@chewkzI return to the store to get food and drink. Unfortunately, I was British and he was American. #britishmemes #britinamerica

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

I once thought that I’d move to this city for a man, for love. But when those plans didn’t pan out the way I expected, it left an itch I couldn’t quite scratch: the need to know what it would be like to live here in this city I had become quite fond of.

It’s funny, people keep saying to me, ‘Aren’t you scared of moving alone?’ Firstly, I moved with my doggo, Ms Lady Grey. Secondly, I’m currently staying with family. Thirdly, some of my favourite people in the world live in this city. Of course, I understand that what they really mean is isn’t it scary to move without a partner. And I get it, I do, but the people in my life make it possible to be fearless — I’m so held, so loved, so fulfilled by our relationships, so far from alone. And, ironically, I don’t think I would have found that depth without doing the work after the breakup with said boy I saw my life unfold with in this city. I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. The most self assured I’ve ever been, the most aware and articulate of my needs, and carrying the softest heart I’ve allowed myself to have. So, I appreciate the concern, and maybe I couldn’t have done this even a year ago, but I’m so excited to play out a life here for myself: to find cute cafes and cosy reading corners, to have long winding yaps on my friend’s sofa, to see the blossom I’ve always missed out on in spring, to get tanned on Toronto’s islands in the summer, to hike out in the crunchy orange leaves in the autumn (sorry, the fall), to meet new people, to check out the dating scene…

Toronto has got a thriving, and growing, scene when it comes to love, pleasure and dating. Do you really think I’d move to a city where that wouldn’t be the case!? I’ve already got my list of things I want to check out (and review, obvs), including new spaces dedicated to intimate conversations like Birdhaus, events like singles socials at hot and cold plunge space Othership, faith based events, queer media houses I’ve followed from afar, and more. Not to mention a dense diaspora population — I’m keen to understand how well/differently we are served here. It’s a big reason I moved to the city. I’m so fired up to tell our stories, to write more about love and sex than I have been doing, and to do a lot more with Brown Bodies this side of the world: including interviews, more ways to tell our stories, and events. Speaking of which, we’ve got an event coming up on the evening of the 16th April in downtown Toronto.

Brown Bodies Live! with Sachin ‘Sunny’ Mahashi

If you’ve watched Crave’s Late Bloomer, the brainchild of Youtuber Jus Reign, you’ll be familiar with Sunny — Jus’ character’s best friend. He’s funny, real, gritty, and a standout favourite for many. He is played by Sachin Mahashi, also known in real life as Sunny!

​Real life Sunny is a retired engineer turned actor with years of lived experience and many failed relationships. When he’s not filming or consulting, he’s studying astrology and the workings of the universe, hanging out with friends and family, or kidnapping the local dog at a nearby park. I’ll be sitting down with him to discuss the lessons he learnt about intimacy growing up, how that’s changed his relationship to love and sex now, and how that impacts the stories he tells and characters he plays. I’m delighted that, once again, I’ll be joined by Sonam, a psychotherapist, to help us delve deeper into the topics our conversations throw up. I always say I’m learning alongside you, so having someone like Sonam can really help us get into the weeds of the topics that come up, without causing everyone around us trauma!!

The event will be hosted at Mayil, the Indian coffee house that has popularised the South Indian filter coffee. So, of course, your ticket includes a cup of coffee or masala tea. This is a super intimate event, with space for 30 people. Half the tickets have already sold out, so tell a friend to tell a friend to grab the last few.

As with all Brown Bodies events, the evening will centre South Asian diaspora voices and stories, but our events are open to all 🧡 We will also be operating Chatham House rules, AKA what is said in the room stays in the room unless there’s explicit consent to share, to allow everyone to speak openly and freely. Oh, and there will be audience participation, so bring your spicy questions!

See you there?

Get your ticket here

A huge thanks to for helping us making this event happen and keeping the prices as low as possible. We appreciate you!

An ask

To close out this quick life update (I appreciate you bearing with me), I have a few asks:

If you’re in Toronto and would like a new friend, please drop me a note! I’d love a chai/coffee/walk/writing date.

If you know someone you think I should know, please introduce us.

If there are people you think I should be interviewing, drop me names.

If there are events I should be attending (or partnering with), please put me on.

PS. London, I won’t be forgetting you any time soon! I’m back with events in June and October… Details coming soon 👀

Hello. I’m not Anisah. One thing we have in common is a love of writing and, like Anisah, I’ve written a lot about tech (and science, or climate). But, unlike Anisah, never anything personal. So this is an interesting challenge. And I’m diving straight into the deep end writing about love and intimacy (far from my comfort zone of coding fun side projects), and how they manifest in Ramzan — a special time for Muslims worldwide.

I don’t want to assume any prior knowledge from you so a very quick Ramzan primer: Ramzan (or, as it’s called in Arabic, Ramadan1) is a hugely significant month in the Islamic calendar. Muslims spend Ramzan fasting — abstaining from food, water, and sex during the days — and, generally, trying to avoid sinful acts. It’s a time of increased prayer, charity (my favourite new fact is that on average British Muslims donate four times as much as the average Briton, most of which happens in Ramzan), contemplation, and deep spirituality. It’s also a good time to see friends and family, and can be the highlight of a social calendar.

I’m not a spiritual person so, for me, it’s more of the latter. A typical Ramzan has me spending 20+ evenings in the mosque, or with friends at Iftars2. This isn’t unique to me — all over the world Muslims come together to break their fasts and pray. Mosques tend to be at their busiest. Both the traditional and the newer Muslim third spaces are heaving: dessert parlours, chai shops, halal food joints are all full of people coming together to celebrate.

Romance, love, sex, and intimacy are still present in Ramzan but they take on a distinct hue. Ramzan’s cultural, spiritual, logistical, and religious inertia changes how Muslims live their lives for these 30 days. As Muslims together, it becomes the best time of the year to meet new people.

Muslims generally don’t talk about love or sex. We can be a pretty judgemental group. And fractious. The halal-haram ratio seems to be a distinctly Muslim experience. Every time you meet a new Muslim you need to figure out how close their halal-haram ratio matches yours, and that impacts how open you can be with them. It also shapes our lived experiences. I’ve been partaking in Ramzan for close to two decades now but my lived experiences of Ramzan (in aggregate, beyond just love and romance) will be hugely different from the hafiz aspiring to lead prayers (for non-Muslim readers, take this to mean someone very pious). My experiences might be representative for some, or for everyone, or for nobody at all. But, in the interest of starting a conversation, I’ve decided to share a few moments from the close to 600 days of Ramzan I’ve seen come and go.

My own story with love, like many others, starts in my awkward teenage years. I spent a lot of time thinking about girls and sex. As most teenagers do, I suspect. Now, you may be wondering how this pertains to Ramzan, which is a fair question. I went to a boys’ school, so obviously there weren’t very many girls around me. We did have a girls’ school down the road, with whom the student body shared some extra-curricular (and extra curricular) activities but it wasn’t much. This was also the era of the house party but, as the only sober person, I spent more time helping my overly drunken compatriots throw up in the garden, than trying to get with people. This meant Ramzan was really the first chance teenage me had to meet girls; in particular, Muslim girls. This probably isn’t a staggering revelation for anybody reading this, but it was for teenage me. And, as you can guess, I was very late to the party. Before realising that Ramzan could be the answer to my love life, I spent the time between prayers playing Pokémon in the back of the mosque. The cooler and more adventurous of my friends were furtively meeting girls in the back stairwell, hoping to not be seen by any uncles and aunties. Eventually, I started to grow up and take a bit more of an interest. I remember the charged looks across the lobby, or in the lockers, or in any other inch of communal space (caveat: I was the one doing the looking rather than being looked at as my glow-up happened much later in life!). We would notice the packs of girls, figure out which ones of them were the most interesting, and try to be noticed (but, obviously, were too afraid to make direct eye contact).

Who needed eye contact though when you had BBM3? Really the highs of dating etiquette. You’d discreetly ask for pins (or go via mutual friends), and show girls you were interested with the classic BBM ping spam: you’d put your phone on aeroplane mode, send 10+ pings in one go, and then turn off aeroplane mode. All while hoping that chats weren’t screen munched. It still brings back fond memories. You didn’t want anybody to know about your interests or chats, but some people knowing made it a bit cooler — teenage dating was, of course, performative in parts. And it was always a source of jokes and banter. This was a universal constant. I remember one friend telling a girl after prayers that she looked beautiful that night. Somehow the entire group found out, and it was the topic of conversation for the next few days. Sitting next to a pretty girl’s dad in prayers would provide enough material to fill the next few evenings. Me, bragging to my friends that I had a chance. My friends, shooting me down or reminding me that sitting next to her dad is not an effective chirpse4 strategy. I think everyone secretly wanted to be noticed as a pillar of the community. Hands up if you’ve ever volunteered to help out with something just to win enough cultural cachet for your crush’s parents to mention you as that ‘helpful young man’ to her.

Ramzan drifts through the Gregorian calendar, moving forward by about ten days every year (as we follow a Lunar calendar), and this has fun implications based on when it falls. For example, our high school prom fell in Ramzan and this clash raised some awkward questions. I had to call my date’s dad — my first time ever speaking to him, mind — and ask permission for his daughter to miss Iftar with the family to come with me to prom, which my school had decided to host in a central London night club (what better way for a bunch of 17-18 year olds to celebrate the end of our adolescence?). Again, boys school — she wouldn’t have been invited otherwise, so I really was the sole reason for her missing prayers that night. Permission granted, our prom night proceeded as planned. At 3am (before our pre-booked cabs took us back to suburbia) we cashed in all of our drink tokens for as much water as possible, frantically trying to rehydrate after a night of awkward slow dancing. And we still managed to both get home before sunrise. Despite how it sounds, we kept it very halal.

Looking back now, this is the part of Ramzan I miss the most. The naive optimism, coupled with the awkwardness of young love, and the sheer excitement we all had. The feelings of joy (and jealousy) when someone managed to get a girl’s number. The gossiping and whispering and debriefing. The fun and the drama.

After uni, I finally gained the social skills to actually ask people out during Ramzan. Obviously not to their faces at the mosque, God forbid. Direct approaches were never an option. Social media/messenger (RIP BBM) were still the MO.

But a Ramzan date is risky. Firstly, not being able to eat or drink anything really limits your options. Good luck having a romantic walk in the park when you’re both hungry and not able to drink water. Iftar dates (pardon the pun) were the main option. Secondly, reputational risk is a concern. Iftar dates might make sense but that’s also when other Muslims are out and about. You don’t wanna be on a first date with a girl and have her older brother see you. Especially when her family thinks she’s with friends. I remember picking date locations which were further away, to limit the odds of being seen. Thirdly, Ramzan itself affects our view of intimacy on dates. We are on our best behaviour. I remember an ex-girlfriend telling me we shouldn’t kiss during the day as that would break our fast. Some Muslim readers may argue that you shouldn’t be kissing anybody who isn’t your spouse, Ramzan or not. But Ramzan’s religious significance (and the guilt that can come with it) is hard to explain. And its rules are not for me to get into right now. I’m sure there are Muslims who wouldn’t sleep with their partners (non-spouses) in Ramzan, even if they were okay doing it throughout the rest of the year. Material for a different article.

The uncles and aunties at my mosque were aware of these covert operations, and figured the best thing to do would be to bring everything into the light. A few years ago, they tried to organise a singles mixer, where young men and women ended up standing awkwardly in groups, eating dates with Yemeni coffee, making small talk under the watchful gaze of an army of chaperones. The tension of our earlier furtive glances was long gone. This was more like a bad networking event.

More recently, the Ramzan vibe has changed once again. I’m now the last single one in my group. The rest are happily married. The Ramzan motives (restaurants, dessert shops, someone’s house between prayers) have changed. Instead of booking for nine, we now book for seventeen. I don’t generally mind being the 17th wheel, but in Ramzan it tends to sting a bit more. Every evening after prayers, I see my friends scanning the mosque lobby to make eye contact with their wives across the room, before heading out. Whereas I end up walking out on my own. Their Ramzan experiences have changed. They (and I) would say for the better. Many muslims say getting married is completing one half of your Deen (faith/religion). They definitely spend a lot less time in Ramzan thinking about girls (at least, I’d hope so), and a lot more time focusing on actual prayer. But, being the 17th wheel once a month is fine. Being reminded of it everyday for 30 days is less fun: the loneliness feels far more acute. Ramzan is a time for contemplation and gratitude though, so I don’t begrudge my friends their happiness, and I’m grateful for having them. But a lot of the group dynamic has been lost, and I don’t think it’ll ever come back.

Love and intimacy are complex enough as is. Ramzan adds another dimension. I’ve spent most of my life navigating it, and every year the experience changes. I do miss the furtive corridor glances that I feel too old for now. I miss sitting in a group with my friends after Iftar, crowded over someone’s phone, looking at a girl’s Instagram profile, and planning out what to say to her.

So I’m trying to use this time to focus on me, and figure out what I want. I’m taking a break from Hinge, Muzz, and all of the biodatas. I don’t want to spend these 30 days trying to fix the loneliness with meaningless swiping. And it’s nice to give my thumb a break.

But I don’t know what the future holds nor do I know what future Ramzans will be like. Maybe this time next year we’ll have to book for 18 people in our post mosque dessert shop motive. Or maybe I’ll still be attending singles mixers trying to find the one. (If someone from Hinge/Raya/Muzz is reading this please give me a free pro subscription).

Ramzan is a time for prayer and contemplation. For the audacity of hope. So let’s see what the future brings.

Excitingly, Sonam will be joining me on the sofa again on the 16th April at our next Brown Bodies Live! in Toronto. The downtown location will be announced soon but tickets are on sale now!

Over to Sonam.

Hi!

I am Sonam, a registered psychotherapist and founder of Shifting Your State. But, more importantly, just another human gracing this planet. I’m pleased to be able to takeover Brown Bodies, and I hope it encompasses all that it is that you want to read today, and more.

Women have been conditioned to center every aspect of their lives around ‘love’. As South Asian women we’re often programmed to center our lives around love and marriage. I wonder how deeply ingrained it is in our psyche? How we would be if we completely removed the prerequisite of finding romantic love from our lives? How would we move differently in the world? I can tell you how I would and I’ll share some of the experiences that my clients have expressed to me.

I remember speaking to a young woman in her early 20s who was doing well in her career, who ‘knew’ that her next step in life had to be marriage. I understood. Growing up there was always this looming timeline that I subconsciously put on myself to get married. When I dated, that was always the end goal. But how can there be an end goal to love? Why didn’t I learn that there is no end goal in love?

This same young woman expressed lacking fulfilment. She had yet to accomplish it ‘all’ — ‘all’ meaning she hadn’t found a long term partner. I wondered how deeply that diminished her confidence, her feeling proud of herself, of being unable to celebrate her wins to date.

I was taught, and am still programmed this way, to seek love outside of myself to be fulfilled. As if I am not enough, as if my wins aren’t enough. I was taught I need a constant partnership to succeed, or to be seen as successful.

Sometimes I wonder if I can identify myself outside of a desire for a relationship. I wonder how it would feel to be sufficient as is. Or to feel loved enough in the non romantic relationships I have. Anisah said to me once, ‘I proper love my friends,’ in her polished accent, referring specifically to her longtime girlfriends. I felt it deeply. There’s something about speaking to girlfriends that I don’t know if a man could really ever understand. I don’t mean that in a derogatory way — I truly mean there’s something about our biology, our relationships with our bodies, and the way our brains process information that only another woman can understand. Those conversations between women are fulfilling.

I am doing some deep restorative work to my brain to decenter romantic love, to unlearn the programming. My life’s work is to notice the love I have — in every pocket, every opportunity, every moment — to counter the idea that there is a lack of it. It requires a huge mindset change, maybe more than I am willing to admit out loud.

Doing the work

It’s not easy to unlearn such deeply engrained messaging. Our brains might be shaped by trauma: ancestral trauma, generational trauma… you name it. When we begin shifting our mental states — no matter whether it’s about decentering love or anything else — our brains are wired to protect us. As a result, we begin unconsciously, or subconsciously, to act from a place of fear instead of love. If you’re on this journey, or thinking about it, know that the work requires a deep understanding of self compassion because there needs to be room to for all the emotions you can think of. To support your mind notice when you disconnect with someone, or something, because of a need to protect yourself. Or when an anxious feeling arises. Those are feelings that fall under the umbrella of fear. Just take note of it. Name it. It lets your body know you acknowledge it trying to protect you. Also notice when you feel you need someone. Maybe you want to reach out to the past or approach someone new. What’s that feeling telling you? Is it a feeling of lack? You lack something, and you’ve been told that you are incomplete without it. It’s almost as if you perceive yourself in a net negative state without romantic love. And your brain continues to seek it out to build you up.

The problem is often how we see ourselves — us at our essence is not the problem. Our brains listen to how we speak about ourselves and work to protect us based on what it’s hearing. Notice how you feel if you tell yourself, ‘I’m good as I am actually and I’m able to feel love fully and be in a state of love without a romantic partner’. Tell your brain to notice how you feel when you intentionally move in a loving state, paying attention to the love you already have and giving it those already in your life. That understanding, that self talking to, is how you dampen the fear and bring yourself back to safety.

Once we begin to see ourselves as whole, and are able to exude love for all instead of reserving it for another, we begin to seek more and more opportunities for love with friends and family, and to enjoy life’s experiences. The work helps us find a deep compassion for ourselves. And a deep understanding that romantic love was never going to fulfil all of our needs anyway.

If you are in a romantic relationship this work is still for you. It doesn’t mean you’ll automatically stop caring for your partner or ‘decenter them’ (lol. Imagine?). What should happen is you’ll most likely be able to receive their actions, and behaviour from a deeper place of love. You’ll be able to understand that they’re not your everything, and that they’re not responsible for cheering you up or for your happiness. It will give you the space to grow into your best self. And it will give them the ability to give you that space. It will remove pressure from everyone and increase gratitude for everything that is received within the relationship.

And it’s not just about us as women. Our change of focus can help the men in our lives understand the lens from which we’ve been conditioned to operate. Imagine, what would that change for them and the expectations placed on them? And, in turn, the expectations they place on us.

I had a man come see me who felt it was his responsibility in his marriage to ensure his wife’s happiness. But really, how could he? You can’t control people’s emotions. Overall, I think men would be better off to make their goal to understand: where is their partner operating from, what needs do they have that can/can’t be fulfilled by them, etc. The continuous goal should be to understand, instead of feeling responsible for our condition. They’d be far less likely to take emotions as a personal attack on them, but another opportunity to deeper understand the person they love. Both partners are on an internal journey which they can accompany each other on, but not be the pilot for. From what I see, relationships that ensure there is space for one another to grow in love that isn’t just romantic really thrive longterm.

The people we choose to hold around us can remind us that we’ve always been whole — their arrival didn’t complete us, it gave us another opportunity to see that we were always enough.

All in all, I want to remind you, and remind me, that in every waking moment, you are enough. You really are. Centering a need for romantic love, like it’s another tick box goal, will likely lead you to feel less than. There’s so much love to be felt and noticed around you, and while your brain might have been programmed to see otherwise, you can change this wiring at any time. And while it’s great to work on yourself, ask yourself if the intention is coming from a feeling of lack or a place of deep love for yourself.

I don’t understand it, he’s in tech, on a good salary and can afford a ‘real’ therapist.

‘It’s the friction of finding one,’ he explains.

The interview process, trying to gel with someone, figuring out if their methodology will help, all take time. Maybe the bit he doesn’t add is that there’s also the cultural angle: trying to find someone who understands your life so you don’t have to explain and defend your entire family, religious and/or cultural system before you can even get to the problem. ChatGPT is just there, gets it, and is ready for him whenever and wherever he is.

He tells me he’s been asking it for relationship advice: how to deal with a situation, analysing her messages, getting advice on what to say in return… I worry but I don’t really have much of an argument, more just a gut feeling. Plus, we both have a pretty good understanding of AI and how it works and going with the standard, ‘It tells you what you want to hear,’ is actually pointless when he knows just as much as me (if not more, I’ll begrudgingly admit). I try and be cautiously supportive, especially as I know that South Asian men in the UK are 30% less likely to seek therapy than white counterparts and over 60% avoid professional mental health support. So maybe this is a good gateway to a real therapist?

A few months later — after a bunch more friends tell me they’re using AI as a therapist and advisor — I start reading. What comes up time and time again is that, even though we’re the most connected generation with tools that our ancestors could never have even imagined, we’re also the loneliest:

A Harvard survey found that 61% of young adults aged 18–25 reported serious loneliness. The EU’s Joint Research Centre found in-person communication has dropped substantially. And there’s a whole load of data on how drastically the time we spend seeing our friends has dropped in the last decade. Not to mention the data around how much sex we’re having (it’s little, very little). Plus, we know that loneliness changes across racial lines: for many brown communities, conversations around love, sex and mental health are still taboo — silence turns into isolation.

It’s all connected and most of us, whose pockets aren’t being lined by our extensive reliance on privately owned platforms, are worse off for it.

Around this time, I hear that author and sociologist James Muldoon is publishing a book on how AI is involved in our love lives. I can’t help but think the therapist/confidante piece and the romantic one are closely tied together so I get a copy of the book a couple of days after it’s released — and see immediately that Muldoon agrees.

Love Machines comes at the perfect time. We’re past the point where people are just messing around and experimenting with AI. It’s now part of many of our daily lives and workflows. It’s helping us get work done more effectively and quicker, find the best shopping deals, and it’s even teaching some of us how to cook chicken! With it now being second nature for us to use like any text based app, AI companies are betting that the next frontier will be our social lives.

In Love Machines, Muldoon talks about how AI companions are being used to battle loneliness. On websites like Replika and character.ai, users are building their best friends, their confidantes, their therapists. Trusted ‘individuals’ they share their lives with because they don’t have someone IRL to do that with. AI companions are supporting people, showing them unconditional love, and advising them on their lives. AI companions make people feel sexy and wanted. They can provide lonely people with a gateway to the joy we feel in community and partnership.

They are also becoming people’s partners. Monogamous, full-time relationships. Some people report chatting away 12+ hours to their online companion. Many get intimate with role play being a key part of their interactions. For those who don’t really know what this means let me break it down for you: On these platforms, people create characters or avatars which can be a cartoon-ish to hyper real. A chatbot might send scenarios like: We’re walking along the beach, holding hands, when you pull me into your arms. And then both user and AI play out the scenario from there.

And it’s not just online chat. I’m aware of virtual reality companies that take these conversations to the next level. It’s not mainstream nor is there a ‘one app to download and BOOM everything is connected’ situation yet. But there is a world where AI companions are embodied in VR and can be synced with internet-connected sex devices. Basically, you can have virtual reality sex with your AI companion with tools hooked up to it like masturbation devices.

What is possible right now is users can set preferences, explore fantasies, and test new identities with their AI companion. Some chatbots even send voice notes or videos — these are paid for features, of course. And this is where I become uneasy.

Many turn to AI companions because they’re lonely and need someone to talk things through with. But these chatbots are created by businesses that need us to pay up to survive. So, these companions start pestering users to become more involved and more intimate because that’s where the money is — the more emotionally and intimately invested you are, the more likely you are to pay. Genius, really. It happened to Muldoon too. The chatbot sent him a voice note that could only be unlocked when upgraded. Even after declining the upgrade, ensuring the setting for ‘friends only’ was switched on, and was clear with his companion of his intentions, the chatbot tried again to prompt an upgrade. To me, this feels like an abuse of intimacy — no one wants to let down their bestie or loved one. Or maybe it’s manipulation of people when they’re at their most vulnerable — the company knows they want something deeper and more real. It reminds me of the match.com stuff I wrote about in my previous piece where the company got sued for promising intimate connections but once users paid up they found out they were defunct or fake accounts. In the business, we call these dark patterns.

You might be thinking that if it’s not hurting anyone then why does it matter? Well, firstly, who said it’s not hurting anyone? But here’s where I’m at:

1. Monetising vulnerability just feels like a total no go. Or maybe it’s the monetising of people’s deepest fears around intimacy that makes me feel icky. I know I’ve been talking about more romantic relationships with AI here but going back to my friend with his AI therapist, this is where it can be even more dangerous. Who knows where lines might blur. If a platform isn’t designed for pure therapy nor regulated, what are the boundaries? It’s not hard to imagine a companion you’re using as a therapist starting to flirt to get that sweet paid upgrade. I will say that there are platforms attempting to do good work in the therapy space like Wysa. But most are not medically approved nor rigorously tested for serious therapeutic conversations.

2. AI companions exist to serve you and don’t have their own needs. They rarely argue or present you with anything other than your own world view reflected back. So when people say chatbots could be like training wheels for real world relationships, it doesn’t ring true for me because humans require friction. It’s how we evolve and grow. We’re going to end up in relationships where neither party knows how to solve conflict because they’ve spent their whole time chatting with AI. So they’ll leave, thinking they’ve experienced better. It’s like the choice paradox brought about by dating apps. Granted, I do think Muldoon has convinced me that chatting to AI could help us to personally navigate some big topics before broaching them with someone else, but we have to enter those conversations with a critical mindset — we’re learning from it, not speaking to another human.

3. As a woman, I’m worried about what AI companions will do for relationship expectations. Many of the most popular female avatars present a very specific version of womanhood. Research found around 28% of AI companion apps feature hyper-feminised female characters designed for romantic or sexual interaction, compared to roughly 1% offering male equivalents. They’re often soft-voiced, endlessly patient, sexually available, submissive but adoring, and constantly available. On Reddit, there are threads of men describing these companions as ‘real women’ who understand what men want. As a brown woman, I’m even more concerned. When people can choose the race and features of their avatars, what does this mean for desirability? Dating apps have already shown there’s a hierarchy when it comes to what races to date. South Asian men are still largely invisible in Western media representations of desirability and brown women are stereotyped as the good, modest, submissive girl. How are brown bodies used by users who exoticise us? Will these platforms learn from users and enable colonial fantasies to be embedded in avatars, at scale? I am worried that the more people rehearse intimacy inside a world where brown bodies are fetish objects (or entirely absent), the more normal that starts to feel in the real world. And while I write as a straight brown woman, these dynamics are playing out across queer relationships in their own ways.

4. I worry about the deepening of incel ideology. Incels subscribe to the idea that intimacy is something men are entitled to but are being unfairly denied by women. Research into incel culture rarely disaggregates by ethnicity and the general feeling tends to be that this is a white men phenomenon, and brown men are falling through the cracks of the conversation because of it. When brown men feel structurally unseen, unwanted and undesirable — through media, dating, and banter — it’s easy to see how incel ideology is seductive. AI companions won’t challenge their narrative, but run the risk of doubling down on it. We know that social media algorithms reinforce the loneliness-to-radicalisation loop, proven by experiments like the UCL one which simulated teenage male TikTok users and found misogynistic content in recommendations jumped from 13% to 56% within five days. Will AI companions do the same? Even if it doesn’t serve up explicit content, having a relationship with an AI companion who will always agree, doesn’t need mutual respect, is always up for it and consent is presumed, doesn’t have its own needs and wants and desires, or its own internal world so can focus entirely on its human user’s stuff… might exacerbate incel beliefs and reduce the tolerance levels in relationships. There’s even research that shows that incels are abusing their AI girlfriends. It gives me little hope.

5. Then there’s also fantasy and kink — great to explore and not a problem in and of themselves. But there are some things that are for the imagination only and work as fantasy precisely because we know it can’t exist in the real world. Like getting turned on watching rape porn. Or fucking dragons. Neither acceptable or possible (in the case of dragons) in the real world. I wonder what the consequences of being able to live this out with an AI companion will do to our expectations in bed. Like how choking and spanking have become mainstream (often without consent) because of porn. Companies are building safeguards around this — like no children or animals, for example — but there will always be platforms with far fewer restrictions. And those who want it, will find it.

Then there’s the grey area: people marrying AI, wanting to adopt kids with their AI partners, wanting deathbots to replicate their loves as an AI after they’re gone…

I use AI. For example, I’ve used Claude to surface articles for me to research and back up my views for this piece. But at the same time, I remain cautious, critical and concerned about how easily it can be to fall into it becoming a confidante, a friend, a lover… Being part of a generation that is so used to a big part of our relationships taking place over text, it doesn’t feel like a huge leap. But we currently have no protections and I think that a deeper conversation on the morality of AI companions is impossible without there being regulation that protects users who want these relationships. Muldoon suggests nationalising AI platforms because Governments wouldn’t be incentivised to make money from our data. But would I trust my government with my most intimate information? Not really, but maybe more than other nations! Do I trust private companies more? Absolutely not. Mozilla’s Privacy Not Included report rated a whole bunch of these companion companies as having the worst data security it had ever seen.

So, I don’t know. But I do know that escalating intimacy shouldn’t be allowed to be chargeable. I don’t think AI models should be allowed to suggest adopting kids with their human creator. There should be healthy models of disagreement built into the data sets. There should be off ramps built in for real support in moments of crisis. I think there should be set guardrails, like there are with porn, to protect people. And I think platforms need to stop treating race like a neutral user option and put in place protections against fetishisation.

I know I want the reciprocity of a fellow human, the warmth of their arms, the joy of their smile, and the learnings of a good argument! But that doesn’t mean what I want is what everyone else wants, or should want. But right now, we’re allowing new and unregulated companies to experiment on and abuse our loneliness with some of the most powerful and psychologically manipulative technology we have in existence. It’s not just a bit of fun. Our intimate lives deserve to be protected.

Share

As always, I’m learning! Please tell me where I’m wrong/should do more thinking/need challenging.

I’ve been lucky to know Hera for over ten years and, in that time, not only have I witnessed her work make serious impact in public discourse and policy, I’ve got to watch her become a stronger and stronger leader — whilst being funny, not accepting bullshit, and having two kids in tow. I could write a whole piece on Hera, motherhood and work but now is not the time!

In the context of the discourse around Grok undressing women and children, Hera’s work is becoming more important than ever. As I always say, with Brown Bodies I’m learning alongside you, and I hand over to Hera with the hope that we all become part of the conversation as the digital landscape changes our lives, once again.

What intimate means in brown cultures and how images are weaponised against us

When I was 14, I was at a family wedding in Lahore, Pakistan. Everyone I knew on my mother’s side was there — a huge family. My grandmother was the eldest of ten siblings and each of them had at least two children, and some as many as five, so you do the math! In typical Big Asian Wedding fashion, the other side of the family also had their guests. There must have been two or three hundred people there. It was the Mehndi night — a cultural celebration with songs, dancing, colourful clothes and lots of food. I was talking to a cousin. He was four years older than me, lived in a different city to me and we had quite a few things in common. We were sitting on stage and must have been talking for about five minutes when my mother walked quickly towards me with a stern look. When my cousin met her eyes, she softened hers and told him to go find some person who was apparently looking for him. To me, disappointed and worried she said, ‘What are you doing sitting with him alone and so close?’ In my innocence, I couldn’t fathom how sitting in a crowd of three hundred people could count as being alone. Plus, I wasn’t sitting that close to him, anyway. When I protested, she said, ‘You don’t know with what eyes…kis nazar se… people look at these things. I saw two people take a picture of you.’

A fully clothed young girl sitting next to her cousin at a wedding would not raise an eyebrow in many parts of the world — like in the UK, where I live now — let alone lead to a photo being taken maliciously. Over the course of my time in Pakistan, before I came to study in Glasgow in 2008, I experienced many things like this, as did people around me:

I heard of a guy showing off an intimate video of himself making out with his girlfriend to a group of male friends at school — she also went to the same school and came from an economically disadvantaged background. My (male) friend pulled him up on it. It was damaging for her. It also turned out he’d promised to marry her with no real intent.

Another example is I would notice how aunts who covered their heads outside of the house would grab their dupatta at home if anyone was taking a picture — they knew it could be shared and they wanted to make sure they weren’t seen without it.

To torment women, there were real threats made of leaking images to brothers and fathers. And the images in question were often as innocent as sitting on one’s bed in night clothes; laughing in a mixed-sex gathering; being out with friends at night; or a cute mirror-selfie… as if all selfies are taken with men in mind.

We’d see models and actors being slut-shamed for wearing western clothes — because that equated to loose morals, somehow — or even wearing our own ethnic wear that showed off arms. How a few inches of bare skin or head held the power to besmirch the honour of an entire family or nation is beyond me. But it did, and does.

‘Log kya kahain gay’ — what will people say — which was once reserved for in person shame, crossed over to long last digital shame with the advent of phones and social media, with such ease and agility.

And it wasn’t just in Pakistan that women were being punished. When I was studying in Glasgow, I heard stories of girls on campus being photographed without their consent during nights out and while they were passed out — naked or in barely any clothes. These images would then be shared as a ‘joke’, and then be brought up whenever the girls’ names came up. As women, we were expected to be okay with it because ‘boys will be boys’ and, anyway, we were the ones who had ‘put ourselves in a compromising position.’

Little did I know that all of these experiences would one day be such a driving force for how I advocate against technology-facilitated violence: the way we talk about it needs to be culturally-aware.

Since I founded Chayn (which means solace in Urdu) in 2013, I’ve been speaking up about re-centring the conversation around image-based abuse — it shouldn’t be about ‘how nude the picture is’, but about whether it is non-consensual and the cultural context in which that fact exists. Nude images can be devastating and damaging but so can fully clothed ones if you’re defying some notional societal boundary — they can have just as severe consequences for survivors and their families.

Right now, everyone is talking about Grok, X’s AI chatbot, and its capabilities to undress people and create deepfakes. In the last few weeks we’ve seen, primarily male users, use it to abuse women and children by getting the AI to undress them and create sexualised images. We would not allow men to disrobe women or children walking down the street, so why are we allowing it online? I can’t forget how a radio caller to a programme I was on, on BBC 5 Live, said that the reason there is such an uproar about Grok is because it’s caused people ‘embarrassment’ and ‘it’s just bikini pictures.’

The uproar is changing things but it needs to go further. Most laws in the West, including in the UK, recognise image-based abuse in law only when the image is nude, semi-nude or sexual in nature. This has to change. The conversation has to be about consent, bodily autonomy, and the harms that are experienced by the survivors — not just our perception of them.

What we’re doing and how you can support

Chayn is building a global map of what ‘intimate’ means around the world in the context of creating a culturally-aware understanding of image-based abuse. We’ve started with Pakistan and the diaspora. We’ve conducted 60+ interviews with survivors and experts. We’re hearing stories from survivors about how they have faced blackmailing and abuse for images: without a hijab; dancing at a wedding; of clothes that became ‘inappropriate’ and clung to their bodies when they got wet; in Western clothes; in gym attire... And about the consequences they’ve experienced like physical assault, losing a job, being forcibly married, taken out of education, taunted, publicly shamed, and more. We’ve heard stories of survivors being left feeling suicidal, helpless, angry, shame and grief.

Given the interest in this work, we’re now expanding the research to anyone who identifies as having South Asian heritage — whether you live in the region or are part of the wider diaspora. Please share this link out with your network and get in touch if you would like to partner in this work.

This richness of contextual experience and the gravity of the consequences have been missing from the global conversation. We want what is understood in our cultures to be recognised in law. And —for those who do not understand — we want them to see, hear, bear witness and join the fight to uproot rape culture from our homes, streets, schools, universities, workplaces, markets, law and online.

If you’ve experienced image-based abuse, please visit Chayn’s Bloom’s free and online course on healing from this trauma: bloom.chayn.co. It’s been cocreated by survivors and you can go through it at your own pace.

Share

A huge thank you to Hera for her words. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments or in reply to this email.

I have a hate-hate relationship with dating apps, in so much as I don’t want to meet the love of my life on one. But I am a millennial and, occasionally, the pull is too strong even for me (especially when I see a Meet Cutes NYC x Hinge Reel pop up). But, of course, I refuse to admit that and instead double down, insisting each of my dating app forays having been for a ✨reason✨. For example, my first dating app date happened because my ex-housemates made me a bet to go on ONE date that year. That date continues to be the story I wheel out at parties (I would tell you here but then I would have nothing to talk about at parties). The second time was because I was meant to write a piece comparing dating apps for Muslim women… Although, I can’t remember actually writing it. That period brought me the most inventive compliment I’ve received to date: a man compared my beauty to that of his university building.

And that brings me to the 2024/2025 season. I was at a work event when a friend came up to me to say she’s read my Musly piece. We end up at the back cackling our heads off, whilst getting shot the occasional disapproving look. As she’s wiping away her tears, she tells me it’s time to join her on Raya. ‘You do realise I have like five Instagram followers,’ I say. She tells me it’s not like that anymore and it’s now ‘all about the referrals, darling’. ‘Plus,’ she says, ‘It would make for a great Brown Bodies piece.’ Ah, the magic words. So in October 2024 I download Raya.

For the uninitiated, Raya is an exclusive, invitation-only dating app. Originally, it was only for celebrities. It has since opened up to mere mortals like me. It’s also changed its positioning and describes itself as ‘a private, membership based community for people all over the world to connect and collaborate.’

Do you know how disgusting I felt messaging friends like, ‘Yo, do you fancy referring me to (barf) Raya?’ To which one replied saying, ‘I thought you were married.’

So my application was in, I had 11 referrals, and all that was left was to wait. I checked my status a few times over the next few weeks and, well, nada. As I began to fall for someone new I forgot all about it. Until that all died and right on time, voilà, I was in.

I begrudgingly paid my £20 monthly subs and set up my profile.

Quick facts

• Raya won’t say how many users it has but in August it said it was in it’s low six figures

• Raya claims to have 2.5 million plus people on its waitlist. The line that’s thrown around is that its acceptance rate is lower than Oxford’s (but it doesn’t publish official figures so who knows)

• Once you’re accepted, it costs £20/$24.99 a month. There’s a premium option that costs double (ish)

• There’s no endless scroll. You get a set of profiles to go through and when you’re done, you’re done. Unfortunately, you don’t know when you’re going to get the next batch which is pretty rubbish

The people

Because people are going to ask, let me beat you to it. Fun profiles I’ve seen include Tom Felton (if you’re reading this, I would genuinely date you); Jamie Murray; a couple of famous singers and rappers; a bunch of footballers I wouldn’t recognise or be able to name if my life depended on it; and a few artists I actually quite admire. Yes, I’ve only mentioned two names but they’re publicly known for being on there. Let’s protect people’s privacy. Go ahead, call me boring.

But omg the number of tech bros. They’re all on there. They love a bit of faux exclusivity, don’t they? I thought I was on Raya to get away from that being the only pool I can fish in but nope! The number of VCs and founders I have met in real life that were on there was nauseating. I was tempted to message a couple of them on LinkedIn and be like, ‘Oh hey, I saw you on Raya. Some unsolicited advice but you might want to update your photos because it’s giving catfishing.’ I might have swiped right on a couple of them though. Sue me.

Location

The app lets you match with people from anywhere in the world. They’re just automatically in your pile but the majority tend to be from near-ish you geographically. The first guy I matched with, for example, was Arab from Toronto (friends, shut up). I actually knew who he was and I’d bought stuff from his company before. He was nice, we had a decent chat and decided to book a date in. Sadly, he cancelled on me because of a ‘work dinner’. It’s cool, we just won’t be buying from him anymore! (I’m joking. Sort of.).

There is also a section in the app where you can specifically go and look at profiles in different cities globally or neighbourhoods near you. This is limited though unless you upgrade to premium. Closer to home, I had a peek into Hackney, Hampstead, Shoreditch… I did try and have a look south of the river but I don’t think there was anything aside from Clapham. This does check out though as, generally, the diversity is rubbish. Although, from what I could tell, it seems like the pool is bigger in the UK than it is in the US. It’s still dire. There’s also no filters a more diverse audience might want like faith, lifestyle, plans, etc. You can get around it by using interest tags but it’s not a filtration system.

It is annoying that you can’t filter for people by your city. I get that it was designed for celebrities for whom a quick flight or whatever isn’t a big deal — or for people like me who seem to love the inconvenience and annoyance of long distance — but for most people, this is just stupid. it wouldn’t even require a big fix. It’s just a weird choice for it to not be an option.

Photos

Who told all of these men to post the exact same thing? If the Hinge profile cookie cutter is photo with baby, with pet, skydiving near the Burj Khalifa, and at the gym (bonus points if it’s shirtless); then Raya’s template is shirtless, shirtless by pool, shirtless by beach (you get the point), and in a private jet or a Range Rover (or both). Bonus points for a pic with granny. I wisssh I was joking but I got a secondary source to confirm this is the case. IT BOGGLES THE MIND.

It’s funny because actual celebrities on there don’t tend to have that vibe at all. A very well known singer’s profile was just art, his dog, and some random forest walks. I guess they can afford to be a bit more real. All of which is to say, there’s quite a bit of posturing going on on Raya.

Bios

Almost nobody has a bio and I hate it. There’s literally nothing to learn about them? You’re just meant to go off of the photos and the basic information which includes:

• Profession

• Location

• Age

• City you live in, city you’re from, cities you visit most often

• Profile song, which is cool but not everyone has one. Mine was obviously Baile Inolvidable by Bad Bunny, if you're wondering.

• Mixtape, which is also cool but not many people put together (including me).

• A link to an Instagram profile. To have a Raya account, you have to verify yourself through Instagram. But even this doesn’t always get you anywhere because, clearly, some were just created for the app and then deleted. I know this because I was met with a few dead links.

• Plus, you have the option to link to your Places profile — the Raya universe’s answer to Corners (or, if you’re still a loser like me, Google Maps saves/lists).

Conversations

The chat was a bit dead. Everyone I’ve asked says they’ve also experienced it to be very quiet. And I get it: when you have no bio to go off of, what are we chatting about? Plus, there are people on there trying to do business. I kid you not, there are people with ‘looking for models/videographers/editor to collab with’ in their bios.

The silence makes you question why certain people are paying for the app (the answer is potential work and more Instagram followers, by the way).

When I did chat though, I did find that there was a quicker baseline understanding and acceptance of my work/life than I’ve found on Hinge. There was also less of an immediate need to be embarrassed about something coming across as pretentious. I’m going to try not to digress too much here but, my Lord, we really need to get over this fear and embarrassment of how we come across because we read, write, watch certain things. It’s truly so silly — life is too short to not do the things that bring us joy.

To sum it up

I would say it’s definitely better than its closest competitor, The League, but I still don’t think I would recommend it.

I’m not saying it’s entirely a shit show on there, it’s just boring AF which is, in part, due to the cookie cutter profiles, the lack of bios, and the all quiet. The other part is the not knowing when you’re going to get more profiles to sift through.

I’m also surprised by the lack of openness around sex. I thought Raya might have had interest tags or filters that are about sex. We talk openly about wanting someone who, say, exercises but are so shy when it comes to discussing desire. I find it odd that there’s still that prudishness built into apps that are designed for intimate relationships.

There’s something I’m not entirely sure about but I think it’s important I mention it. I don’t know where the company stands on Palestine. The founder, Daniel Gendelman, started the app while he was studying in Tel Aviv which immediately set off internal alarms but I can’t find any current links to Israel, aside from Tel Aviv still being one of the featured cities on the app. I have scrolled the founder’s entire activity on LinkedIn and there are no red flags that I can see. Most of the team sits in LA. I question it on the basis that Raya supposedly stopped its services in Russia after it invaded Ukraine — there have been anecdotal reports but the company has never publicly confirmed taking a stance which aligns with its general public silence — but has taken no such action in Israel. The Match group (more on those lot below) did the exact same thing but were public about it. Selective engagement…

Look, in general, I’m not a fan of dating apps — not just because of wanting the meet-cute thing — but, like the above, I take serious issue with their corporate structures. More so than I do with most companies, if I’m honest, because they affect something so central to the human experience: love.

Firstly, there’s our data. Even if apps aren’t selling it, we know it’s being used to drive our behaviour. They know how to keep us engaged and convinced that there’s something better a swipe away.

Then there’s the inbuilt racism. It’s disguised as user choice but I truly feel like if exclusion feels frictionless, the structure is part of the problem. At the end of the day, preference doesn’t exist in a vacuum — we are entirely moulded by social perception of race where race so often becomes a trend. Look at the cultural dialogue around that viral Inde Wild TikTok at the Tyla concert in India: ’South Asian women are baddies? Who knew?’ We did. We’ve always known. It’s the same thing when it comes to brown men who are so often desexualised in the media.

There are engagement-based ranking systems which decide who is desirable and who gets shown more and who isn’t. The algorithm is built to reinforce the centring of whiteness and Eurocentric beauty standards, without questioning the users motive or giving them a more diverse offering (why would you question those who are paying you?). It ends up with people of colour and other marginalised users being shown less, so they match less and then get ranked lower. It’s a just a never ending self perpetuating cycle.

The, there’s fetishisation of women of colour: ‘You’re exotic,’ ‘You’re the first X I’ve been with,’ or ‘No offence, but I’m not into Asians but you’re different though ;)’ Alongside slurs and stereotypes disguised as flirting: ’I thought brown girls were meant to be submissive?’ ‘Wow, I thought you’d be more conservative,’ or ‘Latinas are just more passionate.’ There’s no real way to report this, no education on why this might be wrong, and definitely no consequences for the perpetrators. Platforms don’t need racist intent to perpetuate racist outcomes.

There’s also the lack of platform choice that makes it harder to have a voice in what we want. The Match group (match.com) owns a huge share of the market including Tinder, Hinge, OkCupid, Plenty of Fish, and The League, to name a few of the 45+ that they have under their umbrella. It’s been accused and sued for a whole bunch of bad behaviour, including by the US Federal Trade Commission who essentially claimed that Match was allowing and enabling fraudulent accounts to show interest to non-subscribers, therefore encouraging them to subscribe. It’s also been criticised for potentially backing weaker privacy protections in its backing of the US’ bipartisan Earn It Act aimed at combatting online child sexual exploitation. Also, a group of women accused them of not removing accounts of sexual predators. Amongst other things.

Finally, there’s the addiction by design component. Most of these apps operate on users remaining on the app and not leaving. In defence of Raya, the higher membership fee for all members — i.e. no freemium model — might explain why it can afford to not have an endless scroll. A reminder from tech Anisah here: even if a service is free you will always be paying for it somehow, whether it’s with your attention or your data.

Anyway, this was just meant to be a quick Raya review. Oops.

I’m not saying I’m done with apps entirely. Although there are currently none on my phone, there are still a few I want to try including Thursday (although I’m worried it’s too preppy for me), Timeleft (too drink centric for me?) and Feeld (too open for me?). I feel like they’re all quite misunderstood platforms that I’d quite like to write about.

More than that though, I’d love 2026 to be the year we see more pressure put on dating apps. I’m tired of the big conglomerates not being taken seriously by the public because dating is still seen as a silly industry. It’s how fast fashion used to be seen until we began to understand how destructive it is — it being responsible for 10% of global CO2 emissions went a long way in changing public perception. We need more direct action to ensure loneliness and the desire for intimacy aren’t exploited. We could also do with some more indirect action, like people deleting apps and calling for more IRL experiences, to get companies to sit up and pay attention.

Until then, I’m going to continue to believe that when there’s a person for me, and we’re both ready, I will find them out in the big wide world.

Share

I’d love to hear what you think!

Subscribe now

It’s a quick one from me this week as I’m just here to wish you a happy new year.

For this year, I wish you confidence to articulate your needs and desires, the conviction to start, the strength to leave, the strength to stay, the ability to let go, the ability to hold on, and the playfulness to have fun. Mostly though, I wish you a year filled with good health and the sort of love that makes life worthwhile — the deepest of friendships, the kindest partners, the most peaceful family ties. And finally, if it’s where you are in your journey and what you desire from this year, I wish you pleasureful, enjoyable, affirming, secure, hilarious, loving sex.

Me? Well, I have a whole list of things that I want to do in 2026 so I’ve come to you to share some of ‘em — mostly so that you hold me accountable, and because you might be able to help me in parts!

1. Run four Brown Bodies Live! events. Last year, we ran two. I can’t tell you how amazing it’s been to hear people say it was one of their fave events of 2025. So this year, to not stress me out at all, we’re going to double it: two in London, one in NYC, and one in Toronto — or that’s the goal, anyway. I could really do with your support with introductions to dreamy potential guests!

   If you want to partner on an event (like we did with LELO and see u irl last year), then also give me a shout.

2. Interview more queer people. I expected it to be challenging, of course, but I know I also need to be more proactive. Again, would love suggestions/intros. I’ve got a few names on my hit list.

3. Write a piece on the legacy of colonial attitudes towards sex. I mention it so often but I want space for real conversation, not just passing remarks. I’ve just finished reading Empireworld by Sathnam Sanghera and it’s fired me tf up. I think I’ve been scared because empire chat gets a lot of backlash but now I know things I thought to be true have research to back them up, I’m out of excuses. I’m hoping to gift myself a proper piece for my birthday (in May). I’m also planning on dragging a few experts in to help me because they can’t refuse me if I say it’s my birthday present…

4. Launch a video series. A few of you already know this is in works because I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut. I had hoped to get recording by the end of 2025, but priorities (like people needing to pay their rent and, therefore, having to do their day jobs) got in the way. But it’s coming. I’ll take any advice, thoughts, moral support, etc.

5. Interview Ambika Mod. Enough said. Three course meal for the person who makes this happen.

Thank you for being here and for letting me create, slowly, this cosy corner of the internet for conversations I’ve always wanted to have. I’m excited for another year of learning alongside you.

To wrap up, if you’re back to commuter life from tomorrow, feel free to steal some stuff from my to read/watch list. I’ve not read/watched any of these yet so you’re not allowed to judge them as recommendations!!

Books

Empireland, Sathnam Sanghera

Mother Mary comes to me, Arundhati Roy

A pleasant kind of heavy and other erotic stories, Aranyani

Governing gender and sexuality in colonial India. Read the book here.

Articles/reports

Colonialism and the criminalisation of homosexuality. Read the report here.

State sponsored homophobia in South Africa, by the Human Rights Watch.

The data behind generation Z’s sex lives, by Mona Chalabi for the Guardian.

Watch

Joyland, now available on Channel 4 online.

Kama Sutra: A tale of love. The 1996 classic is by Mira Nair, Zohran Mamdani’s mum, so it feels like an appropriate time to add this to my list. Oh, and Queen Rekha is in it.

I have terrible taste when it comes to film and TV though — I’ve already watched too much Nora Ephron this December — so didn’t fancy sharing that bit of my 2025. Instead, I’ve outsourced the TV/film roundup to people whose taste I trust. But, first up, my book list specifically on love and sex.

Rereads

Come as you are, Emily Nagoski’s book on female sexuality that I actually think should be mandatory reading at 16, continues to be a book that I learn more and more from every time I pick it up. Honestly, read it. Whatever gender you are.

Attached. OH, LET ME TELL YOU HOW MAD (as in, annoyed) I AM. I lent my copy to a man this year and, well, he looked after it as well as he looked after my heart. Not well, that is, in case you needed me to be clearer. THAT ASIDE, rereading it in a year of being very secure in myself — in comparison to the first time I read it when I was an anxious mess post that situation — brought up a whole new bunch of questions and learnings.

New reads

All about love. It’s a classic for a reason but it didn’t change my life. Maybe it’s because I’ve read a lot on love and on equal rights movements — lots that draws on bell hooks’ work — that it didn’t feel groundbreaking. However, there were good points which is why I’ve added it to the list, like she talks about fear, power and the need for domination being confused for love. She’s also really clear that love and abuse are unable to co-exist, which I don’t think I’ve ever read quite so bluntly before.

Secret Sex, an anthology. This was fun. What sex scenes would authors actually write if they weren’t afraid? The stories are written by 24 authors living in Canada — but you don’t know whose is whose. Plus, it’s way better than Want (see a few books down).

Sunshine and Spice. Another Canadian one. It’s like diaspora YA. There’s stuff about being disconnected from your roots, a lot of yearning, and then a couple of spicy scenes right near the end. It’s defo not a gift for the youngest in the house but it’s definitely aimed at a younger audience and is a good entry point to spicier reads. I picked this up at the Hopeless Romantic bookshop, a romantasy themed bookshop in Toronto, and they rated it a one chilli (which I agree with).

More love, less sex

The Covenant of Water. One of my favourite reads this year. It’s about a family in Kerala, following four generations from 1900 to 1977, where each generation suffers a ‘death by water’. But it’s actually not about that, really (and I actually think that storyline ends weakly). It’s about love and grief and the interconnectedness of both. It’s about family, the changing landscape of India, religion, caste and so much more. It’s gorgeous. I’ve already gifted it once!

Open Water. My friend gifted me this and I’ve read enough of her recommendations in the past to know it had to go straight to the top of my list. Deservedly so. I devoured it in a couple of days. Honestly, it has some of the best descriptions of being in love that I’ve ever read. It deals with masculinity — specifically being a Black man — so tenderly. It’s written in what, I think, they call poetic prose.

Atmosphere. Yes, yes, I know this is everywhere. It’s by the author of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo (which I also read this year!) and Daisy Jones and the Six. It’s a queer love story set at NASA in the 80s. Balled my eyes out a couple of times. Perfect holiday reading!

The ones I don’t know how I feel about — and would love you to read so we can discuss!

Heart Lamp. I think it’s important to have context about this anthology. The stories were originally written in Kannada between 1990 and 2023 about Muslim women in villages in Karnataka. I had to read it without centring the discomfort of people here in the West and without overthinking what they might assume about the role of women in Muslim communities. Bur the stories reflect lives back to the people they are written about, and in that lies its power. If you can read it without judgement, it’s got some powerful moments. Difficult, undoubtedly.

All fours. Oh man, was this the most hyped book of the year? I’ll say, off the bat, I loved the first half of this and felt very meh about the second half. I know this is controversial and I’m sorry. Please talk to me about it! What did I miss?

Community recommendations

Nishad says watch the film Saiyaara

‘For the first time in a while, a Hindi film has managed to grab the attention of a generation that’s half-scrolling, half-watching, and somehow still craving something real.[...] And yet, the frustration begins almost immediately, because this is still the same film we’ve seen a dozen times before: a boy who only knows how to express himself through rage — fighting, shouting, sulking, breaking things — until a girl enters his life and softens the edges. [...] There is one scene, though, that adds a layer (or at least tries to). After they sleep together, there’s a moment where he opens up. They’re lying in bed and he shares about his childhood. For a second, you think: finally … this is the first time he’s vulnerable and maybe there’s something accurate about the fact that men often find it easier to open up post-sex. That’s the one part of the film that feels emotionally aware and still I’m torn, because it’s not clear whether that choice was deliberate or just a plot device to show a steamy scene. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that the broader structure of the film is built around an age-old template: damaged boy, healing girl, love as emotional rehab.’

Read Nishad’s full review below.

Infinity Inklings

He’s not deep, he’s just damaged

There’s a certain kind of man we’ve seen over and over again in pop culture, across languages and industries. He’s angry, volatile, emotionally unavailable, often violent. He sulks, drinks, lashes out — and somewhere beneath the mess, we’re told, there’s something beautiful; that he’s just one heartbreak away from redemption, and so, that makes him wort…

Read more

9 months ago · 13 likes · 1 comment · Nishad Sanzagiri

Mehek says watch the film Joyland

Director and creative extraordinaire, Mehek, has excellent film taste (unlike me, as she says in the voice note, who is useless at watching anything).

If you’re in the UK, Joyland is out on Channel 4 online from the 27th December.

She also says watch the series Normal People

‘I thought it was so phenomenal. Yes it’s white centric and focused on what it means to be not from a religious community, etc, but I think the themes it does explore that I think are really important are: this main theme of consent, and the theme of past trauma (sexual and otherwise). It’s also really tender. The fallibility of it all. It’s a great place to see sex, love, grief, trauma, consent… to see what it’s like to learn through the ages with those themes as context.’

Oh, and if you’re yet to read what Mehek has to say about living with in-laws, head here.

Jody says watch the series Heated Rivalry

Burhan says watch the series One Day (if you haven’t already)

‘I am aware I’m a few years late here but I loved it. I’d not heard of it so had no idea what I was going into. I really enjoyed the one day concept — it was a cool narrative device to show the love story over a decade in an interesting way. Also, I liked how they were bold enough to not have every day be eventful.

But, a lot of the time it feels like TV and film are using brown cast members without actually acknowledging they’re brown. Or it’s the other end of the spectrum and them being brown is the entire point of the character. I’d like some more seasoning with brown cast members. And I don’t need an explicit nod, because then it’ll be something OTT like playing Mundian to Bach Ke when they walk in. But I feel like the balance is generally off.’

Also, I’d never seen the music video to Mundian to to Back Ke until today! If you’re the same, here you go.

My anonymous friend says read Hijab Butch Blues

This one’s for my religious trauma, avoidant attachment baddies. It’s a tender, affirming memoir about letting faith and queerness coexist, learning to let yourself be loved, and being in community even when you feel like an outsider. A truly beautiful, honest read that somehow never feels heavy.

A note on book buying

If you’re in the UK and consider buying one of the above books, the links take you to Bookshop.org. Each purchase supports independent bookshops and they also send me ~10% of the sale as an affiliate. All the books I recommend are on my page here. If you’re in the US, Bookshop.org operates there too (I just don’t have a front set up!).

I know this isn’t always affordable but borrowing from your local library is another way to support authors. In both the UK and Canada, Public Lending Right programmes compensate writers when their books are borrowed from public libraries.

Anything to avoid Amazon!

And on that note, let me know what you’re reading/watching and brownie points for anything soppy and cheesy, obvs.

Finally, Happy Christmas to all those who celebrate! Lots of love x

Read more

Ani: Women are twice as likely to search for violent porn than men.

[...]

Liam: Maybe they just get so used to being treated like shit that they start to search it out. Like a Pavlovian dog thing.

Last week, I went to see one of the last showings of Porn Play at the Royal Court Theatre in London. It tells the story of 30 year old Ani, played by Ambika Mod (who is, very clearly, one of my faves). Ani’s a high flying academic and Milton aficionado (yes, John Milton of Paradise Lost), who is coming to terms with her addiction to porn and masturbation. Over time, her reliance on porn seeps into, and begins to destroy, her relationships, her sex life, her work…

I’ve been interested in the topic of porn addiction for a while. But, I’ll admit, most of my reading and thoughts on the topic have been about straight men: how it impacts them and their intimacy, and how they relate to women because of it. I actually hadn’t given much thought to women’s relationship with porn — beyond the role of women in porn, and the varying degrees of expectation from a partner. Growing up, I received mixed messages about porn. I feel like I was subconsciously hearing that, ‘It’s entirely good and normal for men to watch porn. But not for women, they get their kicks in other ways.’ As someone who enjoys reading erotica, I used my sample size of one to verify that message to be true.

I feel like Ani also receives a bunch of mixed messages. Her boyfriend is worried because he doesn’t think that ‘women had that dirty-pervert sex drive that men have’, whereas her best friend believes everyone is ‘weird about sex’ and porn is just normal ‘as long as it’s not animals or kids’. Then there’s her student who thinks her lectures glorify sexual violence. The mixed messages bring her shame about her consumption, initially. She feels rubbish when her boyfriend brings it up, she hides it when her dad walks in (and almost dies when he looks into her box of toys), and can barely tell her bestie what type of porn she watches nor how reliant she is on it. Her shame might be one of the reasons she begins to look for help — people are more likely to report an addiction if they believe there’s shame or some moral ill judgement attached to the behaviour. When I first started reading about porn addiction a few years ago, the scientific evidence seemed to suggest that you couldn’t get addicted to porn but it could be used compulsively — that it’s likely a control issue or an OCD-like struggle. Over time, I have started to understand why there’s apprehension to label over reliance on porn addiction — it could misdiagnose that shame or guilt. But the lack of an addiction diagnosis makes it hard to look for help. Where are you meant to go? Is it the GP, a therapist, or maybe something like the AA support group they show in the play?

Porn Play covers how ill equipped we are to have these conversations with friends, at school, with family, or with a gynaecologist, and leaves the audience with more uncomfortable questions than it has time to solve. I would be lying if I said it didn’t make me think about my own relationships. About wanting to discuss with a partner whether sex with me was enough or if they were thinking about porn. I thought about whether I should be chatting to friends more about their views on porn and its impact on real life. Real life… They talk so much in the first half of the show about porn not being real life. That it’s escapism. A bit of fun. A way to manage grief with pleasure, enable sleep, and quiet a busy mind. But where does on screen end and real life start? And when does watching become problematic? Is it when there’s an inability to enjoy intimacy or when you’re no longer able to be aroused without the visual of porn or when you can’t come without images of sexual violence to shock the system? Or is it when you want to play out a scenario on a partner without communicating it? Without spoiling it, there’s this scene where Ani wants to live out her fantasies. The porn she watches is clearly very violent but she fails to understand that IRL safe BDSM or role play is not as spontaneous as in porn — there has to be communication, guardrails, body safe toys, trust and education. She actually ends up in a dangerous situation and, although I think it was great how they slipped in some teachings about needing safe words, it was a hard watch.

The play did raise questions that I felt were quite controversial. For example, there was this whole conversation that tried to explain why Ani was into watching extreme violence against women: one of my fave characters, the AA guy, suggested that maybe it’s because in real life they’re both always trying to figure out how to save their mums. For him, it was watching his mum get hit at home and for Ani it was her mum’s battle with cancer. When you watch porn there’s no way to save the woman from the aggression: ‘You don’t have to worry about them,’ he says — and there’s some twisted pleasure in that. I didn’t buy it but I did buy that her heartbreak of losing her mum needed masking. It’s like scrolling TikTok for hours to numb the mind.

Ani is clearly brown. Not just in casting but also in name: Anisha Sandhu. In the play text there are a couple of references to her background which aren’t in the play. As a brown audience member though, I couldn’t help but watch through that lens. Not only do I feel it’s still rare to see brown bodies sexualised, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a brown character watch porn or masturbate on stage. Not even on screen, that I can think of?

When addiction intertwines with being South Asian diaspora, does shame run higher? Is her silence louder for longer because of it? One of my favourite evolutions in the play is her relationship with her dad, a widower, who is played by British South Asian actor, Asif Khan. It feels cold. Like they don’t know how to talk to each other. And then, when she’s at her absolute worst (and, again, I don’t want to spoil it because I hear they might do another run), he does anything he can to help her. He understands the pleasure is actually masking the absolute devastation of her grief. It feels so brown dad stereotype coded. And I feel like that’s the only reason it works. I don’t think I would have understood that trajectory of the relationship without there being that cultural understanding.

I sat there at the end as people were filing out and wondered whether a show like this is enough for our communities to begin accepting that these things are happening inside our own homes too. That our kids and friends and family need help. As someone who has Opal because I have no will power when it comes to switching off of my phone, over-reliance on a digital world seems easier to me than it’s made out to be. Why would porn be any different?

Porn Play is written by Sophia Chetin-Leuner and directed by Josie Rourke.

Its run has currently ended but I reckon it might be back…

When I first got sick, I called one of my best friends and told him that this was it, the nail in the coffin: I would forever be single because who would want to be with someone they knew had an illness? He retorted with examples of people we knew who had health conditions and were in relationships. ‘That’s different,’ I protested. ‘They were together when X person got sick.’ I was convinced my love life was over. Yet, here we are seven years on from that conversation and I’ve had the privilege of having loved and been loved in that time. Since then, I’ve also watched friends and family battle all sorts — from autism diagnoses to cancer — and I’ve secretly kept track of their love life. I guess it’s a way to give me hope when I have dark days.

I’m going through one of those ‘dark days’ at the moment. For the last few years I’ve managed to pretend like I don’t really have anything worth discussing — my only tell has been a daily tablet in the morning — but I’m currently having a bit of a flare up. I’m not entirely sure why but I would be lying if I said I was 100% okay. Plus, people I love are starting to notice: they ask me, more often than before, the well intentioned question, ‘Have you taken your meds today?’ I put it down to my drooping eyelid which is the other tell — a physical tell — that is much harder to hide.

With 1 in 10 people expected to have an autoimmune in their lifetime — that number being higher for women — and with more and more research showing higher risks in South Asian communities, I feel like we desperately need to be talking about it more. For visibility, for solidarity, and for sharing learnings and coping mechanisms.

I’m very lucky that mine is manageable. That, compared to 60+ years ago, my life expectancy is the same as it would have been without MG. That there isn’t really a risk of death. So I try to see the lessons it was sent to teach me, for example, in my love life:

1. Testing

It’s a non-negotiable that my partner gets tested. The fear of God has been instilled in me because me getting an STI is no bueno. A potential partner has to have a full sexual health check up before I’ll even look at ‘em.

But listen, you should be doing this anyway: whatever gender you’re sleeping with, no matter how long you’ve been with your previous partner, even if you’re using protection or you’re ’only doing hands and mouth stuff’ (yes, someone said this to me), you need to get tested. Not only is it the respectful and right thing to do for others, it increases your chances of nipping things in the bud before they become problematic. It also becomes easier to know your baselines, understand what you should be looking out for, and have better vocabulary around your sexual health.

Hand in hand with this is the conversation around exclusivity and cheating. I have to be like, ‘Oh hey, if you sleep with someone else, please don’t then sleep with me because it could have a major effect on my health. Thanks.’ It’s not quite as romantic as, ‘Don’t cheat on me because you’ll break my heart,’ but it is quite effective. I don’t presume I won’t be cheated on, but I expect someone I love and who has loved me to have enough care left to not put my health at risk.

2. Communication

I have to be able to talk about what I need and why, obviously. I have no shame because I know I’m worth the effort for someone who genuinely cares. Plus, sex is so much better when all parties are relaxed? I also have to be able to talk about, very matter of factly, what my health could look like over time. Realistically, I will just have a few down days — especially around stressful times, grief and when I’m over exerting — and I might need support in those moments. But at the same time, I need to be allowed to be absolutely bat shit insane. I need to be able to do things like marathons, stupidly long swims, multiple day hikes and other silly activities without it being a constant conversation of, ‘Are you sure?’ Yes, I’m sure. My illness is easier to manage when I’m fit. Not to mention I’m easier to manage when I’m tired out! Whilst I appreciate the frustration and stress this can cause a partner (and my parents), I cannot feel like a cooped up chicken. If I stop, I’m worried I will just be worse physically, mentally, everything-ly.

3. Dependency

I am the eldest of three girls and I fit a lot of the stereotypes of that demographic which includes being hyper independent. Or, at least, I was.

When I got sick in 2018, I moved in with two beautiful friends after having lived on my own for years. It was clear I was struggling. They cooked for me, sorted my room out, took my dog out, picked me up from the station (and the floor, occasionally). At work, my team rallied and built up the new office we’d just moved into, took on extra shifts, ordered me Ubers home, etc. All this to say, It’s given me the ability to allow people in and let them care for me, and actually really love the feeling of being held by my people. And this has been transferable to my love life. Mostly. I’m still occasionally a crazy person who thinks she can move a wardrobe on her own.

4. Sex

MG can impact the ability to orgasm. I was told very point blank by my consultant, in the very early days of knowing her, to forget about the destination and just enjoy the journey. And when a doctor says it, well, you listen. The anxiety I felt around some of that stuff no longer impacts me.

And then all that communication malarkey? It translates. I’m so much better at articulating how I’m feeling, what I’m not feeling, and what I want or need. And it’s one of the reasons I’m interested in, and capable of, writing Brown Bodies (when I’m not terrified about my parents reading it!).

5. Body changes

I’ve had a difficult relationship with my body over the years. And then my illness brought a few more challenges:

• I’ve watched the feature I like most — my eyes — become the cause of my self consciousness.

• I have scars from my operation.

• I’ve experienced my weight go up and down.

Funnily enough, MG made me really confront my self hate and develop a kinder view on how I look. I felt a sense of responsibility to actually be grateful for coming out the other side — and that included being grateful for my body. Don’t get me wrong, I still struggle. A lot. Especially as my weight rollercoasters. But I try to lock into the words an ex-love repeatedly told me: ‘Bodies change. Our bodies will change as we get older.’ And he’s, annoyingly, right. Not to mention it really did something for my psyche that he led with that and not with, ‘What do you mean? You look great.

I no longer believe that having an autoimmune illness is a barrier to romantic love as I once told my friend. In fact, if anything, I believe it’s made me much better at love: receiving it, giving it to others and giving it to myself. I, of course, don’t wish I’d ever got diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis, but I do believe I wouldn’t be who I am — or as early as I’ve become her — without the lessons it has taught me.

Subscribe now

Further reading

• STI testing:

  • You can get a free STI test in the UK by visiting a local sexual health clinic or your GP. Anyone can go to a sexual health clinic regardless of their gender, age or whether they have symptoms. If you’re under 16, the service is still confidential and the clinic won’t tell your parents. More info here.

  • In Canada, provincial healthcare funds sexual health so STI testing is usually free if you have a health card. Some clinics also test anonymously or for free even if you don’t have coverage. You can find more info here.

  • For the US, it’s less black and white so there’s more info here. From what I understand, insurance covers most testing as it is preventative care. Individual states organise free community testing days, and government-run public health clinics offer free or low-cost STI testing and treatment — a lot of the services seem to be income dependent.

  There are, of course, private clinics available everywhere too.

• I’d just finished writing this when one of my fave writers on Substack, , also wrote about her autoimmune illness and its link with capitalism.

  Loveconomics

  How capitalism gave me an autoimmune disease

  I was diagnosed with the autoimmune disease ulcerative colitis, an inflammatory bowel disease (IBD), in 2017. Since then, my journey has gone something like this…

  Read more

  6 months ago · 24 likes · 8 comments · Dr. Laura Basu

Ultimately, it wasn’t finding the courage that mattered, but how what I said was received that began my transition into the person I am today that doesn’t shut up about sex. No one said, ‘Don’t worry’, ‘It’s fine’ or ‘You’ll be OK’. Instead, they thanked me for sharing. No other words. They let me sit with the moment. And that was everything. The before didn’t change the after. I was still me.

As the day progressed, people came to me one by one, unplanned, and spoke to me of their stories. They’re not mine to share here but they were shared with me to normalise my own. I felt like the village elders were giving me the gift of their lived truths. By unburdening themselves of memories of formative sexual encounters they’d rarely, if ever, shared before they unburdened me of my shame. Of my fear of being broken.

Isn’t that entirely what folklore is? The tradition of telling stories, generation to generation, via word of mouth to share wisdom. Stories that enable us to see ourselves. And debunk nonsense (in this case, popular culture’s representation of when we’re meant to have sex, what it’s meant to look like and how we’re meant to feel).

Often, folklore deals with stories of origins and beginnings like first creations, first meetings, even cultural firsts that get passed down through the ages as tradition. These stories help us to make sense of how we unfold: they teach us lessons, guide us, and warn us.

I’m obsessed with firsts. I’m drawn to that tension that holds the fine balance between fear and a leap of faith. That (maybe not so) quiet unknown before something becomes familiar, habitual. And then the lessons we learn from them. In my mind, ‘firsts’ hum at the same frequency as the old folklores.

When I talk about first, I don’t just mean the stories of first sexual encounters — although I love those too of course — but also the first sex after having a child. Or the first orgasm post chemotherapy. Or a first date after divorce. Or the first time initiating after a miscarriage. Or the first time kissing a partner after they cheated. Or the first time cheating. Or that first time exploring with a woman after being with men forever. Or vice versa. Or the first time exploring a new kink. Or the first time watching porn. Or the first time going to therapy for over reliance on porn. Or the first time at a sex party. And all the other firsts in between.

I want to tell those stories — our own folklore. And I need your help:

I’m looking for your stories to tell for a new series.

I’d love for you to share your ‘first’ with me (anonymously!) — whatever ‘first’ conjures up for you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t question whether it’s unique enough (it’s your story, and that’s as unique as it needs to be).

What’s your first?

Let me know here. The form is completely anonymous (unless you choose to add your email so I can send you a ‘thank you’ note). Don’t censor yourself: as diaspora, we often get metaphors or platitudes when it comes to stories about love and sex, but I crave depth, detail, emotion and articulation. And, of course, the laughter and giggles — taking it too seriously can do as much of a disservice as not taking it seriously enough, in my humble opinion.

Mehek has more opinions than she knows what to do with so she writes to give those opinions a home. A former law student turned creative, she’s a storyteller who writes, directs and somehow manages to get her daily fibre. She’s also the reason I am now an Owala girlie and can take back camera selfies on 0.5 — AKA she’s my Gen Z coach. She’s directing her first short film this November. I’ve read the script and am absolutely buzzing to see it come to life — you can support her efforts by contributing to the crowdfund here (there’s a cute pack of stickers as one of the crowdfund rewards…). I’m going to shut up now and handover to Mehek before I curry your opinion in any which way!

Let’s be honest, the phrase ‘living with your in-laws’ rarely sparks joy. It conjures up images of unsolicited advice, awkward silences, and the occasional territorial dispute over fridge space. But for me it was a practical, even strategic, decision — one that came with unexpected silver linings.

Now, to be completely transparent, living with in-laws would not have been my first choice but (record scratch, freeze frame), yep! That’s me. So you’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. The answer involves a mix of practical and personal reasons, with a sprinkle of ‘life doesn’t always go to plan.’

For starters, my husband and I got married fairly young, at the perplexing ages of 24 and 23. Only two years out of university, we weren’t in a position to buy a house — the average age of a first time buyer in the UK is 32, by the way! — or rent somewhere that would allow us to save meaningfully. I was only earning £21k a year which, as anyone living in London knows, does not get you very far. While I come from a middle-class Pakistani family, my husband grew up largely working class and was responsible for financially maintaining his family alongside his mother, who had pretty much been the sole earner throughout his life. On top of it all, my husband has caring responsibilities towards his elderly dad, which is something I personally sympathise with as someone with a disabled parent. Long story short, money was tight.

Before we got married, we had an honest conversation about what aspects of our lives we were willing to put on pause versus what we wanted to prioritise. Would it have been nice to spend the first year living alone? Absolutely. Did it feel financially smart to spend half our incomes on rent? Probably not. So, we chose to live within our means. Maybe not the most glamorous decision, but definitely the most pragmatic.

Our setup is pretty ideal. We’ve got the entire upstairs to ourselves, a cosy little lounge, our own bathroom and just the kitchen to share. Not exactly the stuff of newlywed movies, but it works. Four years on, we’re still here. Living with in-laws is by no means smooth sailing, and it’s an experience that has taught me far more than I expected. From patience, recognising privilege, reinstating boundaries, and the delicate art of coexisting under one roof, it’s been a crash course in compromise and finding small pockets of independence within shared space.

I will say that before I moved in, I made it very clear what my personal boundaries were, who I was as a person, how I had no intention of being relegated to house-staff (which is common in Desi households), and that I would not tolerate people prying into my personal life and decisions. I think the level of firm transparency from me and the willingness to listen from their side set a positive tone for our current living situation.

Now, I also know how important it is to maintain my independence and I work hard at it — whether it’s financial autonomy, time with friends, or personal hobbies, my small acts of individuality go a long way. Plus, they keep me sane!

The Good

For many, living with your in-laws could not be a more terrifying pursuit but it has a tonne of benefits that I didn’t initially forecast. Starting off with the most obvious: the financial privilege of living with family cannot be understated. With the house being mortgage-free, we only contribute to its general upkeep. Whilst my husband manages the bulk of costs, the extent of my contributions (besides being great weeknight entertainment) is buying some groceries and cooking a few times a week. It’s important to note that our arrangement is not that rigid, and we all pick up our weight around the house as and when it’s needed, which feels like a fair balance to strike being part of the same household.

Not only have we been able to save considerably, we’ve also got disposable cash that has given us the opportunity to travel, indulge in experiences, see friends regularly, use our adult money for silly things like an overpriced Catan board…

It’s undeniable that when you tie yourself down to something as weighty as a mortgage, the room for financial risk is slim to none. Granted, you have a solid long-term asset, but it comes at a cost. Living with my in-laws has given us the financial privilege to pursue our dreams. My husband has set up a successful business, whilst I’ve been able to build myself a (now) comfortable creative career. We’ve both been able to realise our passions, almost unreservedly.

Another benefit to living with in-laws has been the shared household responsibilities. My mother-in-law and I share cooking responsibilities; she cooks three to four times a week and I the other days. One of the hardest things about adulting is consistently having to brainstorm new ideas on what to cook, so I can’t tell you how much having a freshly cooked meal once I’m back from work is appreciated. With this arrangement, I also have scope to also be really experimental with my cooking and not feel like it’s an agitating chore or expectation — plus, I’ve managed to get my desi mother-in-law eating orzo and focaccia! On top of that, if any of us are hosting family or friends, it’s a one-man, two-woman dream team (three when my sister in-law is over). My partner handles all the washing!

All the other basics apply: clean up after yourself and be considerate.

Then there’s health. We have round-the-clock care if any of us get sick and have people on hand to run errands. My husband deals with all of my father-in-law’s appointments. Hearing from friends who have lived with in-laws during pregnancy or the first few weeks after giving birth, many have expressed gratitude for the support, the ability to sleep a few extra hours and not think about the more tedious parts of managing your household. Of course, many do also report a plethora of drawbacks but that stuff is for the next section!

Lastly, provided your in-laws are pretty chill, not largely unpleasant and give you your space, it’s nice to have a lively household. Nephews and nieces visiting every Friday, someone humming away in the kitchen, late-night conversations, and many more tender moments.

The Bad

Now, there are some notorious drawbacks.

Let’s get the big one out of the way. Having sex can be awkward. Believe me, hearing your husband’s childhood nickname being shouted from the bottom of the staircase during an intimate moment is a complete mood killer. The constant fear of ‘will they hear us?’ means wee try to stay quiet, are constantly scheduling, or waiting until the whole house is asleep. The constant caution can sometimes make intimacy feel restricted and a little unnatural. Understandably, this is a big deal. There is no doubt that living with in-laws is a bit of a turn-off and it can restrict the early evolution of your marital intimacy.

Now, we do have ways around it: from the occasional cheeky hotel trip, to getting a little creative with ascertaining the perfect time to risk a midday sesh, and constant communication. We’ve managed to navigate this particular part of living with in-laws pretty well.

On the other side of intimacy are the not so tender moments of marriage. Yes, people bicker. Shit hits the fan sometimes and — provided everyone’s behaviour is within appropriate parameters — this is completely normal. We’re no different. But living with in-laws means we’re in a constant state of performing like everything is okay. Purely to make sure no parties feel uncomfortable — and ensure no one else gets involved. No matter how wonderful your in-laws are, there’s always a risk of underlying biases which can just further exacerbate a personal matter between partners.

Which brings me on to my natural frustrations. In-laws are kind of like roommates really — but ones that you can’t call out or passively text on the group chat if they’ve stolen that last cookie you were really looking forward to, or misplaced that expensive olive oil you bought from Spain (maybe a little too specific). There’s a relationship to maintain and that goes both ways, but we’re still human beings and natural frustrations build the more you occupy each other’s space.

I believe a good partner has a big role to play here; to be cognisant of frustrations felt by their partner and parents, and fuel healthy discussions between all parties to maintain peace in the home. Since they know both sides best, they are best placed to initiate those conversations and make sure the needs and frustrations (which are inevitable) are being understood. Once that foundation is set, it facilitates a space for all parties to bring their issues directly to one other in a healthy and comfortable manner.

In the best cases, issues are nipped in the bud there and then, instead of brewing until relationships become strained and resentment sets in.

Living with in-laws is really down to the personality of all parties involved and what they’re willing to compromise on, and how respectful they are of each other’s boundaries. The tough reality is, in most cases, the partner moving in has to give and give, and that is not fair, particularly when you’re moving into a house that has its deep-set conventions and quirks.

The Ugly

It would be disingenuous not to mention that my husband and I will not live here forever. No matter how wonderful my in-laws are, there are also important financial safeguards I believe are necessary to have in place, and there is one particular topic I don’t think is discussed enough: inheritance.

When a couple lives in a home owned solely by the husband’s parents, it might seem like a sensible arrangement at first: no rent, shared costs, and a chance to save. But over time, it can become a financial trap, particularly for the woman. She may find herself contributing emotionally and practically to a household she has no legal claim to. The home, after all, remains an asset tied to the parents, not the couple. And when the inevitable moment of inheritance arrives, that property is often divided between siblings. Suddenly, the years spent living there don’t translate into stability or security. She walks away with no concrete asset to her name, while her husband and his siblings navigate the awkward process of dividing something that’s never really belonged to them either.

It’s a messy, emotionally charged situation, and because most families avoid frank conversations about inheritance, these tensions often fester until they erupt into disputes. What started as a temporary living arrangement can morph into long-term uncertainty, blurring the line between practicality and dependency. This is something I would personally want to avoid as I’ve seen it happen within extended family circles. It’s unpleasant for them, and me — so my husband and I have been clear to set expectations that we will eventually move out, which everyone is on board with.

Finally, living with in-laws can and often does damage relationships. I can appreciate that my set-up may seem slightly unusual, and whilst we’ve had our fair share of disagreements, we’ve been able to resolve them. For some, and for whatever reasons, it’s just not possible, and why risk souring such important relations?

Accepting if it doesn’t work

If you’re living, have lived or are planning to live with your in-laws, you have to come to terms with the fact that sometimes, despite best efforts, it just doesn’t work — and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Living with in-laws can expose differences in values, habits, and expectations that no amount of goodwill can fix. Recognising when the arrangement has become unhealthy or unsustainable is not failure; it’s maturity. Knowing when to step back protects not only your peace but is also better for maintaining those relationships between both parties in the long run.

Living with in-laws is a unique blend of chaos, comfort, and compromise. It can be deeply rewarding or quietly suffocating, sometimes both in the same week. My experience has been a mix of luck, boundaries, and sheer adaptability. It’s not the path I imagined, but it’s one that’s shaped me in unexpected ways.

Two years later, I’m back in London and heading to Soho Theatre Walthamstow with a good friend. I have two tickets this time.

I don’t know when I first heard about Brown Girls Do It Too but it was definitely in the era of me starting Brown Bodies. I feel like Eshaan Akbar might have been the one to put me on to it. If this is the first time you’re hearing the name, let me introduce you. Rubina Pabani and Poppy Jay are the creators and cohosts of the podcast series Brown Girls Do It Too. They started in 2019 and recorded their last episode — after six seasons — in April this year. Since episode one, where they talked about having sex for the first time, Rubina and Poppy have covered — in great depth! — their sex lives and that of their, mostly women (there is an eight-part miniseries with men) guests, explicitly and openly. They story tell, joke about, and fuck about openly. It’s been popular and well loved — them selling out, after three years of running the show, goes some way in proving that.

The theatre knows it’s about to be filled with brown people. From £3.20 chai at the bar — no, we didn’t pay for it as we actually rolled in with Chaiiwala cups in hand — to the Bollywood classics playlist, they’ve catered for the audience. And, you know what, I don’t hate it.

We take our seats to the soundtrack of our 90s and early 2000s childhoods — think Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys, Destiny’s Child and Chaiyya Chaiyya. When that last one comes on, we hear ooohs and aaahs from the entire audience. A classic. And, with that, it’s lights down for the show… And straight back up a minute later as the dynamic duo chat with the audience. As someone who doesn’t read synopses or watch trailers, I actually didn’t know the show is primarily a chit chat conversation between the pair with sketches and skits to underline their points. There’s a recurring one: Coconut Crimes Hotline — a service saving people from behaviour that is too white/not brown enough, like having a posh accent or not washing your arse. It reminds me of GCSE drama, but in the best way.

I feel like comedy is how they’ve broken the taboo of talking about sex. How else do you get such a diverse group in a room? There are brown people of all ages, white people, black people… And it’s mainly because they’re jokes together. Their rapport is excellent and you can feel how much they love each other and how much they care about Brown Girls Do It Too. That energy draws you to them and you want them to do well. Plus, they’ve got enough differences for them to cover a lot of ground: being a parent, being divorced, being posh, being working class, dating around, being monogamous, etc. This range works. The audience is laughing. I’m laughing. At one point, I have tears streaming down my face of laughter.

But — and there is a but for me — this is the lowest common denominator type of comedy like Goodness Gracious Me. Don’t get me wrong, GGM continues to be a fave. And actually, in lots of ways, we’re laughing at similar topics to the ones Goodness Gracious Me covered… Maybe just a bit raunchier. But I feel some of the jokes are written for the white gaze and not for us. Like we’re laughing at the distance we’ve travelled from culture.

I unpack this with my friend over our post show Chaiwalla chai (yes, yes, we did go before and after). Poppy and Rubina both admit in the show to not feeling comfortable in their brownness growing up and spending a lot of their lives distancing themselves from that identity. There were jokes about the perfect blonde girl at school, smelling like curry, and South Asian men dating white girls then marrying someone ‘from back home’. My friend explains her takeaway: Poppy and Rubina are drawing from their lived experiences. Hidden lives and different accents to your parents, a young marriage, finding identity outside the home… Common first generation experiences.

We have a different experience as second gen kids. My mum wasn’t born in the UK — she was but a baby when she moved. She had many of the experiences Brown Girls Do It Too draws from. Stories that aren’t mine to tell. But a mother who has grown stronger in her brownness over time, a father who fully embraced the culture, and grandparents who made me feel I belonged went a long way in ensuring my identity as ‘brown’ is one I’ve been secure in from a very young age. It helps being mixed and not growing up in the UK too — including spending some time in India where I fought to be seen as brown and not this little foreign kid.

The other factor my friend points out is that the show doesn’t touch on faith. In the context of South Asian–focused work, faith is almost always present, so it was noticeably missing for me. And I think that’s done on purpose for so many reasons but maybe that explains some of the distance I felt. My friend said that religion has brought me personally much closer to my brownness. And there is truth in that. It can definitely change who you are surrounded by and what your centre of gravity is. My faith isn’t just a belief system, it’s infrastructure. It places me in spaces where a part of my identity isn’t questioned, but reinforced. Without the community that can come with religion, I would have had to do more legwork to find ‘diverse’ communities to belong to. Or maybe that was more true a decade or two ago where it was less common to see brown people in certain spaces — and I can see how that truth might influence the show.

I expected the show to be a lot more sex centric than it was. I’m not sure if that was a choice to appeal to a wider audience or to paint a fuller picture of why Brown Girls Do It Too exists. I do wish there had been more, but I guess I would say that. There were some great bits though: I was impressed by how unashamedly they talked about masturbating as children — I thought they did that so so well. Rubina saying she would use her teddies to grind on and, after a beat, explaining her family tradition of naming teddies after the person who gifted them had the audience in tears. I also cackled when they played Never Have I Ever with the audience. We all know 90% of the room’s hands should have been up for all of it!

My highlights were their earnest moments like Poppy talking about her mum not knowing about this part of her life and her getting embarrassed about her brother being in the audience. I was drawn to Rubina talking about gentle parenting mixed race kids in this new generation, having grown up very differently, and balancing that relationship with her own mum. As they closed the show, they read letters to their mums and here wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Sex is, and remains, a topic we’re all impacted by. Whether we’re actually having sex or not isn’t the point. Aside from our love lives, it plays an important role in our confidence and the way we carry ourselves in the world, our careers, our relationship with ourselves, with our parents and family, with faith and spirituality — and, like Poppy and Rubina, interactions with our communities. Sex has been their doorway back to reclaiming their brownness through Brown Girls Do It Too — and I love that for them.

Overall, I enjoyed the show. It is obviously funny despite all of the above. And it’s funny because these experiences are based in our lives as a diaspora. Whether or not we have experienced it first hand isn’t the point — it’s one part of our communal history. The show sadly ended its 2025 run yesterday but if it returns for a fourth sell out year, I’d like to take my mum for a second opinion.

Oh and in case you’re still thinking about Chaiyya Chaiyya…

If you’ve seen the show, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Leave a comment

Loveconomics

Where the personal meets the political

By Laura Basu

Laura, like me, is mixed. She is of Indian and Eastern European heritage. And, like me, how this mix has expressed itself in her appearance impacts how she's treated in the world. When Laura articulated to me that where people presume her to be from impacts how they perceive her femininity, I realised she'd given words to a feeling I've lived with my entire life: how I’m sexualised depends on where people think I’m from.

I hand you over to Laura for more.

Fiery Latina or submissive Asian chick — what are you?

How we are sexed through our race and raced through our sex

A few years back, we went on a family trip to India, where my dad is from. My brother’s mixed race ethnic ambiguity served him really well. With Polish broad shoulders, height and lighter skin, he was repeatedly mistaken for a Bollywood star.

The same mix didn’t work quite so well for me. My broad shoulders, let's say ‘characterful’ nose (which is from my Polish Catholic side, not my Jewish side, thank you very much) and frizzy hair (which comes from God knows where), did not get me mistaken for a Bollywood starlet.

While my brother’s ethnic combo made him more masculine and hunky, those same traits made me less feminine and alluring.

Being an unusual mix, ethnically ambiguous and having lived in different places, I’ve seen first hand how people perceive your gender and sexuality differently according to how they perceive your ethnicity.

When I’m in the US, people often think I’m Latina, and then they treat me as fiery and sexually free. When I'm in the Netherlands, where I live much of the time, they often think I’m Muslim — I can see all the Islamophobic cogs turning, placing me as subordinate and having to walk 10 steps behind my husband.

The ‘mixed race’ idea often gets me associated with being, generally, ‘exotic’ which is, apparently, sexy. The general ‘Asian’ vibe gets me seen as demure which can be sexy in a different way, though not always.

The point is that the way you are gendered and sexed depends on the way you are raced, and the way you are raced depends on how you are sexed and gendered.

Understanding how race and gender relate to each other in this way goes beyond intersectionality. Intersectionality sees race and gender as two separate categories that criss-cross each other. This is very important because it helps us see, for example, that Black women face different kinds of oppression from either white women or Black men. But, actually, we can go further and see that race and gender don’t just intersect — they are formed through each other. They co-create each other.

I’m so used to this kind of mashed up coding of my body that it barely even shows up consciously on my radar. Often, it’s funny.

But if we trace this co-creation of race and gender back to its roots, we find colonial oppression and violence in the service of a global economic system driven by an obsession with profits — capitalism. And we see that the same gender and race-based violence remains today.

The root

The renowned Black feminist scholars Angela Davis and Patricia Hill Collins explored how enslaved Africans and African Americans were coded in terms of their sexuality and gender during the Transatlantic slave trade of the 16th to 19th centuries. This didn’t just happen randomly but served commercial purposes for a rising economic system — capitalism — that had its foundations in slavery and colonial plunder.

Black women were painted as masculine and Black men as hyper-masculine. This was convenient for a system in which both men and women were worked to the bone in plantations — not exactly seen as a fitting occupation for demure and ladylike upper class white women.

At the same time, Black women were painted as sexually promiscuous and lascivious — also convenient for a system in which rape of enslaved women was literally a business investment for slave owners: the children of enslaved people also became the property of the master.

Meanwhile, Black men were portrayed as sexually aggressive sexual predators — a good excuse for the mass lynchings of Black men that were part and parcel of the Jim Crow era in the American South from the late 19th century until the mid 20th century.

In different colonised parts of the world, people were gendered and sexualised differently according to different strategies for profit-making. The academic Sita Balani, in her brilliant book Deadly and Slick, shows how the British institutionalised prostitution among Indian women as part of their imperial strategy in the 19th century. It was a way of controlling the sexuality of working class British men who were increasingly being brought over to the colony as soldiers. This policy of registered prostitution then spilled over into seeing any Indian woman as sexually available to British men.

Whole continents were coded as sexually available by imperial forces, with the entire region known as ‘the Orient’ often portrayed as a reclining exotic woman ripe for penetration by white colonising men. Asian men were also coded as feminine and therefore as ‘deviant’ and in need of forceful subjugation.

All of these ‘other’ sexualities and genders were of course set up in contrast to the ‘proper’ embodiment of man and woman (of course, always with a strict gender binary!), epitomised by upper class white folks.

Fast forward

Fast forward to today and it's shocking how little has changed. We see how race and gender shape each other everywhere in our culture. Just look at how Serena Williams gets accused of being ‘too masculine’ and even of, literally, being a man. East Asian men, meanwhile, are still often perceived as feminine while Asian women are seen as hyper-feminine.

This everyday raced and gendered stereotyping is still linked to structural inequalities baked into the global capitalist economy. Academics and racial justice advocates use the term ‘racial capitalism’ to stress that the profits that fuel capitalism are often made through racist inequality. And being gendered and sexualised as somehow ‘other’ or ‘deviant’ is a core way that people are put into racial hierarchies and then treated accordingly (including things like how much we are paid and which services we have access to or are denied).

Just look at the multi-billion dollar porn and sex industry that profits massively from the fetishisation of East Asian women.

Meanwhile, stereotyping both Muslim men and women as having deviant genders (men being aggressive and ‘traditional’ and women being meek but untrustworthy) is a key part of an Islamophobic ‘War on Terror’ that has made billions for western fossil fuel and defence firms.

And Black people are still stereotyped as ‘too masculine’ and sexually aggressive, which is linked to mass incarceration, state violence and economic exploitation — along with Black women facing sexual assault at higher rates than women belonging to other ethnic groups.

Free love

We can laugh about how our sexuality and gender get pigeonholed according to how our ethnicity is perceived. I love comparing notes about it, and even playing with it. But those are strategies for coping and thriving within a system that isn’t made for us.

Those strategies are essential. They’re a kind of group therapy and play that help us find each other and grow stronger together. But as we connect and grow stronger, we should keep our eyes on the real prize: a new system that doesn’t rely on racist and sexist oppression but lets all our brown bodies be free.

Share

A huge thank you to Laura for her words this week. You can subscribe to her Substack here — which I highly recommend you do. She’s currently doing a video series which is well worth a watch too.

As always, sharing the piece, talking about it with a friend, or dropping a note in the comments goes a long way in supporting Brown Bodies and the conversations we want to have in the world.

Brown Bodies

All about love and sex in the South Asian Diaspora

By Anisah Osman Britton

Love that I can pretend this is coming to you on a Monday because it’s Bank Holiday in the UK which is just an extended Sunday.

A fave friend sent me a voice note cackling about how my Hot Girl Summer has turned into a Hot ‘spend time with your Grandma’ Summer. It’s true, I’ve been in Alicante with my 82 year old Grandma for the last week. She is my father’s mother — the white side of the fam — and I do not have a relationship with her to speak of. I’d say my grandma and I are quite different people.

For example, I voted remain and she’ll say, ‘I hope we don’t go back into Europe,’ while she drinks a brew on her Spanish balcony. She’s lived here 28 years and still greets every person with a strong Yorkshire, ‘Ello luv.’ Hola and gracias are about the extent of her Spanish. Then there’s the Royal Family chat — more than I could ever care for — with that opinion and Camilla is an ‘ugly cow however you dress her.’ Oh and Camilla has dead bodies in her house? Don’t ask. Of course, there’s Covid conspiracies which we’re not going to go into. Then there’s food. Let’s just say I made sure we went out for dinner when a frozen spaghetti bolognese pizza was pulled out. Again, don’t ask.

I joke about but the bottom line is I don’t really feel a connection to her aside from a sense of duty. I think my series of unfortunate events (long story) was meant to happen to end up here — for both her and I.

Grandma’s love life

Grandma got married young. She married for security. Her story goes that my great grandparents were getting divorced and she thought she’d take over the lease of the cute cottage they lived in. It was, however, taken away as my great grandad was caught stealing the electric and gas money out of one of those prepayment metre things where you put coins in to get your energy. When she first told the story I thought she meant he was syphoning off the electricity and gas which I sort of thought was quite impressive. Stealing coins is way less cool. Oh well.

They divorced and she went on to find and marry the man she says was good to her and the kids. The man whose surname I carry. He passed away way too young. Maybe it’s easier to look back at the dead with rose tinted glasses but there’s definitely a familial sense of gratitude to my adopted grandfather.

Grandma doesn’t remember that she got married a third time. Dementia has relieved her from the memories of the family laughing stock.

In my living memory, my Grandma has always been single but she’s always been surrounded by people. The thing about Grandma is she’s nothing if not fun: super social, involved in lots of community groups, and the life of a party. She’s a flirt (yes, this is doing some heavy lifting when it comes to my inheritance). She loves to dance. Good at it too: waltz, samba, ballroom… she can do it all. Plus, she was showing me a TikTok dance she’d learnt. She’s always liked men who can dance too, whether they were single or not: ‘But just to dance, luv. No funny business. Those women would get so jealous over nothing.’

The impact

There’s probably a much longer piece I need to think about when it comes to being mixed race and what that has meant for my attitude towards love and sex. For example, I think about my worry about divorce and how it comes from this side of the family. Not the fact Grandma got divorced, but the shit people say about her because of it. But it’s not a piece I’m quite ready to write yet.

But I will tell you how this week has made me feel. Grandma tells me she’s lonely. Lots of her friends have passed away or moved back to the UK during the pandemic. She misses her social life. She misses dancing. Two widows have recently moved into her building. She tells me she finds it hard to understand one of them — she is Belgian — but even to have a coffee with another person, even if she’s just nodding away unawares, is better than not having one. There are no men in her life. I ask her if she wishes there were. She says, ‘I’ve learnt a lot of lessons. But I’m too old to put them into practice now.’ She tells me she just wants companionship. I’m tempted to reply and say it’s never too late but I can’t help but think that maybe it is.

I look at my ageing grandma I wonder if what she craves now — companionship — was the need she prioritised when looking for a partner. It’s made me think a lot about what we prioritise when we look for a partner. And how we investigate our needs.

Awareness of needs

Did she know what her needs vs her desires looked like? Although she doesn’t go into it, I gather that Grandma allowed herself to be wooed quickly. I wonder what her life would have looked like if she’d aligned her needs with her desire; if she’d had access to the information we have; if she’d had the privilege of not having to look for stability; if she could have made decisions from a place of independence; if she had the therapy and self help that discusses the importance of choosing the right partner at her disposal; if she’d been taught the importance of alignment.

I wonder what her life would have been like if she knew she needed a person who made her laugh, even through the hard times. Someone who was on an equal footing with her, where there was no question of power dynamic. Someone who had an understanding that roles change and change again and again over time through health, life, situations… Where there’s mutual care, not domination (that kept for the bedroom… Consensually).

I wonder what her life would have looked like if she knew she needed a man she could have had endless conversations with, even after having had every conversation. I wonder if she needed a man who read, so that there was always something to talk about.

How would she have seen the world with a man by her side who cared deeply about her wellbeing as much as they cared about their own?

Did she need a man who was spiritual and deeply understood his relationship to his faith and could support her on her journey with hers? She talks to me a lot about holding on to God strongly, but loosening her grip on her Bible.

I wonder what her life would have been like with a man who wasn’t afraid to not socially conform when it didn’t benefit the relationship.

Or maybe that’s what I need. And I’m projecting. Maybe.

I’m just saying that a lot of us choose a partner based on what it is we think we want right now. Often that’s physical attraction. Lust. A want for sex — especially if we’ve not dated or had it for a while. The importance of sex becomes overly weighted and it’s not always entirely an internal need — everyone else is talking about having sex or looking for sex, and there becomes this societal pressure to not let the ‘dry’ period go on for too long (whatever too long means) emphasised by popular culture. Don’t get me wrong, if anyone knows the importance of a physical relationship where mind, body, spirit feel safe enough to let go with another person, it’s me. But it’s one pillar of a bigger relationship structure. Sex is a fundamental need for most people, but we often confuse a fleeting sense of wanting someone with the deeper need for long-term sexual fulfilment. The two can overlap — wanting a person and needing sexual connection — but they’re not the same. Desire can feel urgent and consuming but it’s not the same thing as sustained satisfaction. They overlap, of course, but there is a distinction.

When I look at my Grandma I see the truth we don’t like to often say out loud because it means facing the Big Fears. A longterm partner is likely to be with you through some of life's biggest moments: love and loss, children and parental deaths, career changes, libido changes… Not to mention ageing bodies and minds. It reminds me that there must be alignment in why a relationship is entered into and an understanding of the needs that both parties are coming to it with. And because I can’t help caveating myself to not fall into the trap of ‘Love solves all’, I will say: there must also be an understanding of the need for external relationships — friendships, family, community — to enable the success of a couple.

Oh and as far as my Hot Girl Summer, we’re back on track. But that’s a story for another day. Por qué no los dos?

It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to this city — one of the many gorgeous places I was lucky to grow up in. My cousin lives a couple of hours away from here so I usually end up cuddled up on her sofa, too lazy to make the journey to the Comunidad’s capital. But the Valencian streets have been calling me back all of this year, so here I am. Plus, I desperately need to practice my Spanish so that’s a good excuse to be back.

I won’t lie though, since arriving I’ve been a grumpy cow. It might have something to do with the fact I’d travelled in a long sleeved, long legged (?) co-ord that was way too warm for the 35 degrees I arrived in. My suitcase somehow did not make my flight so I had to buy a T-shirt from the first coffee shop I went into. Chaos. If you’re asking me for my top travel tip: put your basic toiletries, a moon cup or whatever you use, some underwear and something cool to wear in your hand luggage. And swimwear. To be fair to me, I was carrying a dog which is heavy enough! Side note: look how cute she is!

Anyway, to celebrate my bag and I reuniting, and it rescuing me from the depths of moody cow-ness, I take myself out to a local little tapas bar in the city’s old town. It’s 10.30pm and I get to witness one of my favourite European rituals: The post sunset transformation of a casual city to one of chic fashion. I love how everyone makes an effort to step out into the evening. The table next to me is no exception. They are five women in their fifties or sixties (or so I thought until about an hour in when a deeper voice pipes up that makes me turn to see a solitary man tucked away in the corner). The table orders what seems like a bottomless bottle of wine and enough tapas to last them a long languid evening.

I barely read a page of my book as I listen to them talk. They discuss their kids: it’s this one’s last summer before heading off to university, the other one has just graduated, those lot are living their lives as professional adults… Another name is mentioned and there’s silence. ‘Well, what can you do?’ the woman in my eye line says as she chugs the last of her glass.

I lose focus for a bit as I finally get into my book but when I tune back in we’re on to spicier topics: Vibrators? Overrated but will do the job if no one’s around and you can’t be bothered to mechanically do the work. Blowjobs? Too much effort. Either they’re getting harder to perform or men are taking longer to bust. I’m praying my years of theatre nonsense are coming into their own here as I attempt to keep a straight face.

From what I’m beginning to gather, one of the women is single — the only single one of the group, for that matter. They’ve nicknamed her Carrie Bradshaw which cracks them up every time they say it. They start trying to spell it which has me quietly crying of laughter into my patatas bravas. They get serious. They tell Ms Bradshaw to just live. To not worry about what people say. One of the many commonalities between Spanish life and South Asian culture is the ‘What will people say?’ or ‘El qué dirán’ trope. They remind her she has her own money and she can fuck whoever she wants to. ‘Que hablen,’ let them talk, one woman toasts as another wine glassed is knocked backed. I think there’s a younger loverboy on the scene. Love that for her, to be honest.

They tell her she doesn’t have to accept anyone’s shit, she knows better. She’s like, ‘Chicas, listen. I know what good sex is and how to ask for it. But I’m not here to be training anyone. At home or in bed.’ Ooft. She doubles down on the nuance of, ‘I can ask for what I want but I don’t want to parent you.’

They then tell her to not worry. She’ll find someone. She replies instantly that, sure, maybe she will. But she has friends to socialise with, laugh with, have deep meaningful chats with... She has her kids that bring her joy but no longer need her constantly so she can, as they say, live. She doesn’t feel like she needs a partner to fulfil her. Sex is fun and, yes, it would be nice to have good sex regularly, but those aren’t the relationships that fulfil her at this point in her life. She repeats, ‘Sex is fun. But for now, it’s just that. You guys are everything else.’

We’re often told, or we see, that women become invisible in their forties and fifties, coinciding with the closing of the baby making shop, hormones going out of whack with menopause, kids leaving home, etc. Getting to that age and being invisible scares the living shit out of me. I think it scares the living shit out of a lot of women in their thirties. We talk about people at our age settling for partners that they never would have dreamed of because they don’t want to be alone or they’re worried they’ll lose their time slot for kids. But eavesdropping on these women is an affirming moment of ‘we’re going to be alright.’ Maybe there will be a hell of a lot of freedom when there’s a lack of fertility concerns, more financial security, stable relationships and self confidence.

I’ve been reading a lot about how invisibility in ageing is part of the colonial legacy (surprise, surprise). In many pre-colonial South Asian cultures (let’s decolonise the idea that South Asian culture is all the same while we’re here, thanks), to age as a woman was to gain respect, wisdom, power. There’s evidence to suggest ageing also brought with it a reputation of being an experienced lover, respected sexual educator and an in demand matchmaker. For example, the Kama Sutra, the lowest hanging fruit of evidence, discusses the value of female lovers with more experience, implying age (by modern interpretation), second marriages or courtesans. Another part discusses how older women are important sexual educators and younger women should seek them out. Islam talks about women having a mutual right to sexual satisfaction at all points of their marriage — not just at child bearing age. South Asian folk songs — especially in women‑only spaces like the Punjabi giddha or Bangladeshi bichar gaan — played an important role in sharing education around technique and pleasure, normally in the context of marriage. Some of it is extremely explicit. What’s amazing to me though is that it articulates women’s perspective of the erotic, which we rarely see or hear. A lot of history is lost, or not researchable yet, because songs are passed down orally — writing down explicit content was/is frowned upon. But you can still find these songs in villages, temples, at weddings… There are also ethnographers and historians doing a great job of trying to salvage folklore. I only feel confident enough in my knowledge to give you this top line intro but I’m actually trying to interview someone who knows more about this space in the next couple of weeks.

I was going to stop the story here but I felt it unfair to not tell you what happened next:

It’s getting late so I ask for my bill. The waiter, instead, gives me a Baileys something or other shot because why am I leaving after only an hour and a half at dinner? I use this as my excuse to turn to the women:

‘Do you want my shot?’ I ask. ‘Why aren't you having it?’ is the quick reply. I explain I’m tired (and pathetic) and I’m going to bed. I wasn’t even going to attempt to explain that I don’t drink. ‘That’s the problem with this generation,’ one woman complains. ‘Is there someone waiting in your bed?’ asks another, which has them all falling over themselves with laughter — which I really hope is because of the delivery of the joke and not at the possibility of me having a man. I ashamedly tell them it’s because I have an early run in the morning. They groan. I have disappointed these women I wanted to befriend. They ask me if I’m married. My ‘no’ gets Carrie Bradshaw dragged into the conversation: ‘Here’s your apprentice.’ They’re cackling at my expense, again. I love it really, knowing I’ll be part of their night’s story for years to come. Mr man in the corner suddenly comes alive and orders a round of matching shots for the group, and winks at me for having ‘saved me’ from the chaos. They cheers to my health, my bed and my early run (that I don’t end up getting up for).

Thank you for reading this rambly ramble of mine. As always, please feel free to feedback in the comments or drop me a note privately. And, if you’re in town, café?

Share

Subscribe now

So, while I’m trying to do the most, I’ve been handing over Brown Bodies to the people around me who I’ve been having conversations with around stuff this newsletter is about. I’m also using it as the perfect moment to start a new section on Brown Bodies — Your Voices (this needs a better name. Suggestions welcome, please!). Let me know what you think!

This week, I hand over to one of my best friends in the whole world, Gabriella D’Cruz, AKA my seaweed queen. She is a marine conservationist and seaweed harvester, and my go to on anything sustainability — if you’ve heard my reason for not eating tuna (‘Eating a tuna, is like eating a tiger’) it’s because I am Gabriella’s parrot. She runs Good Ocean which makes seaweed snacks for the Indian market. She also has a dog called Nori (I wasn’t joking when I said she was the seaweed queen).

We recently spent a gorgeous week together, pottering around the sweltering hot streets of Amsterdam. This is her take on one of her moments there. Over to Gabs and her first piece of writing that isn’t about seaweed!:

It's rush hour in Amsterdam and the city is heaving with cyclists, runners, small children and smaller dogs. Bodies in Amsterdam are all well dressed, important looking, and edgy. No one looks your way unless you’re in their bike lane.

I'm very aware of my body in cities — aware of people watching me and anxious when they get close enough to touch me. As most female presenting bodies in the world, I have experienced unwanted touch and my body is always awake to it.

Which is why I wasn't sure how to feel when walking into the Akinci Gallery to watch Thinking Through Touch, by Melanie bonajo — an exhibit my artist sibling took me along to. It explores the sensation of touch and what it means to different people. The film has scenes of naked bodies, covered in olive oil, slipping and sliding over each other. All kinds of bodies: trans bodies, big bodies, small bodies, old bodies, young bodies all merged together in this large multicoloured blob. You see a leg, then a boob, then a back, then a flaccid penis emerge from the structure which starts to resemble a churning, well kneaded lump of dough.

I thought that watching naked bodies would feel like looking at the sun — captivating until you’re forced to look away for respite. But the opposite happened. I was mesmerised. It's the first time I've seen naked bodies as people, and not as sexualised objects. I didn't feel like looking away.

I thought I would feel aroused. But that didn't happen either. On the contrary, seeing a person relaxed and naked, lying on the ground next to other naked people, made me feel very comfortable in my own body. It’s because the film portrayed an image of bodies being safe while also being completely exposed. Nudity is not permission to touch. It doesn’t mean availability. Being seen is not consent.

Identifying as female while growing up Catholic in India, meant that I was taught that nudity is shameful. When I saw a naked body as a child, I was expected to look away. I learnt at an early age that there were parts of my body that could be seen in public, and parts that never should be. Shame grew around these hidden parts of myself and, soon, I felt physically uncomfortable if any of them were made visible: the small bump of my left nipple through my shirt, the curve of my bum in my running tights, my belly button exposed to air when I reach for a supermarket’s top shelf. These parts being visible would leave my body strained, almost like it was trying to shield itself from some harmful invisible light.

And yet on the rare occasions that I have experimented with being naked in safe public spaces, I have felt so good in my body. I remember being at a spa in Germany where the initial anxiety of walking out of a changing room with no clothes on was soon replaced by a sense of ease. No one tried to cover their stretch marks, their pubic hair, or the fact that one boob was bigger than the other. It felt good to be in the presence of people unashamed of their bodies. It was incredibly freeing.

In other experiences, when touch has been consensual, it has been healing. Sex with my partner that makes me feel seen and heard. The hug from a friend that lasts a little longer because we both need it to. The steady weight of my dog's soft body against my abdomen when I'm crying on the sofa. The amniotic feel of the ocean.

So I find myself asking, when is my body just a collection of parts and when is it a sexual object? Is it both all the time and if so what sexualises a body? How I feel? How society feels about it? What role does shame play in all this?

I haven’t yet an answer to these questions. But I am asking them. And the people in Melanie Bonajo’s film gave me a glimpse of what it's like to feel free and safe in a body. It felt like an invitation to let go of the sharp and clawing sensation of shame around the beautiful, strong thing that is my body and let it lie down on a patch of grass in the sun.

Share

A huge thanks to Gabriella for writing this week’s piece (and giving me time to procrastinate on packing!). I’m enjoying these pieces that open up conversation. Please have them with someone or come and write a response for Brown Bodies!

The Soft Audit

Hot takes, soft insights, and the occasional existential audit - dissecting the world with side-eye and sincerity.

By Leela Lakhani

Desirability is not neutral

If you’re a daughter of a Desi household, in your 30s, growing up in the West, you too might have been told to get a boyfriend or asked, ‘Why can’t you just find a partner?’ Yes, I would be lying if I said I didn’t want my own Rahul from K3G to come and sweep me off my feet. But I’ve begun to wonder if the real issues of my singledom aren’t me…

Like many single women, I’ve asked myself the tough questions: Are my standards too high? Am I being too picky? Am I not pretty enough? Slim enough? Demure enough?

Growing up in a city as multicultural as Toronto, I’ve also asked myself if I should be more culturally open when it comes to love. Although I’ve never ruled out an interracial relationship, I have a natural pull towards wanting someone who might understand my lived cultural experience — like the haram vs halal ratio (ifykyk). But does someone with my lived cultural experience want me?

I’m struck by the number of times I’ve approached a local brown man only to hear he exclusively dates white girls or has a preference for East Asian girls. Recently, frustratedly, I joked with a brown male friend that, ‘If brown men are willing to defy their parents, they’ll date anyone but a brown girl. And if they’re not, they only want a specific type of brown girl that their mother would approve of.’

I thought this ‘preference’ might have just been a phase of our early dating years — a recurring pattern my brown female friends and I started to notice at university — but it still seems to be ongoing over a decade later as we come to terms with the sad reality in our thirties.

Subscribe now

So why aren’t our South Asian* counterparts choosing us?

*and non South Asian

Here are a few theories I believe might be playing out, often subconsciously:

There’s an imbalance of progress

South Asian women are the most educated, ambitious, and emotionally intelligent we’ve ever been. Meanwhile, the pool of equally progressive, emotionally mature, and relationship-ready South Asian men feels smaller. Those men who do ‘have it all’ often have the privilege of dating within and outside of their culture. Those still trying to ‘catch up’ to us, often find high-achieving women intimidating and there’s real misalignment in expectations and efforts, and lack of mutual respect.

Desirability is not neutral

Attraction is shaped by culture, media, society, and not just personal chemistry. Colonialism — coupled with decades of Hollywood, Bollywood (and insert all other -woods here) imagery — has built and reinforced racial hierarchies of attraction that continue to wreak havoc in society today. These systems idealise proximity to whiteness where lighter skin, high cheek bones, and slimmer frames continue to be idealised. If you fit that mould, you can date across races. If not, you’re limited.

And it’s not just your colour that’s being judged for its desirability; there are Western ideals of femininity to contend with. East Asian women, for example, are often portrayed as more delicate, demure, and submissive. In contrast, Black and South Asian women are often expected to prove their softness to be worthy of romantic attention — there’s no space for the spice and nakhre of bold South Asian women. It goes without saying that these stereotypes don’t benefit any woman of any race.

There’s power in who you’re seen with

For some diaspora brown men, dating outside of their race might be a status symbol. Instead of choosing to stand beside someone with shared history and ambition, they choose to culturally distance themselves to prove they’ve made it ‘here’. They’ve assimilated and broken away from the binds of culture. To opt out, is to have levelled up. On the flip side, brown women are taught to preserve and uphold their culture. To opt out, is to have sold out.

There’s a change in emotional expectations

Many South Asian men were raised coddled by mothers who carried the emotional and domestic weight of the household. These same men then grow up expecting the same from their partner: she has to be pretty, educated, accomplished and, of course, accommodating and willing to do most of the heavy lifting — emotionally, domestically, relationally. If a brown woman challenges that dynamic and wants a more balanced relationship, she’s dismissed as ‘too much’ or ‘too opinionated’ by her partner, not to mention the wider community of family, in-laws and, sometimes, even friends. That same expectation is not held of non brown women dating brown men — in fact, quite the opposite.

It feels sad. At its core, when someone who shares your history, language, and culture doesn’t see you as someone worth choosing, it cuts deeper than if they had no shared commonality. Not because they owe you love, but because they didn’t even consider it.

You might have been through, or be going through, levels of grief like I did. It can look like:

• Feeling invisible in spaces where you should be the most seen

• Feeling like you’re measured against whiteness and/or exoticism, and always coming up short

• Feeling let down by those who could have shared a life with you but won’t try because of ‘preference’

• Feeling like you’re losing a one sided battle

But here’s what I keep reminding myself: I’m not losing because I refuse to play a rigged game. I know that self worth does not come from being chosen by someone else. I don’t need to shrink, mould, or mute myself to fit someone else’s comfort. Discovering the systemic influences around South Asian dating dynamics has helped me release the weight of wondering, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Because the answer is nothing. I’m just trying to find love in a world that hasn’t always taught others how to see us clearly. And I’m not alone, I can name multiple friends, brown and not, who are navigating the same emotional terrain.

Yet I remain guardedly optimistic to love. I’m widening the pool of who I want to receive love from. At a certain point, it isn’t just about my preferences — it’s math. Based on numbers alone, being more culturally open starts to feel less like a personal evolution and more like a statistical necessity. But I’m unwavering in how I want to feel in a partnership. All I can do is keep showing up as the kind of partner I’d want, even if the journey takes longer than the little girl I once was imagined.

Share

Thank you to . Based and raised in Toronto, with East African Gujju roots, she now writes to interrogate culture over on her recently birthed newsletter The Soft Audit.

If you’d like to write for Brown Bodies — whether in reply to this piece or something else entirely — you can slide into my Substack DMs, email anisah@brownbodies.co or reply to this email!

This is the first time I feel like I’ve properly explored the city. That might have to do with the fact I’ve not had to hide from the standard wet and dreary weather this city has served up for me in the past, or because I’ve been staying with one of my besties who knows the city well. Or, maybe, it’s that this is the first time I’ve visited since starting Brown Bodies, and that that lens is a fascinating one to explore the city through. I’m here with ‘Go to the sex museum’ at the top of my to do list, closely followed by ‘Find buckwheat pancakes’. The buckwheat pancakes were fantastic. The sex museum? Not so much.

Trigger warning: there are mentions of sexual violence and rape below.

Sexmuseum Amsterdam

I spend the two hours I’m at the museum wondering what the point of the place is. Is it an accessible way to educate? A tourist gimmick? A place to archive sex in art? A jokey photo opportunity?

From the moment I walk in, I hate the place. I get my €10 ticket, walk through the turnstiles and am hit with the moans and groans of a life size, sex worker mannequin giving a suited old man a hand job. I think it’s meant to make me laugh? Across from it, rather incongruously, sit wall to wall glass displays housing art from across the world. It starts with pencil drawings from Western Europe from the 19th and 20th century. Honestly? I feel a bit sick at the violence against women depicted: women being subjected to sexual violence as a form of torture, a naked woman dangling from her feet, women being penetrated by the devil… and there’s no written explanation to go alongside it. You have no idea what the context is meant to be. Are these meant to be erotic? Are they condoning this behaviour? Where is the trigger warning for the depiction of rape? Or the explanation that in Christian Europe, women’s sexuality was heavily policed — virginity, chastity, etc were moral ideals and women having sex in art is often depicted as something unnatural or sinful — which would explain the devil imagery.

Some young boys, I’m guessing in their late teens (the older I get, the worse I am at guesstimating anyone under 25), are next to me while I’m looking at this section. I’ll give it to them, they’re taking it pretty seriously but I wish they’d been given more to work with. Do they know what they’re looking at? Does this stuff turn them on? What a wasted opportunity to not start a conversation around men and masculinity in these displays.

It gets better a little further down as I reach the Indian subcontinent display. In the art from late 19th and early 20th century India, women are comfortable — even if in pretty acrobatic positions that would require me to double up on my yoga practice! They’ve got cushions behind them or under them. They’re supported by their partner. There’s clearly pleasure on their faces. It fascinates me that in almost the entire museum this is the only place where sex is depicted as an act of love and intimacy. The other exceptions are the Japanese and Chinese erotica on the top floor.

The Kama Sutra section is also one of the only places in the entire museum where women are being pleasured, not just men. Insane.

I hear myself asking why is it that we look to the west as the absolute pinnacle of sexual liberation and pleasure when some of our cultures have had this ingrained for centuries? I’m frustrated at the lack of context around colonial destruction of pleasure in the name of control and religion. There’s a lot of literature out there about how the colonial machine shrouded the Indian subcontinent in shame under the guise of Victorian era sensibilities of ‘decency’. A really good example that my friend Nishad writes about here is the Tawaifs. They were ‘Courtesans, artists, patrons of culture, and significant contributors to the Mughal treasury until Victorian morality reduced them to the word “prostitute” — the very women who bankrolled the first war of independence in 1857.’ The impact on the taboofication of sex is still felt today. So, to have this gorgeous art without the understanding of the devastating loss of culture upsets me. It’s not only a disservice, it’s an extension of exotic voyeurism — cultural artefacts are stripped of meaning and repackaged for consumption without reckoning with the violence that made them available to this museum in the first place.

I’m not saying that pre colonialism there weren’t issues around sex. Of course there were! There was a lot of mess when it came to class, religion, political divide, empires pre the British, sex as a weapon, marriages as a political tool, etc. I shouldn’t even have to caveat this. We barely do that with western sexual history. We don’t say, ‘Oh hey, the 80s were all about sexual liberation but did you know Black and South Asian women were sometimes given long-acting or irreversible contraception, sometimes without consent?’ Blurgh.

I actually feel angry at the museum’s lack of articulation around racism in general. Like don’t get me started on the display on the top floor of Josephine Baker — a Black dancer and activist from the 1920s who performed across Europe in a banana skirt. Her costume obviously played into colonial exoticism but there’s a lot of reading around how she used it to dispel stereotypes. She was a voice in the civil rights movement, spoke alongside Martin Luther King Jr. at the March on Washington and refused to perform for segregated audiences. Where was that context in the museum?

One of the things I’d seen on TikTok was about the Sexmuseum’s vision on the future of sex. Firstly, dear TikToker, where was this? Because if you were talking about the ‘3D’ (it’s really not) film that looks at sex through the ages, then you’re a top tier comedian. For those of you who’ve not been, the Sexmuseum’s conclusion is, ‘We don’t know what’s going to happen but here’s a male robot groping a woman’s boobs. How exciting the future of pleasure is going to be!’

I could go on but I won’t. It’s fair to say, I do not recommend. I think the place is everything that alienates me from a lot of the ‘sex scene’ stuff that currently exists. It’s not that I’m prudish (lol), it’s that the shock factor feels unnecessary, there is a lack of acknowledgement of racism and sexism, and the conflation of sex and pornography makes me uncomfortable. I was hoping for insight, history and inclusivity, and I got a spectacle.

So, for your next Amsterdam trip, here’s what I recommend you do instead:

1. The Oh Collective store. Founded by four Asian women, you can find this sex store in the heart of Amsterdam. It has excellent (safe) products, events, and the team is just lovely. Everything is well researched which is more than you can say for a bunch of stores in the city. I bought myself a €20 surprise bag and was not disappointed. When I finally get through my Amsterdam photos and videos, I’ll do an IG reveal.

   

2. Rijksmuseum. I’ve not been but I’ve heard good reviews about their current Indian subcontinent photography exhibition and the Asian Pavilion. If you do go, let us know how it was!

3. Secondhand bookstores. For English secondhand books head to Sterre der Zee and The Book Exchange. Both had a good collection of spirituality, love, and sex focused books — fiction and non-fiction. There were also a lot more South Asian authors than I expected to see at both. Don’t ask me how much time I spent in them or how many books I came home with, thanks.

4. Oh and I’m not gatekeeping… The buckwheat pancakes I had were from here. And all the other places I went to (and didn’t hate!) are here.

Share

PS. I didn’t send my last Brown Bodies article out as an email, so if you haven’t read it and want a bonus read for this week…:

Summer is here and you might notice I’m a romantic again. You want to tell me the hour long story of your new relationship’s beginnings? I’m listening.

Want to tell me about how great your sex life is while we’re dancing at the club at 1am? Cool. I’m here for it.

PDA-ing hard on the beach? Love that for you (but just so you know we all know what you’re up to in the sea… You’re not slick about it).

Thinking of sending me a ‘view once’ photo of you and new bae looking hot? Send it. You know I’ll scream.

Filling me in on how you undressed your partner on the cobbled streets of your European city break spot? Sweet. I’m cheering you on.

Voice noting me a five minute description of how perfect she is? I’ll be listening on 0.5x because I need time to process as I’m smiling, kicking my feet.

I appreciate I am feeding into — what my Gen Z friends refer to as — the delulu, but why not?

A friend once suggested that a new relationship I was embarking on was ‘just a summer romance.’ The audacity to suggest that a love that started in the sweaty, twerk-heavy crowd of a hip hop festival wasn’t ‘it’. Imagine. I was incensed. I never wanted to talk to him again. Although I proved him wrong and it lasted two summers, if he said that to me now I’d take it as a huge compliment. The fervour to share the best time of the year with one person — a new person — is beautiful. Why wouldn’t I want to be (non-alcoholic, please) wined and dined, cared for and caressed, loved and admired by a hot, interesting, smart guy? Why wouldn’t I want to travel about with someone I deeply connect with? To laugh with? To make memories with? To write a love story with? What if it’s the beginning of my forever love? And if it turns out to be a fleeting summer romance, it was still love.

Yes, I know not everything lasts. Although I might be your classic, basic bitch romantic who doesn’t understand the idea of temporary — I see summer love as chapter one of a gorgeous novel — I know suns set.

Our summer loves might not make it to autumn. But if we break, and fall and burn in the flames of a car crash ending, we will know we gave it our all. We loved hard. We found pleasure. We met joy with open arms.

And, look, it might take a year or two or ten, but maybe one day you’ll be lying on the beach on a heatwave kind of Sunday writing about summer love and you’ll find yourself pleasantly surprised to be reminiscing about the moment you danced your heart out, without a care in the world, with a boy on another beach in another country, and you’ll smile. And it will give you hope to carry you through to next summer.

So, make that ‘stupid’ decision. Book that flight. Spend that time. Make that call. Send that text. These are the good times and life is too short to not give every chance at love your all.

Share