Sex Ed never taught us this: that pleasure and protection could coexist. Sexual health is more than pamphlets and prescriptions. It’s also about power, presence and, yes, poetry.
Mystkue Woods, M.ED, a sexuality arts educator and consultant, knows this well. Through her work blending expressive arts with public health, she’s making space for Black women and queer folks to not just survive, but thrive.
In a world where misinformation spreads faster than truth, especially around HIV, Woods offers a counter-narrative rooted in joy, consent and cultural context. Part curriculum, part performance, part mirror, her work is a way to see ourselves, fully and without shame.
“I wanted to speak to people who look like me,” she said. “Art and music and poetry—that’s my way in. That’s how I get people to listen.”
And that’s crucial—because the numbers are not on our side. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), Black women account for over half of new HIV diagnoses among women in the U.S., despite making up only 13% of the female population. For Black LGBTQ+ communities, the risks are even higher, layered in stigma, lack of access, misinformation and the myth that “it could never be me.”
Swapping myths for facts, Woods mingles storytelling with truths. In one of her workshops, participants move through a process of choosing their own adventure by exploring interplay of relationships, risks and protections. The lesson? “Anyone can be impacted by HIV. So why do we treat people like they’re different just because they live with it?”
This question of difference—who gets protected, who gets heard—is central to Woods’ approach. She coined the term Sen•Sex•Sen, a fusion of sensuality, sexuality and sentiment. It’s her framework for teaching sexual health as something felt and embodied, not just charted and tracked. In practice, this means navigating through popular culture to data-backed workshops about PrEP, PEP and testing.
And it’s the data we often don’t hear. Did you know that when taken daily, PrEP reduces the risk of getting HIV from sex by about 99%? Or that DoxyPEP, a post-exposure antibiotic, is showing promising results in preventing bacterial STIs among people who are sexually active? Despite the science, uptake remains low—especially among Black women.
Part of the issue, Woods says, is how prevention is presented. “You can’t just hand someone a brochure. You have to speak to their lived experiences. You have to say: this protects your joy, your future, your choices.”
Woods fortifies her premise from her personal journey. After a partner removed a condom without her consent—an act known as stealthing—Woods found herself navigating a broken system, despite her professional background. “If it was this hard for me,” she said, “what does that mean for someone with less access?”
It means we need better language, better access and better advocates. People like Woods, who isn’t afraid to bring pop culture into the mix, reference a TV show or song lyric mid-workshop because that’s what gets people nodding. She’s not in the business of scaring people into safety—she’s inviting them into deeper care.
And that care includes talking directly to Black women and queer folks about what sex-positive, shame-free protection looks like.
“Sometimes we don’t listen. I say that with love. But we have to start paying attention to what’s happening right now—not just what might happen years from now,” Woods said. “Right now, we have options. Right now, we have tools.”
What we don’t always have is trust—in institutions, in providers, in the systems meant to keep us safe. That’s where culture steps in. Where conversation, storytelling and community fill in the gaps. “HIV doesn’t make someone dirty,” Woods added. “It doesn’t take away their worth. We have to move away from language that shames and toward language that holds.”
Because here’s the truth: being proactive about your sexual health is a love language. It’s not just about HIV tests and protection plans. It’s about honoring the body you’re in, the joy you deserve and the futures we all have the right to imagine.
So whether your summer is all hot girl walks or hot girl nights, Woods has a simple ask: be prepared. Carry your own condoms. Know your status. Ask the questions. Choose you.
The conversation doesn’t end in a clinic. It begins where we are—at poetry slams, in podcasts, at brunch tables and yes, even in DMs.
Let’s just make sure it keeps going.
