Is Having a “Hoe Phase” Necessary for Character Building?
Can a messy past give you a clean slate?
Photo by David Lee/Netflix | Edited by Paige Vahla
We’ve all heard the saying: to truly get over an ex, go under someone new.
But isn’t that just a mental reframe, not about someone else’s bed frame?
A distraction with a condom slapped on, because most of us aren’t looking for a body, we want an antidote.
Who wants to feel the full flush of heartbreak, all at once, in this economy? Please.
Some of the best distractions aren’t just entertaining, but educational. And despite it not always having the best success rate, a lot of us can vouch for jumping from one situation to another, or a few, as a temporary balm. Whether it’s to soften heartbreak, to give life a little zing again or simply because it matched the season we were in. Some call it a “hoe phase” when it’s really just a series of character-building side quests.
At least that’s what I’ve discovered.
So, what is a hoe phase?
Despite the unnecessary emphasis on body count, it’s more about curiosity and experimentation — like personal data collection. I’ve always hated that the term “hoe” was attached to it — but I love how we’ve reframed it, taken the word, softened its sting, and given the power back to ourselves and our bodies. It’s about testing what we can handle, what we can’t, what still hurts, and what finally doesn’t. It’s a selfish period, even if you choose to share it with others. Above all else, it’s you versus your pleasure.
A win-win, really.
But let’s be real — sometimes, it’s just sex. And not always good sex, either. It’s a period of time we cringe over because it’s tied to old pain, to versions of ourselves we no longer recognise. We pick the juicy parts, gloss over the icky ones, and file it under a time we were doing dumb shit — if we ever admit it at all.
Read between the legs
Maybe the hoe phase should just be treated as research — part education, part exposure therapy.
Somewhere between learning the sex and dating faux pas that reveal how easily attraction, lust and the high of something new can blind you to red flags.
Because really, how else are we going to learn to read between the legs?
Everyone is currently debating whether having a boyfriend is embarrassing now, so it’s safe to say the stakes of dating today feel higher than ever. Add sex into the mix and things get even murkier.
Our past sexual partners can make us more discerning if we let them. They can teach us emotional durability, and being a “hoe”? It doubles as on-the-job training in pattern recognition, one of the truest markers of character.
Especially when the connection is based mostly on seeing each other naked. And science backs this up: a 2020 study found that people with broader dating experiences often develop stronger emotional regulation.
To make your way to the centre, you’ve got to crack the surface — which is why I find you can learn a lot from a situation that doesn’t require much from either party, yet or ever. Basic respect, consideration, not being objectified…aftercare, even.
Because a soft landing — whether it’s a pillow to prop up your hips for that position you favour, or the hope of love — is about ease, finally being able to exhale because you’ve found a situation that makes sense for you. It can dredge up a lot of uncomfortable and sometimes awkward scenarios or it can be as fluid as water. I guess that’s part of the fun — and the torture — of sex.
That was the hard lesson for me, realising that even in a situation with minimal emotion, I still required soft love, not necessarily from the sexual partner, but myself. Because I couldn’t control how they behaved, and it wouldn’t always feel warm after the deed was done, but the way I moved through those moments said more about my relationship with myself than anything they did.
What I’ve realised is that the cost of getting involved in any kind of physical investment is ourselves. We are the offering. And with that, anything can happen.
No shame, no gain
The way we perceive our sexual past — or lack of it — often reflects the part we think we need to play in someone else’s desire.
Some people find embarrassment or shame in not having experienced enough by a certain age, or by comparing their sexual history to their peers. On the other end of the spectrum, some try to conceal their past altogether.
Then there are people who don’t care and would never disclose — a reaction that still reveals how deeply we’re shaped by both social expectations and internal narratives. The truth is, no matter where you land, we’ve all got a story. But will we own it or let it own us?
Maybe the real work is to understand why we feel the way we do about it. The goal is to notice where discomfort lives and to soothe it without needing validation from someone else.
It isn’t always about desire. Sometimes it’s perception. How we think others will read us, measure us, or slot us into a category we never asked to be a part of — like, say, a hoe.
Other times, having a sexual history at all makes us feel like we’ve already been defined — too much, too soon, too open — and that we’ll never be taken seriously again.
Last year, a guy I knew admitted he thought I might be too experienced for him, purely because I write about sex. Egos will do what egos do, no matter what. If someone projects their feelings of inadequacy onto you just for existing — and in my case for using my keyboard — how is that ever about you? Even if they ghost you, which is what happened in my case. I never hid who I was, and I wasn’t going to dilute what I did to make him feel we were sexually compatible just because he wanted to sleep with me.
Those kind of insecurities can be internalised just as much as they are projected. And when that happens, we start lying, embellishing, or minimising — our body count, our past relationships, or even our sexual preferences.
In fact, a 2024 Europe and US survey by Superdrug Online Doctor found that 17.5% of men and 8.2% of women admitted inflating their number of sexual partners, while 18.6% of women and 13.7% of men said they deflated theirs. It shows how tangled our sexual history can become when filtered through ego, insecurity, or shame. That kind of self-preservation can morph us into a version of ourselves we don’t recognise when it becomes performative.
There’s real power in pacing yourself. Sharing what feels right, when it feels right. Some things will always be disclosed early — especially around sexual health and consent — but beyond that, when curiosity turns into interrogation, it stops being about connection and inches into control territory.
Nothing gives me the ick faster than someone feeling entitled to your history before they’ve even earned the right to it. Learning to be proud of yourself — whether that’s your past or your lack of experience — starts quietly, with honesty. Not the kind that demands confession, but the kind that builds self-trust. And once you have that, no one can use your story against you.
You can lose your mind chasing good head
But we still want an insurance policy, don’t we? Something to save face if falling for someone — or just their body parts — doesn’t go to plan.
I think that’s the real exchange when you pursue the chase. You don’t actually have control, so you manufacture it.
It shows up in covert ways — creating arbitrary communication cut-off times, spacing out meet-ups, pretending you’re too busy to reply. Or bolder ones, like only initiating contact on your own terms. But it doesn’t change the truth: we don’t really make the rules. There are none, not in an environment where vulnerability is inevitable. And the more we try to detach, the more we prove that we can’t.
There’s a reason we lose control. The right — or wrong, depending on your perspective — mix of hormones can blur logic in seconds. Oxytocin, dopamine, and pheromones are one hell of a drug. How do you get the upper hand on something that’s chemical, automatic, and wired straight into your emotions?
No wonder we lose more than our clothes between the sheets, wanting to feel whatever that was over and over again.
The pull never really goes away.
The real empowerment is in accepting that. I’ve realised it’s only then you can truly separate the two.
Sex can absolutely be just sex, and a hoe phase can be what it is — but first, you have to acknowledge that it also can’t be. An open mind keeps you from closing off, filtering, or numbing yourself to the feelings that might disrupt the outcome you want.
People will argue it’s not that deep, meanwhile the person is literally inside you. So if we’re being technical, yes, it’s that deep. The act itself is designed to be.
Curiosity has to be about the cat first
The best lessons about yourself often come through others. In a space where seeking pleasure with someone else’s body can easily become a form of self-abandonment, learning to advocate for your own turn-ons, voice what you don’t like, set your limits and boundaries and figure out what feels safe for you are significant acts of self love.
It’s those moments you realise that clinging to control for safety in an environment that’s meant to feel boundless isn’t the answer. The control is in our autonomy, not in the act of connection. Real connection asks for an exchange. But it doesn’t have to cost your self-respect or safe words. Curiosity is essential, as long as she stays the priority. We’ve got to understand our own hunger before we start feeding anyone else’s.
So, did being a “hoe” teach me anything?
That even when it’s just about sex, it’s rarely just sex.
But it’s always an energy exchange. The way control, curiosity, and clarity weave through it, and how easily we can attach our emotional coping mechanisms to something that’s meant to stay surface-level.
We have no real say, and that’s part of the fun. Yet if we remain curious, and open minded, it can reveal more about ourselves than any new kink could. Who you’re sleeping with isn’t the only one who needs to find the pulse of your centre. You guide them — with your refined pattern-recognition skills, knowing what to never let slide, and how your body not only reacts to pleasure but the emotions and situations surrounding it.
You realise how easy it is to drift out of your own body, to perform through motions, to dissociate — and still call it sex positivity, or worse, fully consensual.
Whether you’ve had a hoe phase or not, it’s the same lesson: choosing yourself when other people are involved is an internal muscle, one you have to build. It’s not always easy. It can get complicated, a little messy, sometimes painfully clarifying. But that’s the point — you’re meant to come out of it knowing how to stay in yourself, even when you’re undressed.
Maybe that’s what character building really is. Not wiping the slate clean, but learning how to hold the parts of you that you feel got dirty — without shame.
Because starting over is overrated.
But re-emerging from where you currently are? Now that makes for a sexy plot twist.
And I would rather be self-aware than spotless.