It's an expression.

The more I talked to Dr. B about sex, the more layers of ugliness we peeled back. We spent the first few sessions primarily on my anger and disappointment over the way things had turned out and how my brain linked those negative emotions with sexuality. And then we spent hours and hours working through all of the religious, churchy oppression I’d been subjected to. You can imagine, then, that “shame” wasn’t a foreign word in our meetings. But gradually, shame over having sex dissipated and left something unexpected in its place: shame over not having sex.

My husband and I got married on a gorgeous June day in Colorado in 2007. Our ceremony was a perfect, a family-only celebration at his parents’ house. The honeymoon, however, wasn’t scheduled until October—we wanted to give ourselves plenty of time to settle into married life before going on vacation. But as I sat in Dr. B’s office less than 48 hours prior to leaving for the Canary Islands, I was stressed and frustrated that after months of trying, sex still wasn’t possible. And we were getting ready to leave for our honeymoon. “I always imagined my honeymoon as a week of walking on the beach, making love, and drinking champagne!” I exclaimed. “All I’m thinking right now is how angry I am that this once-in-a-lifetime experience is going to be nothing like what I pictured. I won’t have a honeymoon like everyone else’s.” Every attempt at sex had ended in disappointment, shame, and sadness for me, and the thought of an entire week of nothing but that was too much to bear.

“Amie, you have to decide right now that you will not have sex on your honeymoon. It simply will not happen. Your honeymoon will not involve sex. Will you admit that for me?” Dr. B was sterner that I’d seen him. My eyes welled, and I nodded. That moment was a breaking point for me. Certainly I’d felt sexually angry and helpless before, but sitting in a strange man’s office declaring that my much-anticipated honeymoon would be sexless just seemed so unfair. My marriage had not begun at all like I’d expected. Everyone, including the minister who performed our ceremony, told us how steamy the first year would be, given that we were in our twenties without having been sexually active. We’d be fighting a lot and having lots of makeup sex, we’d be missing each other terribly while at work, and we’d have the novelty of romance still intact. Married couple after married couple prepared us for that. Not experiencing anything like it, I felt shortchanged in so many ways.

Dr. B let my tears roll in silence for a few moments before pressing on. “Sex is not the only way to enjoy each other, you know,” he suggested. I returned his eye contact but inwardly rolled my eyes. “Try not to focus on what isn’t yet possible. Instead, explore each other’s bodies in ways that are.” He explained that he believes many couples lose their sense of wonder over their partners’ bodies because they stop doing this. “Take some time to really look at each other, take in the delicious physical gifts you have to offer. Just because you can’t have sex doesn’t mean you aren’t sexual, and it certainly doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy sexual pleasure. If on your honeymoon the intent is to be close and exult in the physical gifts you can give each other, you’ll have a very satisfying week. Sex is an expression, not just an act.” I wasn’t convinced, but I did leave encouraged.

I was still mentally working through all of this when the alarm went off Saturday morning. While my husband and I are both seasoned travelers and light packers, we are notorious for arriving late to the airport. That October morning was no exception, and we fairly flew around the house, trying to get last-minute issues resolved and decisions made. The whole time, my mind was also working with the sex-free-honeymoon situation I was facing and the utter frustration of it. The longer I turned the thoughts over in my head, the more I became embroiled in a maelstrom of negativity. Looking back, I realize that this was entirely my fault for not taking control of my thoughts, and every time we “expressed ourselves” over the course of the week I felt a backlash of anger and hopelessness. By the time we returned home, I felt an intensely deep shame over not being able to perform wifely responsibilities. It was time for another discussion with Dr. B. Even though I had been going every two weeks, I called and scheduled an additional appointment when we got back in town.

Size matters.

I mean my size matters. To me.

In the last eleven months I have lost 60 pounds, which I’m pretty sure is the equivalent of an Olson twin. My pants are four sizes smaller, my tops two. Kohl’s saw me an awful lot this summer: I shrunk out of most of my wardrobe and had to replenish. A number of coworkers congratulated me on the loss when I showed up at in-service earlier this month, and three former students at the ball game on Friday night said, “I almost walked right by without recognizing you!” Just a couple of days ago, a former student visited the high school and said, “You’re so tiny!” That might be a stretch, but it does bear witness to the size I was versus the size I am now. And I’m still shrinking.

Why bring that up on the sex blog? As one of my favorite babysitting charges used to say, “Well, you see…it’s involved.”

First of all, I’m sitting here writing this in a dress I never would’ve tried on, much less bought, when I was larger. But as soon as I slip it on with my high-heeled sandals, I feel very sexy and catch myself looking in the same mirrors and windows I loathed before. Honestly, I never knew what “sexy” felt like until this summer. That has a definite effect on your bedroom life—when you feel unsexy all the time, you want nighttime, lights-off, under-the-covers sex. You don’t want to see your shape if it’s at all avoidable. It’s difficult to be willing to share your body when you can’t stand the sight of it yourself.

Second, I catch myself dancing all the time. I love the way it feels to be in this body now. I love the way it feels to move. Lest you be misled, trust me, I harbor no illusions of grandeur when it comes to graceful gliding across a dance floor. But these days it’s a challenge to make it all the way through a sinkful of dishes or a ten-minute shower without shaking my groove thang. It just feels so good to be in a smaller body.

Third, I have a brand-new idea of what “sexy” means. I used to think I wasn’t sexy because I didn’t have Kim Kardashian’s legs or Jennifer Aniston’s knockers. But the thing is, sexy has almost nothing to do with measurements and everything to do with perspective. My legs will never give Kim’s a run for their money. But I feel every bit as sexy as she does when she’s on that red carpet…and probably more. After all, there are no paparazzi scrutinizing every inch of my skin. Sexy is how comfortable you are in your own skin, behind your own face, stretched into your own height. Sexy is looking in the mirror and thinking, “I don’t want to trade with anyone else today. I like what I’ve got.”

When I was a teenager, my insecurity about my body caused me to become hypersensitive and even a little arrogant about other areas, such as my grades and my music. I figured if I didn’t have looks on my side, I was going to have to do something else to get people’s attention. I’m a perfectionist anyway, so it comes as no surprise that I took great pride in my 3.95 GPA (stupid calculus) and position as accompanist to the choirs. While I was never exactly obnoxious about either of these things, I certainly didn’t pass up an opportunity to mention them if they were at all relevant to the conversation at hand. But as I grew up and even more as I’ve lost weight, I’ve noticed a much-diminished need of validation by others. I feel confident and happy with who I am and how I look, and it’s caused so much of that old insecurity to evaporate. I won’t lie: it feels absolutely wonderful to get a compliment on my physical appearance. For the longest time, that was one aspect of myself that I felt didn’t deserve any positive recognition at all. However, I’m no longer constantly looking toward others to assure me that I’m at least passably attractive. I am finally inching my way toward a healthier body image and, consequently, a healthier self-concept all around. And at least for me, that has proven an extremely important component in the battle for healthy sexuality.

I wrote erotica.

You heard me.

But it’s not what you think. Unless what you think is that I had barely written five pages before I deleted the document entirely. (If you’re a Friends fan, this is a perfect time to insert a joke about Rachel’s erotic novel, which featured typos like “heaving beasts” and “throbbing pens.”)

It all started innocently enough. I was early for my appointment with Dr. B, so we chatted a bit before getting down to business. “What was your major?” he asked. “I double-majored,” I replied. “English and French…I read a lot.” We chuckled, and then he asked the question I knew was next: “So what’s your favorite book?” I’m always reluctant to answer because people expect me to have a sophisticated response, something like As I Lay Dying or Flaubert. But my favorite book nineteen years running is Charlotte’s Web. Raising his eyebrows, Dr. B said, “All you read in college and Charlotte’s Web is your favorite? Why?” I explained that it was my first encounter with the immersive power of a story. That even though I fear and loathe spiders, I lost a friend when Charlotte died. That I was transported when I read White’s pitch-perfect sentences, both as an 8-year-old and as an adult. Open that cover, and the summer breeze swirls around you. Charlotte’s Web is why I double-majored in literature and literature. Charlotte’s Web is perfect.

When I finished my spiel, Dr. B said with an amused smile, “You certainly are passionate about books.” I agreed. He started nodding slowly and scrunched up his eyes, suddenly lost in thought. “Books, huh?” he said either to me or to himself…I wasn’t really sure, so I waited silently for something else to happen. “Amie, how about you read a little erotica?” I tilted my head and slightly frowned. How had the conversation accelerated from Charlotte’s Web to sex in 6.1 seconds? “Beg your pardon?” I asked, bewildered. I glanced at the clock on his desk, thinking that perhaps it was an abrupt segue into our session. “Well, you’re a reader, right? Books speak to you. So…read some erotica. See if that helps.”

Huh.

So the next time I was in Books-a-Million, I went to the only section I’d never ventured within ten yards of. I kept looking over my shoulder, afraid I might see one of my parents’ friends. Or worse yet—a student. (Although, to be fair, most of my students would not spend their Friday afternoon in a bookstore.) I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and picked up a book. When I looked at the cover, my eyes grew wide, and I slammed it back on the shelf. “Oh, sweet Moses,” I whispered. I wondered for the 14^th time what, exactly, I was doing there. Then, I remembered the live scorpion, wiped the sweat off my palms, and continued my search for a good ol’ dirty book. Finally, I found a contender: the cover depicted nothing but two empty chairs on a beach—I suppose the occupants got a room before the artist was able to sketch them. I flipped through and found enough “content” to appease Dr. B, made my purchase, and fled the premises.

Upon getting the book home and sitting down with a cup of coffee (Well, what do you drink with your dirty books?), my first reaction was pure laughter. The writing was so bad. I distinctly remember the sentence, “She knew he was a good egg.” Ah. So when you’re lucky enough to find a “good egg,” you’re practically morally compelled to whisk him off to a bedroom. It appeared to me that the author was barely literate, completely lacked creativity, and knew very little about constructing non-sexual sentences. The back of the book promised that the sizzling romance would make my “toes curl.” It was closer to making my blood curdle. I closed the cover and said aloud, “I’ve had better.” Happily, I settled back into the Don Miller book I was enjoying before that little hiccup.

The next Thursday I reported to Dr. B that I just couldn’t stomach it. “Perhaps if Hemingway had had a hand in Under the Boardwalk, it wouldn’t suck so much,” I shrugged. (Admittedly, if Hemingway had had a hand in it, it would’ve depressingly ended with the main characters dying in the rain.) I had all sorts of ammunition to throw at the book in case Dr. B wondered why it was a failed assignment, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he had a sly grin on his face and said, “Then I guess you’ll have to write your own.” It slowly dawned on me that I’d been set up, that he’d known all along I would consider the novel trash. “Write my own,” I said expressionlessly. Then I laughed. “Write my own? Ha!” Unruffled, Dr. B said, “Look at it this way. It either helps you get over your discomfort using sexual terminology and you have a major breakthrough, OR it doesn’t work but we’re one step closer to finding a solution that does.” Ugh. I hated agreeing with him. “Who knows?” he continued. “You might launch a lucrative career as a romance novelist.” Well, that was one career opportunity I’d never once considered. He winked.

So the next afternoon, I settled down at the dining room table to compose some carnal fiction. Knowing how awkward I was going to feel, I’d picked up some Mike’s Hard Lemonade on the way home, hoping it might free my sexually inhibited brain. I rolled my shoulders back and took a deep breath of resolve. I typed “He” and watched the cursor blink for a few seconds. I backspaced. She…Backspace. I had no idea where to start. “It was a dark and stormy night”? Then, as I swigged my lemonade, I happened to look down at my lesson plan book across the table. On its cover I’d taped a Post-It bearing my favorite advice for all of life, a line by Anne Lamott from Bird by Bird. Her brother had a huge report due on birds, and as most students do, he waited until the night before to start. Sitting at his desk surrounded by avian reference books and wadded-up paper, he dropped his head in his hands and sighed. Their father came up behind him and said, “Just take it bird by bird, buddy. Bird by bird.” Remembering that advice, I coaxed myself, “Just take it thrust by thrust, Amie. Thrust by thrust.”

In a couple hours’ time, I was totally proud of having composed exactly half of a sex scene—the second half, because I was more interested in the “after-sex” part than the “before.” It took place in a log cabin in front of a lake on a snowy night in the woods, which was pretty much the most romantic setting I could think of. My scene featured no other clichés, and my hero was far from the iconically “perfect” men of erotica. Although, after making love, he did hold his lover close, touch her face, and say, “My god, you are beautiful.” That’s as romance-novelish as it got, but hey, doesn’t that sound nice, women?

Suffice it to say…the assignment was successful.

Sex is incredible.

I am thankful for and amazed by your stories of religious sex education*. Some lived through laughably awkward programs (I laughed out loud at Mrs. Cheeky’s story of the three-foot penis!), others of you went through the type of instruction I did, and some of you escaped unscathed, with or without religious influence. Ash’s experiences of hearing youth pastors discuss their sex lives or asking teens to talk about theirs are horrific. I don’t recall a single place in the Bible where Jesus dealt with sin by asking for a detailed account from the sinner. Several people both on the blog and in emails to me mentioned birthing videos. I think that is what I found saddest: churches—historically composed of pro-lifers!—recasting a private, divine moment into a scare tactic. What a heartbreaking approach. And on the other end of the spectrum from these experiences, there is complete silence. Lisa summed it up well, saying that in the opinion of many churches, “everything is about sex, so nothing should be about sex.” An anonymous commenter agreed in a way I found beautiful: “A church that is totally silent on sex will also be oppressive and damaging to people striving to be sexually mature and whole.” I so agree with Karisa and Cheryl who argue that if the church teaches about sex, it should focus on the magnificence of it in its proper place, not the problems its misuse can cause. Karisa likens this kind of sex-ed to preaching only about the evils of hell without mentioning the wonders of heaven.

However, wildly varying opinions surfaced about the church’s place in sex education, and I must admit that I don’t yet have a fixed opinion. What I can say with complete assurance is that in my case, all that religious sex-ed did for me was cause me to feel shame and guilt every time I kissed a boyfriend, awakened from a sex dream, or had sex with my husband. I felt dirty for having sexual feelings, and consequently I shoved them deep into the recesses of my mind. I was so successful that, as I mentioned before, I completely cured myself of my sex drive and ended up needing counseling to get it back. As Dr. B and I slogged through the messages I’d received about sex, I set out to destroy them. I prayed that God would give me truth with which I could replace the garbage. Here are some of the conclusions I came to:

1.              Sex is a spiritually beautiful thing. Let’s be honest: it’s not physically beautiful. Nothing about two sweaty, naked bodies rubbing and panting on each other is aesthetically pleasing. Every body on the planet has its eccentricities, and very few of us are “tens” anyway. Besides, the men I find attractive, my best friend doesn’t necessarily and vice versa. I’ve never cared much about muscular definition, abs, or a chiseled face; she sighs when she sees Hugh Laurie. But somewhere in all the scars, love handles, and inconveniently hairy moles, there is something spiritually beautiful about making love. For just a moment (well, hopefully longer than a “moment,” haha), the lonely condition of humanness melts away into the other person’s complete acceptance of you. You are held, clung to, and enjoyed by a fellow wanderer. Nothing on the earth can match it. In the Book of Genesis God claims that it is not good for man to be alone, and while I believe this has much to do with community, it is also applicable to sex. Certainly it is possible to live without it, but it’s beautiful that we don’t have to.

2.              Sex is a vital component of marriage. As I have already said, not being able to have sex with my husband made me feel incredibly distant from him. He didn’t cause this, but it was still a strong, heart-wrenching sensation. In my opinion, in the sexless days of our marriage, our relationship with each other felt no different than our relationships with others. Sure, we shared the minutiae of our lives in a way that we didn’t with anyone else and we looked primarily to each other for emotional support, but that most intimate act that is meant to reaffirm unity, cut through feelings of loneliness and inadequacy, and bring sheer pleasure and excitement into a committed relationship wasn’t there. Our relationship was missing the vitality that a vibrant romance and sex life lends. Book after book I read and person after person I talked to insisted that making love produces in a woman, among other things, a reassurance of closeness. A man who routinely makes love to his sweetheart receives, again among many other things, a bolstered self-confidence. (Forgive me for so ludicrously oversimplifying the issue, but I don’t have the space to get into the grit.) Without these needs being met, a woman is likely to feel detached and withdrawn, and her man may feel superfluous to her and others. It is difficult to cultivate genuine emotional closeness in a marriage without the presence of physical closeness. Of course, the reverse is also true.

3.              Sex is a gift from God. And gifts from God are never one-dimensional. The plan is for it to be mind-blowingly fantastic, and for that reason sex is perfect on several levels. Consider the obvious physical nature of the gift: certain components of our anatomies exist for the sole purpose of ensuring that sex and sexual activity feels good. Really good. Because of sex, we experience this delicious physical hunger for another human. An urgency pulls us to the other person and finds its ultimate satisfaction in pleasing his or her body. We can literally hold onto someone else, and as best as I can tell, that is a nearly universal desire. Then, there is the emotional component to sex that I’ve already discussed somewhat. Sex allows us to be vulnerable with another human and experience the consequent acceptance he or she shows us. What a gift, to be naked with another and mutually pleased by what the two of you see. Such a soul-deep beauty springs from that, from knowing that you are loved and desired, from knowing that someone else on the planet wants you close and wants to trust you with his or her vulnerability. God wants us to discover all of this and more. He wants us to explore our bodies and the bodies of our mates. He wants us to have playful sex, urgent sex, passionate sex…any kind of sex that brings us closer to the lover we have chosen. He has never once turned his face in embarrassment when I’ve had sex with my husband. Sex in its proper place is powerful and generates so much life, excitement, intimacy, and fun in a relationship.

I believe that youth group attendees should know these things, that we should teach them with as much fervor as we have taught STDs and pregnancy. More than anything I wish that someone had given me the information—the positives of sex where it belongs and the negatives of sex used to fill a void—and allowed me to make decisions for myself. Discussing why it is important to treat sexuality with respect is a stark contrast to, “Don’t do it because God will punish you.” This is why I loved Erin’s comment that there are plenty of non-religious reasons to be discriminating with sexual partners. Regardless of one’s religious beliefs or lack thereof, sex is a part of life that everyone reckons with, so considering the emotional and physical ramifications of sex is not an inherently religious exercise. For those who do profess a particular faith, spiritual ramifications like two of the ones I mentioned are just added on. If young people were presented with all this information, they would be empowered to make their own decisions without having to be “put in line” by their youth pastors. Of course, we are all imperfect and we all make mistakes. But I think that respecting students enough to give them a fuller picture of sexuality can only help matters.

*I refer exclusively to comments on the last post.

Sex and church do not mix.

At least they didn’t for me.

For the first 22 years of my life, I attended two Church of God churches. At Church #1, whose doors I marched through every Sunday of my childhood and for a year and a half in my early twenties, you’ll find healing, grace, and a profound sense of community. Church #2 is where I spent my adolescence, and since much of that revolved around the youth group, that is the only aspect of the church I’ll discuss here. The youth group at Church #2 was a place of emotional highs, legalistic rigidity, and statistics. It was more important to obey the rules than to have a real relationship with Jesus, for example. It was more important to bring in new people than to disciple the committed attendees. And it was very, very important not to have sex.

Like most churches, Church #2 believes in a trinity of sexual sins: homosexuality, adultery, and premarital sex. At Church #2 the third tended to be the most frequently discussed, usually during an abstinence campaign. Church #2 taught me a number of inaccuracies about sex, the gravity of which I didn’t fully realize until discussing them with Dr. B. I’ll share some of the subliminal messages I received from the youth pastor—not in an attempt to air my grievances, but to bare the reality of much religious instruction about sex.

1.              Sex is sex. This is the most detrimental of the lessons I learned because it paved the way for the rest. In sermons about sex at Church #2, no caveat was given about the difference between misuse of sex and monogamous sex. No sex seemed condoned by God. In the absence of a clause about the necessity of sex in the right kind of relationship, the resulting message is that sex, period, is sinful, not that immorality has its consequences. It’s true that when sex is used to fill a void, when it is carelessly tossed about, or when it is preceded by pressure, it will eventually lead to destruction of relationships and/or self. However, sex as an expression of commitment and love is a completely different ballgame. A gulf exists between those types of situations, one that was never addressed (to my knowledge) in Church #2’s youth group.

2.              Sex is disappointing. Over and over we were told that a virgin’s reaction after having sex the first time is typically, “That’s it?” This argument is that the media blows sex way out of proportion, leading people to believe that sex is neon awesome every time, whereas the truth is that it’s not all that. I assume the intent was to make us think we weren’t missing much. I find this unfair because as with anything in life, sex comes with a learning curve. The first time you make biscuits from scratch, they come out burned or doughy. The first time you clean your windshield, you streak it. The first time your child misbehaves, you suck at correction. That doesn’t mean you stop making the biscuits, cleaning the windshield, or correcting; it means you work at it and improve. The story doesn’t stop with “you’ll suck” (That’s what she said.). You probably won’t rock each other’s worlds the first time, but you learn. By saying sex is disappointing, you distract from this awesome gift of God.

3.              Sex is divorced from love. Never did love come up in a lesson about sex except in the context of “if he really loves you, he won’t force you to have sex.” (Of course, even this seemingly innocuous statement has an edge: if love is present, sex is not. Also, love is good; sex is bad.) Sex is not about expression here: it’s little more than the result of human biology and a sinful nature. Keep an eye on your hormones, and you’ll realize that your sex drive has to do with your youth and/or gender, not the loving relationship you’re in. Even terms like “making love”—a term I have come to prefer for several reasons—were banished from discussions about sex. No one ever told me that when you’re in a relationship with someone you love and admire, your heart fills with all sorts of desire for that person—you want an emotional and a spiritual connection, sure…but you also long for a physical connection. No one told me this was a normal and beautiful reaction to being cherished, being special to someone. Instead, I was taught that sex drive resulted from hormones or making out (or a combination of both), and that it would destroy my capacity for logical thought, fairly forcing me to unzip my shorts if I wasn’t vigilant.

4.              Sex is sinful and provokes divine judgment. The predominant arguments against sex were venereal disease, pregnancy, and emotional trauma. Any of these could be multifaceted, but pregnancy was the Big Problem. Church #2 essentially looked at it this way: 1) Choose abortion, and you’re a murderer. 2) Choose adoption, and you have to deal with the pain of losing a child. 3) As a teenager, you’re too much of an ill-prepared screw-up to try to raise the baby yourself. There was no way to win. And all this cause-and-effect was a virtual certainty: it’s God’s design for punishing sexual partners. To me, this God is a God of judgment, indeed a heartless God, who carelessly doles out life and death to teach a lesson. The miracle of birth becomes flesh-covered punishment. The heartbreak of fatal illness is your just desserts. So…have sex at your own risk, bucko.

You can see why these messages, all of which I deeply imbibed, contributed to my sexual struggles. There are others, but for the sake of space I will omit them for now. I’m sure that some who grew up in my youth group went on to have lots of great sex, but I also know I am not alone. Dr. B told me about a study he conducted with some colleagues years ago. The research team interviewed literally hundreds of people who fit into one of two groups: people who had been sexually abused and people who had been raised in sexually repressive religious environments. Would you believe that the effects were exactly the same? Dr. B’s research team discovered that both groups ended up with either sexual addiction or severe dysfunction—and sometimes both. The mental, emotional, and physical symptoms the two groups described were indistinguishable.

All of this then begs the question, “How should we teach about sex?” I don’t pretend to have the answer, but I have some ideas I’ll include in the next post. In the meantime, I would LOVE to hear the messages you received—good or bad—about sex from authority figures in your life. What has been your experience with religion and sex? How do you think we should teach about sex? This issue is really close to my heart, and I covet your insights.


EDIT: I went back and read what I wrote in my journal the day Dr. B told me about that study. I need to correct that he was not on the research team as I claimed above. He was apparently one of the reviewers or something along those lines.