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Dear reader, quick question: have you ever had really good sex—like, orgasm-then-cuddle-then-shower-and-smile good—and still walked away feeling… a little fake?
Be honest. Why, in a culture that screams “Sex Positivity!” and “Own Your Desire!” do so many of us still feel like we’re on stage when we’re naked?
Let’s start here: most of us learned how to “do” sex by watching it, not experiencing it, not feeling it in our own bodies, but by watching. And not just porn, but pop culture.
Movies, music videos, steamy romance novels, memes. Everything told us sex should look a certain way, sound a certain way, provoke a reliable gasp at the climax, and finish with a glow.
It’s no surprise that when we do have sex, we start mimicking what we think "sexy" looks like. We work the angles. We arch our backs. We moan a little louder. We move the bedsheets just so, so it seems less sweaty-mess and more “premium amateur content.”
Even when it feels good, we’re still performing because most of us never learned how to simply enjoy sex. We only know how to appear as if we’re doing it well.
Sex has always had a performance component. That’s not inherently bad.
There’s power in exaggeration. Play. Fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with throwing on a role or hyping a reaction. The problem is when every sexual interaction becomes a setlist we think we have to hit, or worse, when we start to forget what feels good because we’re too focused on what looks good.
For vulva-owners in particular, performative sex is practically biological. The world taught women and femmes to people-please in bed before they were even allowed to talk about sex out loud. Straight men, on the other hand, are often performing prowess—the kind that ends in money shots, mutual orgasms, and a boast-worthy recap.
No matter your identity, it’s easy to get trapped in a loop: Am I into this? Or am I just good at pretending to be into this?
We talk a lot about “bad sex”: boring, awkward, painful, or unsatisfying sex. But what about decent sex that just feels off? When everything goes smoothly, everyone’s consent is given, clothes come off effortlessly… and yet you feel detached, like an actor reciting lines rather than truly connecting.
Maybe both people came. Maybe you even liked it. But still, afterward, you felt slightly empty, like you showed up to your body but left your actual self at the door. That’s what happens when authenticity takes a back seat to performance. And the scariest part? Most of us don’t even notice it anymore.
We did. Because we learned early on, through whisper networks, hallway gossip, all those teen movies from the early 2000s, and porn we weren't supposed to find, that sex wasn't about connection. It was about impression.
First impression. Hot impression. Not wanting to appear prudish or to come across as “bad at it.” Not wanting to ask for ‘weird stuff’ that makes us feel awkward. That’s why we perform connection instead of simply experiencing it. We perform wildness rather than just feeling free. We perform pleasure before we even process it.
And all of this creates a running internal monologue even during “good” sex:
The first step is admitting this is real. That performative sex isn’t some post-feminist exaggeration or a Tumblr-era buzzword. It’s a genuine experience that shapes our understanding of intimacy, expression, and self-worth.
We escape it by asking:
Here’s your unofficial permission slip to try something terrifying: Be in your body. Be messy. Stop arching toward the ceiling fan. Try saying what you want out loud—even if it isn’t sexy. Or maybe don’t say anything. Or laugh. Or cry. Or lie there wide-eyed and say, “I want more.” Real sex starts when we stop auditioning.
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