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abstinence

I saved my 'virginity' for marriage, and it worked out great — until it didn't.

In 1993, at the tender age of 14, I took a pledge.

I promised not to have sex until my wedding night and to find a man who would honor that promise too.

I was taught that my body belonged to God, first and foremost, and then one day it would also belong to my husband. Then it would belong to my babies (and there would be babies, without a doubt).

At no point did I ever receive the message that my body belonged to me.

I was merely a gatekeeper, guarding my sexual purity in service of my god and future spouse. I wore a silver ring on my left ring finger as an outward symbol of my promise.

I was deeply steeped in the purity culture, as were my older brothers and all of our friends. My parents were devout Evangelical Christians, and all of our sexual education revolved around abstinence-only teachings and preparation for becoming a wife and mother. My parents talked openly about sex at home, explained the details of intercourse, and made it clear that it was nothing to be ashamed of, just so long as it was within the confines of marriage.

I was told in no uncertain terms that having sex outside of marriage was the worst thing I could do as a young woman.

And while I appreciated my parents' candid (by their standards) conversation, I also was hyper-aware that I had to completely shut down any sexual prowess to maintain that shiny, prized virginity.

And I did. I never allowed myself even to consider sex before marriage. I recruited my friends to join me on this purity pledge. I bought them rings if they could not afford to buy their own with money that I saved from working part-time at the mall. I was a pusher of purity, even taking my message to AIDS-ravaged Zambia and school girls in Kenya in my early 20's.

I was a 28-year-old virgin on my wedding day. This was not a technicality.

When we checked into our fancy hotel, I felt as though I was giving this beautiful man, my knight in shining armor, the most precious and special gift of me. I was proud. I made it. I wore my diamond ring as a badge of honor. Afterward, I felt empty.

My virginity was a cornerstone of my identity, and in a matter of minutes, it was gone for good.

My husband and I had, and continue to have, great sex. Of course, with nothing to compare it to, I can't know for sure. But there's primal attraction, intense passion, open communication, and great orgasms. Whenever the rest of our marriage has experienced devastating hardship and apocalyptic disaster, sex has remained a constant source of connection and pleasure and is the thing that consistently binds us together when everything else breaks down.

But this isn't the norm for people who were indoctrinated with purity culture. As girls, women are brainwashed to believe that anything related to sex is sinful. Then they're somehow expected to flip an imaginary switch and become sex goddesses on their wedding night.

You can imagine how well the wedding night and subsequent sexual interactions go for those women. But because our bodies don't belong to us, it doesn't matter. Only our husbands' needs and desires matter. Their success, their egos, their confidence, their masculinity, their ease, their pleasure, their orgasms.

It has taken a decade to undo our shared belief that I belong to my husband.

And, just as with any deconstruction process, it has been brutally painful and often disastrous. We had overlooked fundamental and essential truths about each other, all because we had our eyes on the prize: a Pure Life.

Teachings we both received discouraged women from declining sex without a holy reason. So when my husband wanted sex, since both of us held a shared belief that we were one spiritually, my refusal without good cause was not acceptable. But only my refusal — he could refuse any time he pleased. He was the husband, the leader, the provider, my spiritual covering, and protector.

Thoughts of refusal would trigger a hardwired, ancient edict playing on repeat in my head:

Wives, submit to your husbands.

Submit.

The overwhelming shame and fear that grew in the fertile soil of purity culture isolated me from my peers, subjugated me to my husband, stole my autonomy, and cut me off from a divine connection.

I have hashed out my sexuality, my autonomy, and my marriage in therapy for the last 10 years. I hold my baby girl and look her in the eyes and speak to her the words I wish had been spoken to me.

You are full of light.

I respect you.

Your body and your desires are your own.

You are worthy of love and freedom.

You belong to yourself.

The world is yours to explore.

You are entirely lovable, just as you are.

And in so doing, I feel myself heal a little more, come back into my own body, emerge from the shame, and call myself home.

This story originally appeared on Ravishly and is reprinted here with permission. More from Ravishly:

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#MeToo. I think.

I imagine a watchful Jesus hanging out in the backseat drinking a Coke like my pastor says he does. But when I let them put their hand on my thigh, I see Jesus leave the car and walk away.

Now we’re kissing, and I’m having second thoughts. I don’t really like their hand in my pants, but I’ve never been taught what I’m supposed to “like” or “dislike.”

I say “sure, let’s go to your house to hang out,” so I think that I pretty much consented to sex. Because, as a temptress, it's my job to stop them by saying “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

Even though I wish I could back out, I stay. It’s not #MeToo because that’s for people who didn’t consent to things, right?

[rebelmouse-image 19398091 dam="1" original_size="5236x3491" caption="Photo by Daniel Garcia/Unsplash." expand=1]Photo by Daniel Garcia/Unsplash.

In the wake of all the #MeToo stories, it struck me how many of them featured language such as, “They already bought me dinner, so I felt obligated to do something. I don’t know why.”

I instinctually knew why because I had similar thoughts as a pastor’s daughter who was taught to abstain from sex. I knew these victims never had a proper consent conversation because there isn’t any place for it where abstinence is taught. My parents thought that talking about consent would negate their teachings about abstinence, so I never learned how powerful saying "yes" and "no" could be.

The reality is that teens are having sex, and teaching abstinence-only sexual education has dangerous ramifications.

We need to move past telling teens to “picture Jesus in the backseat drinking a Coke” if they are considering becoming intimate. The shame created by scenarios like this leaves Christian teens vulnerable in murky situations. While I never experienced some of the horrific scenarios mentioned in many of the #metoo stories, I nevertheless always felt like it was my fault for putting myself in sexual situations. I felt obligated to do “something” that would satisfy the guy, so he wouldn’t be upset at me for leading him on. I felt shame.

[rebelmouse-image 19477594 dam="1" original_size="6000x4000" caption="Photo by Rosie Fraser/Unsplash." expand=1]Photo by Rosie Fraser/Unsplash.

I learned that my body was not my own — but God's.

Therefore, consent would naturally lie within his control. These are not the thoughts of someone who has been taught a healthy view of their sexuality.

My sexual education consisted of my mother and father calling my brother and I into their bedroom and telling us they wanted to answer any questions we might have. After the term “boner” was awkwardly discussed, it was clear the conversation was over. I later received a book that vaguely described a "tingly feeling."

This lack of sexual education is the root of the problem. According to Sharon Hollings, who was raised evangelical, it was "just assumed that I wouldn’t be having sex. Meaning I didn’t have any advice or insight on how to handle things when I did.”

I was never taught that my feelings were paramount.

I was never taught that it was important to know what you like and dislike.

The magic of sex was that when you consented to your partner on your wedding night, you would like EVERYTHING.

Spoiler alert: You don’t.

The lack of a proper conversation about my body as my own became glaringly obvious when my parents explained that masturbation was a sin, that even thinking about having sex with someone meant you had already done it in your heart. Boy, was I a heart slut for Patrick Swayze. Throughout my adolescent self-exploration, I constantly apologized to God and felt guilt about my sexuality.

[rebelmouse-image 19477595 dam="1" original_size="6016x4016" caption="Photo by Ben White/Unsplash." expand=1]Photo by Ben White/Unsplash.

This lack of a discussion of bodily autonomy and shaming for self-exploration leads to a whole different problem.

Growing up in Christian schools, there was a running joke that you could do everything but sex. This was not something officially taught, but it was an unofficial practice among students. According to Cindy Rogers, who was raised Catholic, “I went to school with some super religious folks. They would have anal sex and still call themselves virgins.” Folk duo Garfunkel and Oates even have a song parody on the subject, “The Loophole.”

The denial of real teenage interactions leads to confusion about consent. It can lead to non-consensual sexual activity. We need a more realistic approach. The consent conversation is eliminated in abstinence teaching because of the assumption that it might encourage sexual activity.

This becomes especially dangerous for marginalized LGBTQ teens.

They're told that they are not allowed to act on their sexual preferences — ever. This puts them in even greater danger for self-blame when faced with consent decisions. If those teaching would at least offer abstinence as one of many choices instead of the only option, that would allow teens to feel they have control over the decisions facing their bodies.

My friend, who was raised similarly to me, recently put things into perspective for how she approaches the topic with her children: “If you don’t give people a healthy view of sex without the guilt factor, people aren’t going to know how to protect themselves. You won't be able to listen to that little voice that says something about this isn’t right. You need the self-esteem and confidence to go, 'Yeah, nope, I’m out.'"

It’s urgent that we put young people’s sexual autonomy at the forefront of the conversation.

Emphasizing “your body, your choice” will allow them to thrive in adulthood.

We need to move into a realistic view of life, love, and sexuality. We need teens to understand that without consent, they are the victims of a crime. That they are #MeToo and not #MyFault.

I’m pretty sure that if Jesus was actually drinking a Coke in the backseat, he would agree. I’m also pretty sure He’s switched to La Croix at this point.

This story originally appeared on Ravishly and is printed here with permission. More from Ravishly: