Finally, I’m going to meet the parents of my new guy. My friends have taken to calling him Country Club, so I’m dressed the part of the future daughter-in-law: white Ralph Lauren, subtle studs, smudge of blush.
As I’m fastening my kitten heel, my phone lights up.
“I struggle with how I’m ever going to introduce you to my family,” his text starts. “In one quick Google search of your name, they’d fall into a rabbit hole about pegging and fisting….If this is a major part of your life, I can’t see you as a romantic partner,” he concludes.
This, minutes before the meet-the-parents date. This, from a man whose own name pulls up a DUI arrest.
I am a sex and relationship journalist. Over the past decade, I’ve published thousands of articles geared to helping people have all types of sex: strap-on, group, anal (you get the gist). I regularly interview world-renowned therapists like Esther Perel and Justin Lehmiller.
I should be a dating whiz. I know what my needs are in and out of the sack and how to communicate them. I should be able to attract partners who can do the same. But sadly this isn’t the first time a could-be partner has been scared off by my job.
So am I surprised that instead of reaching a relationship milestone with Country Club, I’m firing off a five-paragraph text response and reaching for the makeup remover wipes? Not exactly, but my cheeks are still flushed with shame.
Of course, I’m hardly the only accomplished 30-something woman struggling to find love. But considering my job, my lackluster romantic life feels especially disheartening. It’s all too common for someone to match with me, flirt a bit, and then decide that while they’re eager to take me to bed, they can’t picture building a life together.
During one particularly grim stretch, there was the 37-year-old high school teacher who didn’t think his career was compatible with my sexuality profession but was “down for a friends with benefits situation.” A 28-year-old artist said my work wouldn’t jibe with his extended family but wanted “a sex expert as a muse.” And let’s not forget the suburban dentist who wasn’t looking for anything serious but “would love to know what you can do with that mouth of yours.”
Once, a guy who got my contact from a mutual friend under the guise of asking me on a date, used it to text me: “I have a vibrator I like to fuck my ass with.” No “hello” or “how are you” in sight.
To be fair, I love that he took initiative and got my number. And I actively seek out people who are open about their desires. So in another context, I might have reached for my own bedside buddy at the mention of his self-pleasuring. But we hadn’t been sexting. We hadn’t even met. This wasn’t vulnerability in the name of closeness. This was an overshare that revealed that he saw me as little more than a walking dildo.
Early in my career, I chalked these dating woes up to bad luck. But over time, a pattern emerged: I was either fetishized or forsaken because of my work—and sometimes both. And that meant even when I wasn’t rejected outright because of my very public sex positivity, if someone reduced me to a one-dimensional fantasy, I lost interest.
As my list of dating disappointments grew longer and longer, I began to wonder if I was playing a role in these repeat performances. What about me was preventing the right dating experience? Was I not worthy of love?
I googled myself as if I were a stranger, reading the headlines as a suitor might. Was I too explicit? Too sex-positive? For a beat, I tried camouflaging my whole thing. “It’s mostly health journalism,” I’d say, sanding the edges down.
But nothing breeds shame like hiding. So when self-consciousness hit an all-time high and self-esteem plummeted, I stopped troubleshooting my love life and started seeing a sex therapist of my own.
She suggested I seek out other sexuality professionals to find out how they handle it when their Hinge matches find their byline on instructions for fisting or articles about dildos. When my queer and kinky readers become convinced that their identities make them unlovable, I tell them to seek out people with similar identities experiencing full, happy lives. And now, I was heeding similar advice from the other side of the couch.
“You need more proof that it’s possible for sexperts to be in loving relationships. You need proof that this isn’t unique to you,” my therapist advised.
Ever the overachiever, I immediately began the work of transforming other sex journalists and therapists who I’d long admired online into confidantes. I went through my digital rolodex, sending out messages left and right, working to connect with others who would help me realize I wasn’t the only sex expert going through this.
“I’m hungry for more friends in the sexuality space! I’m going to give you my number. No pressure to use it, but if you’re equally hungry for sex-positive pals…”
I sent this (and similar) messages to dozens of sexuality professionals I’d chatted with online, journalists, sex therapists, intimacy coordinators, romance novelists, sexual surrogates, professional dominatrixes, and anyone who might have encountered similar stigma and rejection.
Spoiler alert: They, too, were often treated as fantasy-fulfilling machines. As deviants. As dirty.
One person told me that, during a standard first-date coffee shop vibe check, a date revealed they were wearing a butt plug—despite no prior conversations indicating this would be well-received. Another shared that when a first date dropped her off at home, he asked to be invited inside and given “the client experience.”
“We live in a sex-negative, sexually repressive, and oppressive society,” a peer turned pal reminded me. She’d once made it to the meet-the-parents date only to have her date jump in and say she was a “wellness professional” when the parents inquired about her job.
These conversations helped me see that as dehumanizing as it is to be either put on a pedestal or written off because of my career, this rejection isn’t about me—it’s a reflection of our puritanical culture.
A pop star releases a sultry album cover and is met with scandalized headlines and slut-shaming. A high schooler is the victim of deepfake porn and the public response centers on punishment rather than the importance of consent education and digital literacy. Bud Light partners with a beloved transgender influencer and the backlash and boycotts lead to a reduction in sales.
In this environment—one without medically accurate sex education and where queerness is criminalized and sexuality is policed—the bulk of the reactions other sexuality professionals and I face when trying to date is proof of how necessary our sex education work is. And it also means that those of us who can and do talk about sex become pariahs. To many, our lives and work are just as taboo as things we fight to destigmatize.
Over time, between our late-night calls, vulnerable voice notes, and text marathons, other sexuality professionals helped me view the connections between my disappointing dating life and career differently.
It wasn’t that I was dating wrong. Nor that I was baseline unworthy of the romance I help others unleash. Instead, I had become a projector screen for other people’s shame.
My sex educator friends also helped me see that being a sexuality professional is a litmus test.
If I disclose what I do for a living and someone starts to fidget or change the topic, that tells me that they are not comfortable enough with their own sexuality for us to date—no matter how hot, smart, or sweet they may seem.
If they can’t see themselves explaining my career to their family or friends in a supportive way, that shows me they are not secure enough for me. And if they objectify me, that tells me that they’ve got too much internalized misogyny to be my boo.
Does weeding out people who think my job is either sexy or sus mean I have fewer love interests? Yes. While I wish I could tell you I’ve become immune to these disappointments, I admit that the answer here is also yes.
But thanks to my cohort of sexpert friends, I no longer spiral when a once-promising match collapses under the weight of their discomfort or desires.
When my friends tell me about partners who introduce them proudly, defend their work at family dinners, and send their articles to group chats, it sharpens my vision of what support actually looks like.
One friend shared that her current partner responded, “Wow, that’s cool and important work and must be fulfilling” to her disclosure. Another’s now-wife met her with, “Oh, very cool, I just finished reading Come As You Are.” One surprised her by hanging extra shelves in their shared office so she could display her sex toy collection.
These responses show that someone is interested in us as people. Plus, they show that the person is curious, secure, open-minded, and sex-positive—all things that I’m ultimately looking for in a romantic and life partner.
If this were a fairy tale rather than the story of my love life, it would end with a third-act meet-cute, a kiss in the rain, a matching tattoo, a ring. It would conclude with me successful, satiated, and beloved by someone who loves me…not because or despite my career.
But I’m not a folklorist; I’m a sex journalist. And I’m still single. Still seeking. Still fielding suitors who lead with assumptions or shame.
The difference is I no longer believe an unfulfilling love life is the price I have to pay for a fulfilling career. I’ve stopped conflating being misunderstood with being unlovable. I know a sex writer can find love. My fellow sexuality professionals who proudly introduce me to their families, cherish my companionship, and celebrate my work prove it.
