Abraham*, 31, spent most of his teenage years suppressing his sexual urges, convinced that any form of pleasure outside marriage was sinful. He avoided conversations about sex, never touched himself, and relied on wet dreams for relief.
In this story, he shares how his first sexual experience at 25 revealed a deeper issue — one that medical tests couldn’t explain — and how he’s come to accept his unique relationship with pleasure.
As Told To Adeyinka
Growing up, I never thought about sex the way most teenagers probably did. It wasn’t that I didn’t have urges — it was that I had been raised to treat them like a test from God. I was the child of deeply religious parents who believed any form of sexual curiosity was the devil’s way of luring people into sin. In my house, sex was never discussed beyond the warning to avoid it. No one ever sat me down for “the talk” or even hinted that it was a natural part of life. If sex was mentioned in church, it was to remind us that it should only happen within marriage and that even thinking about it before then was a slippery slope to damnation.
By the time I hit puberty, my body had a mind of its own, but I was determined to fight it. Whenever I felt an urge, I threw myself into distractions — cold showers, scripture reading, and mental gymnastics to suppress whatever was trying to surface. Masturbation was out of the question. I didn’t just avoid it; I didn’t even allow myself to be curious about it. The thought of touching myself felt wrong, almost like I would be caught and punished for it, even if no one was watching.
But there was one thing I couldn’t control: wet dreams.
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The first time it happened, I woke up terrified, thinking something was medically wrong with me. It wasn’t until I asked a classmate in boarding school — very vaguely — about it that I realised it was normal. That knowledge made it easier to accept, but I still viewed it as something I had to manage. Eventually, I started wishing for them. Since I couldn’t allow myself to masturbate or entertain sexual thoughts, wet dreams became my only outlet. They were my body’s way of releasing tension, and in my mind, they didn’t count as sin since I wasn’t actively involved.
This went on for years. While my peers were exploring their bodies and relationships, I was suppressing every natural urge I had and relying on my subconscious for release.
I didn’t date in secondary school. I barely interacted with girls in a romantic way, and even in university, I was more focused on my studies and church activities than on relationships. By the time I got to my final year at 25, I had never been intimate with anyone. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Sex wasn’t something I was dying to experience — it was just something that other people seemed to care about.
But that changed when I met my first girlfriend in my final year. She was patient, understanding, and willing to take things at my pace. When we eventually decided to have sex, I assumed my body would just know what to do. I had no experience, but I figured instincts would take over. They didn’t.
The first time we tried, I felt nothing. No rush of excitement, no climax — just a strange sense of detachment. We tried again, and again, and again, and still, nothing. I could feel arousal, but it never built up into an orgasm. It took an entire week of trying before I finally ejaculated, and even then, it felt more like a relief than a pleasurable experience.
I knew something was wrong. I had spent my whole life ignoring my body’s needs, and now it seemed like my body had learned to ignore me in return. Concerned, I went to a doctor to figure out if there was a medical issue. They ran tests, checked my hormone levels, and found nothing out of the ordinary. Still, they prescribed some medication to help. The first time I took it, I ejaculated without difficulty. I felt a strange mix of accomplishment and frustration — why did it take this for my body to function normally?
But that wasn’t the end of it. Over time, I realised another issue: I couldn’t reach orgasm unless it was penetrative sex. My partners have tried everything — hand play, oral, extended foreplay — but nothing works. If there’s no penetration, my body just doesn’t respond the way it should. Even when there is penetration, it’s a marathon. It takes so long for me to climax that my partners usually get exhausted before I can finish. Some have been patient; others have found it frustrating.
I’ve been to the hospital multiple times, and every test says I’m fine. No nerve issues, no erectile dysfunction, no hormonal imbalances; just a body that doesn’t respond to pleasure the way most people do. Some doctors have suggested it might be psychological, a result of years of suppressing sexual urges. Maybe my brain had been trained to disconnect from pleasure unless it met a very specific condition. Others think it could be a form of delayed ejaculation with no clear medical cause.
At 31, I’ve accepted that this is just how my body works. I don’t feel broken, but I know it’s inconvenient for my partners. I sometimes wonder if things would have been different if I had allowed myself to explore earlier, but I also remind myself that there’s no right way to experience sexuality. For now, I take things as they come, learning what I can and figuring out how to make intimacy work for me and my partners.
It’s not a perfect system, but I’ve accepted it.
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