Words by: Andie Perez 

Sexual modesty is interpreted in many ways, informed by one’s own individual experiences.

A sociological definition of sexual modesty is the social, cultural, interpersonal, and psychological systems that monitor sexual expression; what is acceptable/not acceptable, private/public, and personal/social. Adhering to sex norms can uphold cultural beliefs and group stability, although in extreme instances, this can do more harm than good. This can result in gender oppression, internalised shame and the limitation of sexual education and rights — predominantly in developing nations.

I’ve realised that my experience has been relatively mild in comparison to those of others. Nevertheless, I do remember what it was like to have a distorted interpretation of sexual modesty, of that stifling weight of guilt and shame, especially within the walls of a Catholic girls’ school.

In Year 9, each of the six homerooms had to deliberate on a topic for our homeroom lessons. The year level coordinator would read them out and choose one in assembly. I suggested that we could learn about birth control and contraception as I rightfully wanted an education on the importance of sexual health. My classmates were interested as well, and my suggestion acquired the most votes in our homeroom. Excited and empowered, we were finally going to learn about something that everyone would consider at least once in their lives.

I was wrong. The year level coordinator read my suggestion in front of the whole year level and laughed uncomfortably.

“Sexual contraception? We’re definitely not going to go ahead with this one.”

I looked around at my classmates, overhearing two girls from another class chip in:

“That’s so weird. Why would anyone suggest that?”

Weird. Weird. Weird… How could I stupidly ask such a thing? Of course, the school would never consider sex education. I had forgotten the Catholic tenet of abstinence before marriage in order to pursue a topic that I was simply just interested in. With my confidence stripped away, I thought everyone now saw me as starry-eyed and perverse.

Years later, I’m fucking glad to say I purged that distorted perspective of myself. I’m fond of the audacity that fourteen-year-old me had. I had a right to be curious about sexual well-being, acting as an advocate for those who couldn’t ask such a thing back then. I no longer think that I was a weird person that was ordinary from time to time, but an ordinary person that was weird from time to time. That innate curiosity and openness is still a big part of who I am today.

I’ve interpreted modesty in my way. My view on sexuality is healthy and moderate, as I’m not necessarily uncomfortable talking about sex, but prefer to limit the degree of personal information I share with others. While I admire those who are sex-positive, I also respect those who choose to be celibate. Having one special romantic partner is more appealing to me than polyamory. I’ll most definitely be reading a steamy romance novel once in a while, but swing parties are totally out of my comfort zone. The most skin I’ll reveal is probably a bodycon dress at the club, but you won’t catch me wearing those festival duct tape outfits. (I’m impressed, but don’t you guys get cold?)

All those years ago, I was angsty towards my school for asserting traditional views, because I hated feeling ashamed. Ironically, my time at a religious girls school may have subconsciously informed how I think, act and dress to this day. But that’s okay! I’m proud to say I now, scarcely, face those stigma-imposed feelings. If they do come, the waves of emotions are not as intense. Overall, there’s still so much for me to learn and discover about sex.

But for now, I’m satisfied.