The Problem with Sex Tips: Women deserve more than hacks, gimmicks, and five-step fixes.
“It’s insulting!” The words flew out of my mouth before I’d even finished thinking them.
I was talking with a lovely man about the endless stream of advice aimed at women who want to increase desire or “get their groove back.”
Three tips, five hacks, this supplement, that affirmation, a new vibrator, a breathing exercise, one more icebath to wake up your libido.
It isn’t just that these promises rarely work.
It’s that they’re insulting.
Not because quick fixes would be unwelcome. If there were a pill that dissolved years of resentment, religious shame, body insecurity, poor sex education, mismatched desire, and the mental load of motherhood, I’d happily support it.
The problem isn’t that these solutions are unrealistic. The problem is that they fundamentally misunderstand what sexuality is. Your sex life is not a productivity problem waiting to be optimized. It isn’t a morning routine. It isn’t a habit stack. It isn’t a GLP-1 for desire or a three-minute Instagram reel.
These gimmicks don’t simply underestimate women. They underestimate sex itself.
They assume one of the most psychologically, relationally, hormonally, culturally, emotionally, and physically complicated parts of being human can be reduced to a checklist.
It’s reductionism.
We’re complicated, and so are our partners (if we have one), making relationships even more complex. Then we change over time, if we are lucky enough to live a long life.
Our hormones and bodies change. Our priorities and schedules change. We may become parents or have our own parents to care for. We may experience financial stress, medical issues, moves, and friendship shifts. Throughout all of this, our fantasies, desires, and physical pleasure points may change. We might discover new fears at the same time we relinquish old ones.
And somehow we’re expected to believe that the answer is “Try these five communication tips.”
It’s patronizing.
I had a relationship in college that was nuanced, to say the least. (This was 20+ years ago by the way…how did I get so old?!). Putting myself back into my twenty-year-old mind, I loved this boy. Or at least I thought I loved him. More accurately, I desperately wanted him to love me. He had an enormous personality; confident and abrasive. He was a person who took up all the oxygen in a room. Some people adored him, and others couldn’t stand him.
Looking back, I can see exactly why he captivated me. I was an insecure freshman, a pretty well-worn stereotype. I was desperate to belong and thrilled to have independence for the first time in my life.
He was nice, until he was cruel. He showered me with attention, until he ignored me completely. He’d tell me I was amazing, and then he’d humiliate me. He’d tell me he wanted to be with me, and then tell me to get the hell away. He’d have sex with me, then berate me. Only to then return with flowers, tears, apologies, and declarations of love.
One night we sat on the sundial in the middle of our college campus. It’s the center of everything. Students and passersby walked through at every hour of the day and night. That’s where he chose to break up with me (that time, at least).
The reason for this breakup was that I hadn’t slept with anyone before him. He shouted that I couldn’t possibly know whether I loved him because I had no one else to compare him to. He called me naïve and a prude.
Looking back, he wasn’t angry about my lack of experience. He was terrified. His ego depended on believing he was exceptional. If I had no one else to compare him to, then maybe his greatness existed only inside his own imagination.
His sense of self was too unsteady, held up only by my lack of experience. So I was punished for it.
Twenty years later, I can reflect on that relationship, knowing it was emotionally abusive and it was nuanced. Both are true.
That’s what I wish we talked about more.
Because despite the manipulation, humiliation, and yelling, we also laughed and explored and played, and had some fun. We had moments of deep connection. Those moments were real too, alongside the hard moments.
The relationship wasn’t confusing because every moment was terrible, it was confusing because some moments were wonderful.
That complexity doesn’t excuse abuse, but pretending the complexity didn’t exist doesn’t help us understand it either. The complexity of that relationship simply illustrates the broader complexity of relationships, and of sexuality itself. Even that relationship wasn’t all good or all bad. Even that relationship wouldn’t have transformed from an optimised gratitude journal or an Instagram carousel.
“Five ways to improve intimacy” wouldn’t have scratched the surface. I suppose an affirmation from time to time might have boosted my confidence, but twenty years of insecurity was going to take more than a little lipstick on the bathroom mirror.
I didn’t need optimization. I needed language, education, and to be treated with respect from people, media, and publications claiming to offer support. I needed someone willing to respect the complexity of what I was living.
Those Instagram tips aren’t only insulting to women in abusive relationships. They’re insulting to women in healthy relationships, to single women, and to everyone somewhere in between. They are insulting to the couple navigating new parenthood, the marriage carrying years of invisible resentment, the woman entering perimenopause, to partners rebuilding after betrayal, or the couple simply trying to find each other again after many years.
Every experience is different and unique. Everyone deserves more respect than “Five Ways to Boost Your Libido.” My twenty-year-old self wasn’t looking for a hack. She was looking for someone who believed her life was complicated enough to deserve time, attention, and patience.
Women deserve more than to be reduced to an algorithm aimed at optimizing our lives. We deserve nuance. We deserve conversations, support, and guidance that respect the complexity of being a sexual being.
