn’t just the story he told me, it was how familiar it sounded. We were discussing sexual health, HIV testing, and the uncomfortable reality that far too many people avoid going to the doctor when something “down there” feels off. Not because they don’t care, but because shame, assumptions, and stigma still shape the way we talk about sex, sexuality, and our bodies.

He told me about a time he nervously went to the doctor after experiencing some tingling and fearing he may have contracted an STI. Trying to be responsible, transparent, and proactive, he disclosed his symptoms and sexual orientation. Almost immediately, the doctor handed him a swab and requested an anal culture. Confused, he asked why. Her response?

“You said you were gay, right?”

And there it was. A moment many queer people know all too well: the instant assumption that identity automatically determines behavior.

The exchange was funny in the way trauma sometimes becomes funny when you’ve lived through enough of it. But beneath the humor was something much deeper — the persistent belief that all gay men engage in the same sexual practices, and that queerness itself is somehow synonymous with one particular act.

But why do we still think this way?

According to the CDC, approximately 1 in 5 Americans will contract an STI in their lifetime, and heterosexual people account for a substantial portion of reported STI cases in the United States. Yet public conversations about sexual “risk” are still disproportionately framed around gay men, particularly around anal sex. Meanwhile, research consistently shows that many heterosexual couples engage in oral and anal sex as part of their intimate relationships, even though those practices are often culturally coded as “taboo” or selectively associated with queer people.

That’s the contradiction nobody wants to talk about.

For all the obsession society has with policing queer sexuality, straight people have expanded sexual exploration for decades and they rarely (if ever) have to defend their orientation while doing it. And this is where the conversation gets uncomfortable for many people.

Because what most people are actually reacting to is not sex itself. It’s the disruption of what they were taught masculinity, gender, and “normalcy” are supposed to look like.

Take prostate stimulation, for example — commonly referred to as stimulating the “P-spot.” Medically speaking, the prostate is a walnut-sized gland located just below the bladder and in front of the rectum. Its primary biological role is to help produce seminal fluid, but it is also densely surrounded by sensitive nerve endings. For many men, stimulation of the prostate can create sensations that differ significantly from penile stimulation alone. Some describe it as a deeper, fuller, more diffuse sensation throughout the pelvis and lower abdomen rather than a localized feeling concentrated only in the penis.

Health educators and sexual wellness experts have discussed for years how prostate stimulation can intensify orgasmic response in some men because the gland is connected to the pelvic floor muscles, nerve pathways, and autonomic nervous system. During stimulation, increased blood flow, muscular contractions, and heightened nerve activity can produce stronger orgasms, longer orgasms, or even orgasms that occur without direct penile contact at all. Some men report full-body sensations, involuntary muscle contractions, or a feeling of pressure release throughout the pelvic region.

None of this is imaginary, immoral, or “unnatural.” It is anatomy. And importantly, anatomy does not come with a sexual orientation attached to it.

One of the biggest misconceptions surrounding prostate stimulation is the assumption that the act itself changes a man’s identity. It does not. A heterosexual man who explores prostate pleasure with a female partner is still heterosexual if he is emotionally, romantically, and sexually attracted to women. Sexual orientation is determined by attraction not by whether someone enjoys stimulation of a particular body part.

That distinction matters because many heterosexual couples already explore forms of intimacy that involve prostate stimulation, whether openly discussed or not. Some women stimulate their male partners externally through massage of the perineum — the area between the genitals and anus — while others may engage in consensual internal stimulation using fingers or sex toys as part of mutual exploration and trust within heterosexual relationships. In those situations, the dynamic remains heterosexual because the relationship, attraction, and emotional connection are heterosexual.

Yet many men still experience anxiety, shame, or confusion around this topic because masculinity in many cultures has been narrowly defined around dominance, penetration, and emotional restriction. Men are often taught that receiving pleasure in certain ways somehow threatens their manhood. But pleasure is not political. Nerve endings do not possess ideology. The prostate does not distinguish between gay, bisexual, or heterosexual men before responding to stimulation.

What many people are actually confronting is not sexuality, it is conditioning.

Too many men have been conditioned to believe masculinity is something fragile that can be “taken away” by pleasure itself. So instead of curiosity, honesty, and communication, many operate in secrecy and shame. Entire industries quietly profit from this contradiction. Behind closed doors, countless people experiment with things they publicly condemn because social judgment remains more powerful than personal truth.

Research from the American Sexual Health Association and other public health organizations continues to show that stigma remains one of the biggest barriers preventing people from accessing sexual healthcare, getting tested regularly, or having honest conversations with providers and partners. When people fear being stereotyped more than they fear untreated illness, we have a cultural problem not just a medical one.

This is especially important within Black communities and faith spaces, where conversations about sexuality are often buried beneath respectability politics, religious shame, and rigid ideas of manhood. We have created environments where people can preach about sex more comfortably than they can honestly discuss it.

And that silence has consequences.

It contributes to late HIV diagnoses.
Untreated STIs.
Mental health struggles.
Double lives.
Broken intimacy.
And generations of people disconnected from their own bodies.

The truth is: pleasure is not identity. Curiosity is not confession. And anatomy does not determine orientation. We desperately need healthier, more honest conversations about sexuality. Conversations rooted in education instead of assumption, and understanding instead of panic. Because at the end of the day, the doctor’s question wasn’t really about medicine. It was about stereotype. And far too many people are still being medically, socially, and spiritually reduced to one.

Click here to learn more about the P-spot and discover how prostate stimulation can enhance intimacy, deepen connection, and elevate sexual pleasure for yourself or the person(s) you share intimacy with.

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Words like “whore,” “slut,” “hoe,” or “fast” are rarely neutral. They are social weapons. They are often used to shame, regulate, and police people’s bodies, desires, and choices, particularly women, queer people, and anyone whose sexuality exists outside of socially approved norms. What fascinates me is not simply that these labels exist, but how quickly people weaponize them the moment someone’s life no longer fits neatly into culturally acceptable boxes.

Recently, I posted a question online about dating multiple people at the same time. Predictably, the conversation spiraled into morality debates. Some argued that dating multiple people was acceptable as long as sex was not involved. Others insisted that once sex entered the equation, the person crossed over into “hoe territory.” And as I watched the comments unfold, I found myself less interested in the sexual behavior itself and more interested in the social anxiety surrounding it.

Why are consenting adults so heavily judged for engaging in consensual intimacy while single? And who exactly determines the threshold for when someone becomes “too sexual”? Two partners? Five? Ten? Is there an official committee assigning sexual respectability scores?

These questions are bigger than internet discourse. They connect directly to the work I do in public health, HIV prevention, and community engagement. Over the years, I have learned that shame is often more dangerous than sex itself. Stigma silences people. Labels push people underground. Fear of judgment causes people to hide behaviors rather than have honest conversations about them. And when honesty disappears, risk often increases.

One of the greatest misconceptions society continues to perpetuate is the belief that people who appear “respectable” are somehow safer than those who are sexually open. That simply is not always true. In my experience working in HIV prevention and sexual health spaces, the people who are most transparent about their sexual behaviors are often the most informed, proactive, and committed to protecting themselves and others. Many routinely test, communicate boundaries, discuss status openly, and prioritize safer sex practices.

Meanwhile, countless people who believe they are exempt from risk because they are not perceived as “promiscuous” often avoid testing altogether. They rely on assumptions. They trust appearances. They confuse secrecy with safety. And that disconnect is precisely why conversations around sexual health cannot be separated from conversations about stigma, morality, religion, and respectability politics.

This becomes even more layered in Black communities and faith spaces where sexuality is often heavily regulated through shame-based language. Many people grow up learning that sexual desire itself is something dangerous, sinful, or dirty unless expressed within very narrow boundaries. The result is generations of people forced into silence about their actual behaviors, curiosities, fantasies, and needs. Publicly pure. Privately fragmented.

People deserve spaces where they can speak honestly about sex without immediately being dehumanized. That does not mean abandoning responsibility, discernment, or emotional accountability. It means recognizing that sexual behavior alone should not determine someone’s worth, morality, intelligence, or dignity.

What I have come to understand over time is this: labeling people rarely changes behavior in healthy ways. More often, it creates secrecy, dishonesty, and internalized shame. It teaches people to perform acceptability instead of practicing honesty.

The irony is that many people condemning others are wrestling privately with desires, curiosities, and experiences they feel unsafe admitting aloud. Entire cultures have been built around pretending. Pretending not to desire. Pretending not to explore. Pretending not to struggle. Pretending not to enjoy. And in many ways, that performance has done more damage than sexuality itself ever could.

Perhaps the real question is not who is a “hoe,” but why honesty around sexuality still threatens people so deeply.

Because when people are finally free enough to tell the truth about who they are, what they desire, and how they move through intimacy, it forces society to confront just how much of its morality has always been rooted in control rather than care.

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Faith-based sexual exclusion remains one of the most normalized yet least acknowledged forms of harm impacting marginalized communities today. What troubles me most in this current cultural and political climate is not only the violence directed toward LGBTQ+ people, but the silence, avoidance, and selective outrage surrounding it within many religious spaces. Far too many clergy, churches, and faith leaders are waiting for these conversations to pass because confronting them would require accountability. It would require an honest examination of how certain sermons, doctrines, political alliances, and theological interpretations have created environments where rejection feels righteous, exclusion feels holy, and cruelty becomes disguised as conviction. In far too many spaces, faith has been weaponized against the very people it should protect, leaving generations of LGBTQ+ individuals carrying the weight of spiritual trauma, shame, isolation, and the painful belief that they must choose between their identity and their relationship with God.

And that is the part many do not want to discuss.

Religion is powerful. It shapes cultures, influences laws, molds identities, and informs morality. In its healthiest form, faith can heal, liberate, and restore humanity. But when faith is manipulated through fear, ego, control, and misinformation, it becomes dangerous. It creates environments where people can preach “love” while simultaneously supporting systems, rhetoric, and ideologies that dehumanize entire groups of people made in the image of God.

And that contradiction is not harmless.

The modern church, particularly many sectors of the Black church, is standing at a crossroads. Some leaders have chosen courage, compassion, and honesty. But many others have chosen comfort, public silence, vague statements, or performative spirituality that refuses to address the actual harm taking place. Posting a quick hashtag, vague prayer, or generic scripture while avoiding direct accountability is no longer enough.

People are tired of surviving communities that claim to love them while simultaneously refusing to affirm their humanity.

And to the clergy who publicly condemn LGBTQ+ people while privately navigating those same desires and realities in secrecy: the hypocrisy is exhausting. The issue has never been human complexity. The issue has always been the violence created when self-hatred is projected outward onto vulnerable people. Too many queer and same-gender-loving individuals have been used as emotional hiding places, secret confidants, late-night escapes, and private indulgences while being publicly condemned from pulpits on Sunday morning.

That duality destroys people. It damages mental health. It fuels shame. It contributes to suicidal ideation, depression, isolation, and spiritual trauma. It teaches generations of LGBTQ+ youth that God may love them in theory but the church never will in practice. And we cannot continue pretending that this has no consequences.

Scripture should never be weaponized to humiliate, terrorize, erase, or emotionally execute people. Yet far too often the Bible has been used like a political weapon instead of a pathway toward justice, mercy, truth, and love. There are people who have never physically assaulted an LGBTQ+ person yet have spent years emotionally and spiritually brutalizing them through sermons, exclusion, gossip, legislation, and theological manipulation.

Words matter.
Teachings matter.
Silence matters.

I have had to confront my own complicity as well. There were spaces I remained connected to because I hoped they would evolve. I believed proximity would produce transformation. I convinced myself that partial acceptance was progress. But survival is not affirmation, and tolerance is not love.

To my LGBTQ+ siblings, especially those still wrestling with faith, belonging, identity, and church hurt, I see you. Your existence is not a disruption to God. Your humanity is not a theological debate. And your life should never have to shrink itself to accommodate someone else’s discomfort, doctrine, or political ideology.

And to the institutions still refusing to listen: the world has changed. People are asking harder questions now. They are recognizing the damage caused by religious performance without accountability. They are no longer willing to sacrifice their mental health, dignity, or authenticity to remain connected to systems that only celebrate them in secrecy but reject them publicly.

We are here.
We are not disappearing.
And many of us are no longer asking for permission to exist fully, honestly, and openly.

These are the very conversations I explore more deeply in Faithful and Forgotten: Navigating Race, Sexuality, and Belonging in the Black Church; a work rooted in honesty, lived experience, faith, cultural critique, healing, and the urgent need for accountability within religious spaces. If you have ever wrestled with church hurt, identity, silence, belonging, or the tension between faith and authenticity, this book was written with you in mind. I invite you to purchase a copy, read it with an open heart, share it within your communities, and engage in the difficult but necessary conversations many institutions still refuse to have.

Click here to visit my website and purchase a copy

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