Why I Share My Sex Life on the Internet

Jesse James Rose on sex education and shame reduction via social media

My first experience of public sex was my junior year of high school. I was seventeen, performing onstage in my high school’s production of Spring Awakening. The sex was simulated, mostly implied—as much as seventeen-year-olds can legally suggest in a public school in Florida. I suppose it wasn’t exactly public sex, but it was certainly my first time presenting anything sexual for public consumption.

If you’re not familiar, Spring Awakening is the story of Wendla, a teenager in 1891 Germany who asks her mother where babies come from. Her mother balks, saying babies happen “when a man and woman love each other very much,” omitting all facts around conception. Wendla becomes romantically entangled with Melchior, a boy from her school. In a hayloft—the infamous scene—Wendla consents to have sex with Melchior, without a full understanding of what they are doing. In the second act her mother realizes she’s pregnant and takes her to a back-alley abortionist. Wendla dies during the procedure, and Melchior weeps at her grave.

There is much to be dissected when it comes to Spring Awakening regarding sex education, consent, bodily autonomy, abortions, or even the fact that we as teenagers were trusted with this material in what was (at the time) a conservative-leaning state. But my focus lingers on my most profound memory of this experience, an interaction with an audience member I didn’t know:

“You were wonderful.” A woman stopped me in the lobby after the performance. Her grey hair was spun about on top of her head and secured with a jeweled clip. I didn’t recognize her.

“Thank you,” I answered, offering something about how much I enjoyed singing the score.

“It really got me thinking,” she said. “I need to talk to my children more. About this. About this subject. It’s difficult, you know.”

“In what way?”

“Well, the…the sex of it all. I didn’t really discuss it with my children. I should. Or I should have. That girl in the play, she says that line about the parents…”

I quoted: “How will we know what to do if our parents don’t tell us?”

“Yes. That’s the one. Wow. It really got me thinking. I need to talk to my children. Thank you.”

I have often attributed this interaction as a formative moment in my decision to pursue theatre. In hindsight, this experience could’ve gone horribly wrong: parents furious over the subject matter, roaring controversy around the production, a feeling of shame for participating. Instead, it became a positive core memory. It was evidence of the power of theatre, concrete proof that art could invoke meaningful change in the world around me. Now, many years into a theatre career, I would amend my statement: This was also formative in my decision to pursue work as a sex educator.

Fast-forward a decade after Spring Awakening, and I’ve gone viral for sharing my syphilis diagnosis on TikTok. I made a parody “A Day in My Life” vlog in 2022 where I learned I tested positive for syphilis, received a penicillin shot the same day, and all was fine. It garnered millions of views. People flooded to my comments section, unaware syphilis was 1) still around, and 2) treatable. To this day I receive messages from people exhibiting symptoms and pursuing proper care. “I didn’t know any of this!” is their most common remark.

This viral moment was built on years of online advocacy around bodily autonomy and reproductive justice. I’d worked with major organizations like Planned Parenthood, the Brigid Alliance, Repro Legal Defense Fund, and The San Francisco AIDS Foundation. I began to include stories from my personal life—documenting sex parties, orgies, STI screenings, Syphilis included. Activist and educator Ericka Hart talks frequently about sex education as a liberatory politic, which inspired me to continue. The more I learned, the more I shared. The more I shared, the more others learned. Empowerment through education in pursuit of liberation.

Not everyone in my life shares this opinion. A family member of mine, a self-proclaimed feminist and lifetime Planned Parenthood donor, called me last year:

“It’s embarrassing, you know.”

“What is?” I was bewildered, packing for a flight. This was uncharacteristic of her.

“You’re making videos about going to orgies! My God, can’t you keep any information to yourself?”

“I don’t see value in keeping this to myself. Conservatives are propagandizing the public to believe transgender people are unlovable or sterile or incapable of living fulfilling lives. My videos are actively rebuking these false notions! Besides, anyone who doesn’t like what I’m doing doesn’t have to watch my content.”

“There are things you shouldn’t talk about. It’s shameful.”

“Why shouldn’t I talk about this? Who am I harming by having consensual sex with other consenting adults? Or making informational videos on STI testing? Anyone who’s ashamed of sex education is….” I trailed off. I left her with these final words:

“Their shame is not mine to carry. I set mine down long ago.”

If we recall Ericka Hart’s message about sex education as a liberatory politic, it’s fascinating to consider how well-meaning family members end up reinforcing the opposite. Wendla’s mother fails to educate her, resulting in a tragic and untimely death. My relative is so preoccupied with shame and embarrassment, she can’t see the positive outcomes of my work. They have become footsoldiers for the regime, silencing and shaming those of us on a quest to practice liberatory politics.

The conservative revolution has effectively waged war on sex education: gutting teen pregnancy prevention programs, threatening funding for trans-inclusive curricula, banning books with sexual content. The only value of sex education on this administration’s slip-and-slide to fascism seems to be to bolster the “domestic supply of infants,” a eugenicist dogwhistle suggesting people with the capacity for pregnancy should be incubators, nothing more. Traditional, patriarchal values are supreme. Recall the chilling line from the play: “How will we know what to do if our parents don’t tell us?”

It’s even more fascinating to consider this question in the historical context of Spring Awakening: If Wendla and her friends are teenagers in 1890s Germany, they become the generation that breeds and raises the Nazi Party. The parallels to today’s America are stark. They beg the question: Which position are you in? That of Wendla? Her mother? My relative? The woman in the audience? Me?

My latest foray into accidental-sex-education is my memoir, sorry i keep crying during sex. I write of healing from sexual violence and embarking on a litany of hookups-gone-wrong. There are late-night Grindr meets, a rendezvous in the backseat of a car, public cruising, shower sex, and an epic orgy, among others. I wrote each of these as earnest attempts to demonstrate the emotional architecture of a fractured, post-trauma psyche. I hoped readers would laugh with me, cry with me, feel seen, and feel held. Ridiculous as it sounds, I had never considered the memoir to be educational. Yet the result has been messages, comments, reviews from readers and book clubs galore, all saying, “I learned so much about sex.”

It’s as if I’m back in the lobby of my high school theater all over again. Now, the lesson is clear: if I’m willing to put myself on display, sex transcends shame and becomes an educational tool. The more we know about our bodies, of sex, the better equipped we are to fight the rise of fascism. To me, this is worth the angry relatives, the hate comments, the naysayers, even the political attacks. We all deserve so much better than this.

Spring Awakening ends with the cast singing “The Song of Purple Summer,” about how conservative adults still hold power, but the seeds are being planted for a new, open-minded generation. By my interpretation, this requires the process of setting down shame. Empowerment through education in pursuit of liberation. They sing:

And all shall know the wonder

I will sing the song of purple summer

All shall know the wonder of purple summer

I find it enchanting.

sorry i keep crying during sex is our March 2026 Open Secrets Book Club selection. Join us on March 24 at 7 p.m. ET for a Substack Live video Q&A with Jesse James Rose, and bring your questions! Read an excerpt about a sauna sex hookup here.

Jesse James Rose (she/they) is a transgender actor, writer, and content creator based in New York City. Every president who has attacked her in the media has been shot at. Rose holds degrees from NYU in music theatre and child psychology, as well as a certificate in diversity, equity, and inclusion from Cornell University. As an actress, Jesse has starred in productions of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Cabaret, The Fantasticks, and won Best Actor at the Berlin Indie Film festival for the short film “Barstool.” In 2025 she became the first openly transgender woman elected to the national council of the Actors Equity Union, specializing in policymaking that combats harassment and hostile work environments. Jesse’s work lives largely on social media, where she writes (& yaps) about gender, queerness, survivorship, mental health, her feelings, and her exes on Instagram & TikTok (@jamesissmiling).