The High Cost of Sexual Liberation
Can We Keep the Promise of Same-Sex Marriage?
Over the past few decades, the LGBTQ community has venerated sexual freedom — the right to explore and express our sexuality without restraint – sometimes at the expense of commitment. Celebrating this freedom is in many ways understandable: for so long, gay, lesbian, and bisexual people were told their desires were shameful, so embracing sexual openness became a form of liberation. “Free love” and exploration were seen as revolutionary acts against a society that sought to police our lives. Even after the ravages of the AIDS crisis—which tragically illustrated the dangers of unbridled sexual networks—the idea persisted in some quarters that expecting same-sex couples to be monogamous was naive.
Yet, this celebration of unfettered sexual freedom carries very real costs—physical and mental—to both individuals and to our community. The most obvious costs are in public health. The world was reminded of this starkly during the 1980s AIDS epidemic, when an entire generation of young gay men was decimated by a virus that spread largely through sexual contact.
Have We Already Forgotten?
I came of age as a gay man during the height of AIDS and can still recall the fear of death and disease that was so pervasive; how it stole away an important part of our youth by forcing us to constantly confront the reality of our mortality at an age when we were supposed to feel immortal. The fear we faced and the innocence stolen from us was far more traumatic than anything thrown at me by the rest of the world, including the countless examples of discrimination and hate I experienced. Today, our culture considers stigma and shame to be the most harmful force in our lives. However, the stigma I remember being most exposed to from those years was a stigma that saved lives.
I was extremely fortunate to have a very close circle of gay friends in college who made coming out and discovering what it meant to be gay much easier than the isolation so many others endured. For the first time in my life, I could finally share the feelings and the desires I had kept locked away without judgment or shame. Even during the height of AIDS, we embarked on the youthful adventures of exploring sex. In the process we may have become acquainted with the bouncers and bartenders of every gay establishment from Manhattan to Boston (and beyond).
And yet, I can remember no time in my life when I was subject to more judgment or policing of sexual behavior—and by people who would have walked in front of a bus for me. A rumor of having unsafe sex, for instance, would have resulted in a level of opprobrium I have never witnessed since—branded untouchable in a manner one would more commonly associate with someone from Foxboro Baptist Church picketing gay funerals. There were many other unwritten rules of conduct about sexual propriety enforced by our friends. They were our friends not in spite of this, but because of it.
Although we witnessed too much death at far too young an age, subsequent generations were spared this reality because of the miracle of antiretroviral medicine. By the late 1990’s HIV had been transformed from a death sentence to a treatable chronic disease more like Diabetes than cancer.
Now with the advent of pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP) — the use of antiretroviral medication by HIV-negative individuals to prevent infection — the fear of AIDS has all but been extinguished for most LGBTQ Americans. As a result, younger gay Americans are experiencing the youthful sense of immortality my generation was robbed of.
PrEP has been one of the most important and effective preventative health innovations and a game-changer for gay and bisexual men. However, proving how easily moral hazard takes root, PrEP’s success in preventing the spread of HIV has been accompanied by an explosion of other STD infections. Data clearly show that PrEP has lead to a return to riskier sexual behavior, a phenomenon known as risk compensation.
A recent systematic review of 17 PrEP studies of real-world evidence found increases in condomless anal sex among “men who have sex with men” (the public health classification, “MSM”) after starting PrEP, accompanied by a rise in bacterial STIs (particularly rectal infections). In one U.S. PrEP demonstration project, researchers observed a significant reduction in condom use over 12 months: gay men on PrEP reported more condomless anal sex acts at each follow-up visit compared to their baseline behavior. These findings provide evidence of risk compensation – some PrEP users are trading condoms for the security of PrEP against HIV.
Over the past decade, the United States has experienced a sharp rise in reported sexually transmitted diseases (STDs). After historic lows in the early 2000s, infections like syphilis and gonorrhea surged to record levels in the 2010s. For example, comparing 2014 to 2018, the reported case rates increased dramatically for several major STDs:
Primary & secondary syphilis: ↑ 71%
Congenital syphilis (mother-to-infant): ↑ 185%
Gonorrhea: ↑ 63%
Chlamydia: ↑ 19%
Overall, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) reported about 2.5 million combined cases of chlamydia, gonorrhea, and syphilis in 2022, near the highest on record. The resurgence of STDs is disproportionately derived from men who have sex with men (”MSM”). CDC surveillance indicates that MSM account for a large share of new STD cases, with extremely high infection rates relative to other groups. For example:
MSM accounted for over 60% of all early syphilis cases nationally.
Syphilis infection rates among MSM were over 100 times higher than rates among heterosexual men or women.
About half of all gonorrhea infections in 2023 occurred in MSM (a population accounting for less than ten percent of the overall population).
Compounding the STD surge is the emergence of antibiotic-resistant strains of these infections. Health experts are especially concerned about drug-resistant gonorrhea. The CDC and World Health Organization have warned of a potential “untreatable gonorrhea” in the near future if new therapies and prevention efforts fail to curb resistant strains.
To prove nature’s remarkable ability to exploit our vulnerabilities in new and creative ways, one need look no further than the recent outbreak of monkeypox (mpox). Prior to our introduction to monkeypox in 2022, mpox had not been a typical sexually transmitted infection in the way HIV or syphilis are. The outbreak in wealthy Western countries was largely facilitated by the spread among men who have sex with men. Epidemiological analyses by the CDC found that men with more than one sexual partner in the preceding 3 weeks had 1.8 to 6.9 times the risk of monkeypox infection compared to men with only one partner. What’s more, the data showed that one-time sexual encounters (casual hookups) – though comprising a small share of total sexual acts – accounted for about 50% of daily monkeypox transmissions during the outbreak. Simply put, a culture of frequent, no-strings encounters created a perfect storm for the emergence of a new epidemic.
What’s Love Got to Do With It?
The costs of elevating sexual freedom over commitment are not only physical. There are psychological and social costs—some of which can be quantified, but many that are much harder to measure, and sometimes even challenging to openly discuss.
For instance, many psychologists object to the use of terms like “promiscuous” as stigmatizing and even question the incidence of sex addiction or hypersexuality, except in very rare instances. The use of the term “promiscuity” is more likely to be rejected as a form of hate speech than as an objective description of sexual behavior. Some even claim it is a false stereotype used as a weapon to marginalize LGBTQ people.
The data suggest otherwise.
Reliable studies show that male homosexuals have anywhere between two and six times as many sexual partners as straight men. (The wide range in estimates is likely due to social desirability bias inherent in this type of survey question, which most experts believe leads to vast underreporting). A large-scale population survey analysis (Glick et al., 2012) found that by age 39, heterosexual men reported a median of 10 lifetime sexual partners, while men who have sex with men (MSM) reported a median of 67.
If we are honest with ourselves, we shouldn’t need antiseptic datapoints from the CDC to prove what we already suspect. I’ll offer up a simple challenge, while anecdotal, should help shed a little light: The next time you are at a gay bar or other LGBTQ gathering place, pay attention to how many people are found staring into their smart phone at any given moment. Then, randomly approach a sample of those persons to catch a glimpse of what has captured their rapt attention. If you glimpse the same endless parade of faceless torsos or maps covered in bubbles with male genitalia, you are looking into the abyss of the euphemistically branded “dating” apps. Very few “dates” – or, at least, what most would recognize as such—are the objective or outcome of the real purpose of these apps. It has been reported (yet difficult to confirm) that Grindr—among the most popular of the aforementioned gay “dating apps”—has thirteen million active users per day.
Why does any of this matter? We need to ask ourselves what is the longer-term result to both individuals and our community by treating sexual partners as interchangeable or endlessly replaceable. Many of us have at some point experienced the merry-go-round of dating apps and casual flings – a cycle that can be exciting for a time and yet often yields diminishing returns in terms of fulfillment. A culture that overly glamorizes the endless buffet of sexual options can leave individuals feeling isolated and unmoored when the music stops.
Sexual Ethics
We are all well aware of religion’s outsized role in defining sexual morality and ethics. However, sexual ethics is not solely a religious preoccupation. Many philosophers over the centuries have explored sexual ethics outside of the theology and doctrine of the Church.
The prevailing view of sexual ethics in modern Western society has largely been reduced to the principle of consent; the maxim, “if everyone agrees, it’s okay,” has become the cornerstone of contemporary sexual morality. While this focus on consent has been instrumental in dismantling oppressive laws and reclaiming the right to love and express desire, it may also leave us wanting for something more.
How many of us can relate to St. Augustine’s famous prayer in his Confessions of his hedonistic youth: “Lord, give me chastity – but not yet!”? St. Augustine recognized how sexual pleasure can overpower the will and “master us,” undermining self-control. The risk of becoming enslaved to our sexual passion is a common thread across history of philosophical exploration—from Aristotle’s definition of virtue as reason restraining passion, to even Nietzsche who recognized we could as easily become slaves to our sexual passions as become slaves to Christian ethics.
Immanuel Kant is perhaps the most famous (or, infamous) modern philosopher to attempt the construction of a sexual ethic that looked beyond the dominant Christian view of sexuality developed by Aquinas—a formulation that remains largely unchanged to this day in the Catholic Church. Although Kant’s view of sexuality would be considered as repressive as the Church’s, there may be something we can learn from some of his insights.
Kant’s most important contribution was the Categorical Imperative which demands that we treat every human being as an end in themselves rather than merely as a means to an end. This insistence on inherent human dignity is especially relevant when considering the ethics of sexual desire. Kant offers an arresting image:
“In loving from sexual inclination, they make the person into an object of their appetite. As soon as the person is possessed, and the appetite sated, they are thrown away, as one throws away a lemon after sucking the juice from it.”
In other words, lust makes us view the other like a juicy lemon – something to consume and then discard. This, according to Kant, is a grave violation of moral duty, because it “conflicts with the Right of humanity” in oneself and the other. He speaks of a “degradation” or “dishonoring” of our humanity that occurs when a person is reduced to a mere instrument for sexual gratification.
A society that embraces a purely instrumental approach to sex may well seem liberating at first glance, but closer inspection reveals a darker underbelly. When sex is reduced to a means of alleviating loneliness or satisfying a physical urge, it loses its potential to serve as a bridge to deeper human connection. Over time, the relentless pursuit of physical satisfaction can lead to a diminished capacity for forming stable, loving bonds. Instead of providing solace, such encounters can leave individuals feeling more alienated and disconnected.
Historically, when sexual ethics demanded commitment and self-restraint, individuals were encouraged to cultivate virtues like fidelity, temperance, and honor. These virtues were not imposed arbitrarily but emerged as essential qualities that helped sustain the bonds of family, community, and society at large. In contrast, a consent-only model, by failing to foster these virtues, risks reducing sexual encounters to ephemeral moments of pleasure that ultimately undermine the very notion of human dignity.
The problem with promiscuity is not merely a matter of personal dissatisfaction; it also has broader implications for the fabric of society. When intimacy is commodified and reduced to the mere exchange of physical pleasure, the communal values of trust, responsibility, and care are eroded. The sense of connection that undergirds a stable society is weakened, as individuals increasingly come to see relationships as disposable and transient. This can contribute to a broader cultural malaise, where the pursuit of individual gratification takes precedence over the collective good.
Perhaps the most insidious consequence of an ethic that prioritizes physical consent above all else is the gradual detachment of sex from love. In a culture that emphasizes immediate bodily gratification, the possibility of developing true intimacy becomes remote. True intimacy, after all, is not solely about the physical union of bodies but about the profound connection of souls. It is the kind of union in which each person is seen, respected, and valued for their intrinsic worth—a union that is characterized by mutual care and commitment.
The personal reflection of Andrew Sullivan poignantly captures this detachment. His admission—that he had:
“too many [partners], God knows. Too many for meaning and dignity to be given to every one; too many for love to be present at each; too many for sex to be…more than a temporary but powerful release from debilitating fear and loneliness.”
Sullivan’s words are not a celebration of liberated sexuality but a lament for the lost possibility of a richer, more integrated form of intimacy. His experience reveals a painful truth: when sex becomes a mere instrument for satisfying physical desire, it can never fully serve as a foundation for genuine love or personal fulfillment.
When sexual encounters are reduced to transactions of pleasure, the mutual recognition of each partner’s intrinsic worth is lost, and the emotional, spiritual, and even civic dimensions of love become devalued. Thinkers like Kant remind us that the objectification inherent in sex devoid of deeper commitment not only treats individuals as means rather than ends in themselves but also strips the act of its potential to be a source of genuine human flourishing. In a culture that embraces the full spectrum of human desire without the counterbalance of virtues like temperance, dignity, and commitment, the result is a fragmented self—a self that is perpetually chasing the next temporary high yet remains profoundly unfulfilled. This is the pathology of promiscuity: a cycle in which sexual encounters, no matter how freely consented to, ultimately fail to nourish the soul or secure the emotional bonds necessary for a vibrant community of truly free people.
Conclusion
Ultimately, we in the LGBTQ community need a radical shift in cultural values: from one that sees sex as a temporary, purely physical release to one that recognizes the transformative potential of sexual intimacy when it is imbued with commitment, mutual respect, and genuine care. This transformation is not a call for asceticism or for the wholesale rejection of casual sexual encounters, but rather for a rebalancing—where the pursuit of physical pleasure is always tempered by an awareness of the higher human goods of meaning, dignity, and true intimacy.
We need a new cultural paradigm—one that not only protects individual autonomy but also fosters a robust ethical framework that places a premium on long-term relational virtues. Such a framework would reassert that sex, when aligned with values of fidelity and temperance, serves not just as a physical act but as a crucial element of a more holistic human intimacy. It suggests that the gratification derived from sex must be inextricably linked to emotional connection and mutual respect—a perspective that, if widely embraced, could mitigate the loneliness and existential emptiness that too many experience in today’s hookup culture.
In practice, this means cultivating environments—both in the private sphere of interpersonal relationships and in the broader social and cultural institutions—that encourage not merely the freedom to engage in sex but also the responsibility to honor it as a deeply significant aspect of human life. In reclaiming a sexual ethic that values not only consent but also the full array of human virtues, we have an opportunity to mend the social pathology that has long plagued modern sexuality—a pathology marked by the fragmentation of intimacy and the loss of what it truly means to love.
The original aim of same-sex marriage by its earliest proponents was to bring about exactly this cultural change. Unfortunately, by sidelining the essential instrument of this change – monogamy – the champions of marriage equality delivered equal rights but surrendered the real promise of same-sex marriage. It’s not too late to deliver on that promise.
How can a cultural change such as this be catalyzed? Who can lead it? Under no circumstance should any organ of the state be involved in policing, opining on or even discussing sexual ethics.
It needs to be a trusted third party that has its own vested interest and authentic voice on the topic, has proven its commitment to marriage equality and earned the community’s trust, and has the tools and footprint to have real impact.
At the same time, it wouldn’t hurt if this institution could itself find growth, transformation, and redemption in the process.
This is the ideal mission for the Episcopal Church.
More on that, along with the conclusion of this series, next week.