Sex and Intimacy: Saint or Scandal
Desire has never been free in a colonized body. It is either punished as sin or purchased as spectacle, but never allowed to exist as ordinary hunger.
He kissed another boy once, behind a church after mass. It was clumsy, barely a brush, but the weight slammed into his chest. Not from the kiss itself, which was soft and ordinary, but from the voices inside his skull: sin, abomination, hellfire. He pulled away fast, throat tight, hips tucked as if someone had already seen. Later that night, he scrolled his phone and found the same kind of kiss plastered onstage, sold as entertainment. What he could not live without fear, others were free to consume like candy.
This is the loop. Religion and empire punish sexual appetite in the body, then sell back its image for profit. Virginity is demanded, modesty enforced, queer intimacy silenced. Yet the extremes are celebrated. The saint is worshipped as pure and untouched. The scandal is devoured as exotic, forbidden, and thrilling. The middle ground, where two people could want each other without shame, is erased.
Femininity is always the heaviest target. Women taught to guard their bodies are also told they must remain desirable. Purity is praised, beauty packaged. Queer men punished for softness are fetishized for flamboyance. Desire itself is never allowed to rest. It is either treated as a crime when lived or as a commodity when staged. The body absorbs this training. Shoulders curve inward. Lips close tight. Every kiss becomes half-swallowed before it begins.
- Sex and Intimacy: Saint or Scandal
- Ambition and Recognition: Humble or Hustle
- Food and the Body: Ascetic or Excess
- Rest and Joy: Martyr or Luxury
- The Body Remembers the Loop
- Islands of Permission and Their Price
- The Unresolved Middle
Ambition and Recognition: Humble or Hustle
Ambition is never neutral in postcolonial culture. It is either punished as arrogance or glorified as spectacle, but rarely allowed to exist as a steady drive for a better life.
A daughter once told her father she wanted to study abroad. He fell silent, then said, “Do not be too ambitious. Be content here. Ambition is dangerous.” His words carried both love and warning, the survival script of someone who had seen ambition punished before. That night, the same daughter watched a corporate ad celebrating “dreamers” who hustle without sleep, who grind until dawn, who make sacrifice glamorous. At home, her wanting was called arrogance. On screen, her wanting was commodified into a slogan.
This tension is not new. Colonial systems thrived by training subjects to serve but never surpass. Colonized peoples were taught to remain “humble laborers,” providing service without demanding recognition. To want more than survival was marked as rebellion. Ambition became dangerous not because it was unnatural, but because it disrupted the order empire required. The lesson was simple: want less, serve more.
Generations later, that lesson still lives inside families. Parents repeat humility as protection. “Do not dream too high.” “Stay in your lane.” “Do not make yourself bigger than the family.” What they mean is safety. What the body hears is guilt. Children learn to shrink their goals, to dim their talents, to frame desire as shameful.
Yet in the same breath, culture glorifies the extreme of ambition. The tireless breadwinner who works himself to collapse is praised as virtuous. The “selfless” mother who sacrifices her own future for her children is worshipped as saintly. In the marketplace, hustle is sold as empowerment. The “girlboss” is packaged into advertisements and hashtags, as long as her ambition remains consumable. Want too little, and you are told you are ungrateful. Want too much, and you are told you are arrogant. The middle, where ambition could be steady and sustainable, is erased.
Femininity suffers most here. A woman who wants recognition is framed as selfish, disruptive, “too much.” Yet the same culture fetishizes her if she pushes far enough. She is made into the figure of the overachiever, the tireless woman who proves she can “do it all.” The spectacle of her exhaustion becomes aspirational. Queer ambition is even more fraught. A queer person striving for visibility is punished within family and community but consumed as camp, flamboyance, or novelty in public culture. Their ambition is not recognized as ordinary hunger for space; it is turned into performance.
The body registers these contradictions long before the mind can name them. The throat tightens when asking for a raise, as if the words are forbidden. Shoulders shrink in a meeting, apologizing for taking up space. Stomachs twist at the thought of asking for acknowledgment. Even success carries guilt: the fear of betrayal, the dread of being seen as “too proud.” This is how ambition becomes a haunted appetite.
Meanwhile, the market continues to feed fantasies of ambition. Ads glorify the all-night worker, the dreamer who never rests, the entrepreneur who makes suffering glamorous. These images are consumed as inspiration while real ambition in ordinary life remains punished. The spectacle of ambition is praised, but the lived practice of wanting recognition is shamed.
What is lost is not simply success, but trust in our own hunger. Ambition becomes distorted into two caricatures: the martyr who sacrifices everything, or the hustler who sells empowerment as brand. Both are rewarded, both are fetishized, yet neither allows space for the human middle. The simple, steady desire to grow, to create, to be acknowledged without apology is erased. And so ambition, like intimacy, is trained into oscillation: punished when embodied, purchased when staged.
Food and the Body: Ascetic or Excess
Hunger is the most basic appetite, but in postcolonial culture it has never been neutral. To eat freely is coded as indulgence. To crave nourishment is framed as weakness. Food, like sex and ambition, is disciplined into guilt and then sold back in spectacle.
A girl reaches for another scoop of rice at a family dinner. Before she can serve herself, an aunt laughs, “Careful, you will get fat.” The laughter stings, so she places the spoon back. She pushes her plate away, not because she is full but because shame has replaced hunger. Hours later, she scrolls through her phone and watches a mukbang where someone eats noodles in buckets, drenched in sauce, cheered by millions of viewers. What she cannot do without ridicule is turned into entertainment for strangers.
This pattern is older than her family. Colonialism structured hunger as hierarchy. Colonies grew sugar, coffee, rice, and cacao, but much of it was shipped away. The colonized were told to live on less, while empire feasted. The body was trained to accept scarcity. To want more than subsistence was framed as greed. To eat without apology was treated as unruly. Hunger was not just physical but moral, and that moral code was enforced at the table, in the home, in the church.
The family repeats it as survival. Children are told to eat modestly, to avoid looking greedy. Daughters especially are taught that beauty means restraint, that appetite must remain invisible, that thinness signals virtue. Even when food is available, desire for it is policed. And when food is abundant, as in fiestas, indulgence comes with an expiration date: “Enjoy today, repent tomorrow.” Hunger is permitted only if guilt follows close behind.
At the same time, appetite is fetishized at its extremes. On one end, fasting is sanctified. Religious abstinence turns an empty stomach into holiness. Thinness is praised as moral superiority. On the other end, indulgence is glamorized. Mukbangs, “cheat-day feasts,” viral binge-eating challenges make excess a spectacle. What the body is denied in everyday life is consumed through fantasy on screen.
And there is a quieter but equally exhausting loop: the endless carousel of food morality. One voice says, “Do not eat rice, it will make you fat. Eat bread instead.” Another says, “Do not eat bread, it is processed. Eat vegetables.” A third cuts in, “But not those vegetables, they are sprayed with chemicals. Choose organic.” Then another warns, “Not too much organic fruit, it is high in sugar. Eat lean meat.” The spiral never ends. Every recommendation contradicts the last, each one carrying a small shadow of guilt. The body is left dizzy, trained to distrust its own hunger, never sure what is safe to eat. The appetite itself becomes suspicious.
The colonial metaphor repeats here. Just as empires extracted raw goods from colonies while denying locals abundance, industries extract labor and money from confused eaters. Diet companies profit by promising purity. Fitness cultures sell discipline as salvation. Food media monetizes indulgence as entertainment. What the colonized body is not allowed to trust in itself is rebranded, repackaged, and sold back at a price.
Meanwhile, the cuisines born from scarcity (the humble stews, the leftover rice dishes, the survival foods of colonized peoples) are now fetishized in global markets as exotic delicacies. What once carried shame is suddenly fashionable abroad. The very bodies once disciplined for hungering are now consumed through the aesthetics of their food. Appetite, again, is denied at home but purchased in image.
The cost of this loop is ordinary ease. The ability to eat until full without guilt. The right to hunger without shame. The trust that food is neither a moral test nor a performance but simply sustenance. What should be the most human of instincts is turned into a battlefield where punishment and fetishization feed each other. To eat with ease becomes radical. To honor hunger without apology becomes resistance.
Rest and Joy: Martyr or Luxury
Rest is the appetite most easily dismissed, yet it may be the most tightly policed. To stop working is coded as laziness. To chase joy is framed as distraction. Rest, like food, ambition, and intimacy, is punished in the body but fetishized as image.
A son tries to nap on a Sunday afternoon. His mother shakes him awake: “Do not waste the day. You are young, you should be working.” The words cut deeper than fatigue, carrying the rhythm of generations who equated survival with constant labor. That night, the same son scrolls through Instagram and sees influencers lounging in spas, sipping cocktails, selling “self-care” packages. The rest he was denied at home has been rebranded as luxury and sold back as content.
The logic is colonial. Colonies were designed for extraction. Workers were expected to labor endlessly, their bodies treated as machines of production. Rest was labeled idleness, sin, or weakness. To stop was to betray the empire. That lesson stayed long after colonizers left. Productivity became virtue, exhaustion became loyalty, and rest became a mark of failure.
Families carry this training forward. Breadwinners are praised for never stopping. Mothers are sanctified for sacrificing their bodies to endless work. Children are reminded to stay useful, to keep moving, to prove their worth. Survival is framed as perpetual motion. Even when people long to stop, guilt snaps them awake.
Yet, as always, the extremes of rest are fetishized. The tireless worker who destroys himself is praised as a saint of sacrifice. At the same time, luxury rest is glamorized for the privileged: curated vacations, expensive spas, wellness retreats marketed as reward. Ordinary rest – an afternoon nap, a quiet evening, laughter without justification – remains forbidden.
And then comes the spiral of contradictions. One voice insists, “Do not rest, work harder.” Another warns, “But do not burn out, balance is key.” A third chimes in, “Practice self-care, you must recharge.” Then another says, “Not too much self-care, that is indulgent.” The cycle repeats endlessly. Productivity gurus and wellness coaches pull the body back and forth until rest itself becomes confusing, even dangerous. Shoulders remain tense even in bed. Laughter feels guilty, like a crime against duty.
The market profits from this exhaustion. Companies sell caffeine to keep people awake, then sell meditation apps to help them sleep. Corporations glorify overwork, then launch “wellness programs” as benefits. Even rest becomes another product to buy, another performance to stage.
The result is a culture where fatigue never clears. Bodies move through life half-rested, half-resentful, always apologizing for stopping. Rest is either punished as laziness or fetishized as luxury, never allowed to exist as a right. Joy becomes conditional, something to be earned, something to be consumed, something to feel guilty for.
The middle ground (the steady practice of recovery, the ordinary desire to stop without shame) is erased. To rest without guilt, to laugh without needing permission, to breathe without performance becomes radical. In a system that punishes stillness and sells leisure as commodity, joy itself is resistance.
The Body Remembers the Loop
The body is not just the site where appetites are punished. It is the archive where those punishments are stored. Muscles, breath, and posture carry memories long after words fade. Religion and empire may frame desire as sin, but the training is inscribed in flesh.
Think of the throat. How many times has it closed around words that wanted to name hunger? Asking for food, asking for a raise, asking for touch. The muscles learn to constrict before sound leaves the mouth. The throat is trained to anticipate refusal.
Think of the hips. In moments of intimacy, they tuck or tighten, not always from lack of arousal but from the inheritance of shame. The body remembers sermons, family warnings, the language of modesty. Even in pleasure, guilt lingers in the way the hips resist opening.
Think of the shoulders. In meetings, in classrooms, even in conversations at the dinner table, they curve inward. A posture of humility, of shrinking, of asking for less space. Empire did not need to hover over every colonized subject; the body learned to police itself.
Think of the stomach. Cramps from skipped meals, nausea from overeating in secret, the churn of guilt after indulgence. The gut holds contradictions: the hunger that was denied, the fullness that was punished, the shame that grew from both.
This is how the loop embeds itself. Appetite punished in practice, then fetishized in image, creates a rhythm the body cannot ignore. The body contracts to survive punishment. Then it yearns toward the spectacle of extremes, only to contract again. Over time, the cycle becomes muscle memory. Desire does not have to be spoken for the body to know it is dangerous.
And yet, there are moments when the body resists. At fiestas, when people dance without apology, the spine loosens. At drag balls, when queerness takes the stage, shoulders straighten instead of shrink. At basketball courts, laughter erupts without guilt. These are islands of permission, where the body remembers what it is like to want without punishment and to express without performance. The freedom is brief, often bought at a cost, but the memory lingers.
The danger is that even these moments can be commodified. A fiesta becomes tourist spectacle. Drag becomes brand. Joy is turned back into product. But the body still remembers that loosening, that breath, that pulse. And memory itself becomes a form of resistance.
The question is whether that memory can be sustained. Can the body learn to trust its own hunger again? Can it rest without apology, eat without guilt, ask without shrinking, open without shame? Or will it always tighten at the edges of desire, anticipating punishment, even when no one is watching?
Islands of Permission and Their Price
There are cracks in the system, spaces where appetite slips past the bars. For a few hours, bodies loosen. Hunger is not punished, desire is not shamed, rest is not stolen. These are islands of permission.
Think of the fiesta. Tables overflow with food, music blares, neighbors dance until dawn. For one night, appetite is allowed. Plates are filled and refilled, laughter is loud, hips sway without apology. The body remembers what it is like to eat until satisfied and to move without guilt. Yet even here, the permission has boundaries. Tomorrow comes the sermons about excess, the jokes about gluttony, the quiet whispers of shame. What was permitted in celebration must be repaid in repentance.
Think of the drag ball. Queerness, usually policed in families and churches, explodes into brilliance. Sequins, heels, voices pitched high and unapologetic. For a night, queer desire is not punished but praised. The body that normally shrinks takes up space, commanding light. Yet entry has a price. Money for clothes, money for tickets, money for a safe venue. Safety itself is purchased. And the ball itself risks becoming commodified, turned into spectacle for consumption rather than sanctuary for expression.
Think of the basketball court in a barangay. Men and boys, sometimes women too, run and laugh and shout without reserve. For an hour, rest and joy are no longer policed. Sweat is not framed as laziness but as play. Still, even here, permission is fragile. Outside the court, work calls. Responsibilities return. Laughter shrinks back into silence.
These islands are precious, but they are not free. Every pocket of permission comes with a cost. Sometimes the price is money. Sometimes it is secrecy. Sometimes it is performance, playing into a version of appetite that fits the market or the community’s tolerance. What feels like liberation often turns into spectacle once outsiders begin to consume it.
And yet, these spaces matter. They remind bodies of what it feels like to live without constant self-policing. Even if brief, even if conditional, they carry memory. The loosened shoulder, the full belly, the unguarded laugh. These fragments of permission prove that appetite does not always have to end in punishment or performance.
The tragedy is that these islands often cannot survive untouched. They are too easily commodified, too easily folded back into the loop. Fiesta as tourist event. Drag as marketing brand. Play as sponsored content. Permission is captured and sold. But memory lingers, and memory itself is a kind of rebellion. It gives the body a glimpse of what it could be, even if the system insists otherwise.
The Unresolved Middle
The loop does not end. Religion and empire punish appetite in practice, then purchase it back in image. Families rehearse the survival scripts. Markets sell the extremes. Bodies absorb the rhythm: contract, yearn, contract again. And yet, desire does not die. Hunger claws through the shame. Rest insists on itself. Ambition keeps leaking out of silence. Intimacy aches even when forbidden.
Liberation is dangled like a prize, but it rarely arrives unscathed. “Self-love” becomes a product. Feminism is packaged as perfume. Queerness is marketed as campaign. What begins as rebellion is swallowed into spectacle. The middle ground, where appetite could be steady and human, remains elusive.
So what then? If the clean solution does not exist, if the loop cannot be broken once and for all, what light is left? Perhaps it is this: every act of ordinary wanting is already a refusal. To eat until full without apology. To nap without defense. To ask for recognition without shrinking. To touch without swallowing it back. These are not small. They are cracks in the wall, openings where light enters.
The system thrives on extremes. It survives by erasing the middle. But the middle is where life actually happens. If we cannot shatter the loop, we can keep carving out its absences. We can claim moments of appetite without guilt, desire without performance, want without spectacle. The body remembers these moments, and memory itself becomes resistance.
There will always be punishment. There will always be spectacle. But between them, there is also a pulse. Quiet, steady, defiant. The pulse that says want itself is not a wound.
Desire is not sin or spectacle. It is the quiet fire empire could never own.
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