I was a virgin until the age of 24. A product of a religious upbringing and my own prudish zeal, I didn’t even learn (allow myself to learn) how to masturbate until age 23.

Yep.

My parents weren’t that strict, but the private faith-based schools we went to steeped all girls in “purity culture”, where our virginity was highly valued. I once attended a school assembly where a teacher compared losing one’s virginity to licking an envelope and closing it…only to have to rip it open and do it again, over and over, the seal getting marred and messed up until we got to “the one” (monogamous partner we were supposed to be with for the rest of our lives)

If we were pure, we were pretty roses. If we explored our sexuality, were were like a rose that had been ,handled…dirty, broken, gross. 

I can’t even begin to describe how this mind fuck took a toll on my sexuality (unfortunately, to this day).

Add to that attendance in churches that were closer to cults than any sane religious organization. There were some good people there, but usually a (white, male) leader that set the course and decided what was holy, and what was not. My parents left one church after a sermon about the evils of Disney movies. Not only did they leave, they MOVED from Massachusetts to Virginia to get away from the church community.

For reals.

During college, I attended one church. My friend walked out one day when the pastor preached a sermon that he somehow took from Matthew 5 and talked about why women shouldn’t divorce their husbands…even if their husbands beat them.

Uh huh.

Given the amount of twisted mind fucking I subjected myself to (I kept going to church for years after leaving home), it’s no wonder I found it difficult to stick up for myself, set boundaries, trust my own instincts and believe my voice had value. Oh, and I had a lot of fear around my own sexuality, which I kept locked in a box because I didn’t really know what to do with it.

I will say that I have always been a highly sexual person. As a girl, i grew breasts and voluptuous at age 13. Boys noticed. I liked it. I was super proud of my boobs, even when they were achy. I certainly had confidence problems that grew and then exploded into acne, cellulite and huge self hatred through out my late teens, but I remember a time, early on, when I was proud of my blossoming body and excited about my entry into womanhood. 

Nor was I alone, even in my sheltered little world. My friends and I read romance novels in math class (at the private, Christian school). Albeit, Christian romance novels (the sexual tension achieved by two people not having sex until marriage is EPIC). We were all entering puberty and excited about the changes in our bodies and even our male classmates sudden fascination/nervousness with us. 

Even in college, where I sequestered myself at an all women’s university (where I received a fantastic education and had even more opportunity to flex my vocal chords), I felt hormones take over at certain times of the month. I remember standing in a grocery store one day, minding my own business, when a tsunami of baby-making chemicals hit me so hard, I wanted to grab the nearest man and demand that he “give me sons.”  Around this time, I wrote two books, one that turned into a suspenseful mafia romance, and another paranormal fantasy book that starred lots of hot, naked Viking werewolves running through the woods (I would write looking out my dorm window and imagine them).

Beset by biological urges, I finally gave in and started dating a guy who lived in London (where I studied for three months). The relationship fit all my hang ups: I wasn’t that attracted to him, but made myself stick with the relationship because I felt I was “being faithful”, the times I did find him attractive I felt super guilty about because I should be “guarding my heart”, and for most of the relationship we were on entirely different continents. When things ended, I was relieved. I was out of college, working, and figuring things out as a newly christened adult.

And then, the dam broke. 

Looking back, what I’m most proud of is how strong my sense of self preservation was. Towards the end of my college days, I wasn’t able to go back to the cult-y church. I would get in the car, drive to the church building, and roll through the parking lot and come home. My church-bred self, the perfect little Christian girl I’d tried so hard to be, made me get out of bed on a Sunday and “go to church.” But my psyche, my beautiful, powerful self,  would not let me go in.  On some level, my brain knew that place was damaging, and, momma-she-bear that she is, protected me from my own choices. 

So, finally free of a constant diet of Puritan mind fuck. Slowly, I started to experiment, first asking friends for advice, all the while starting to flirt and explore. I learned to masturbate using a device; it would be six more years before I could lose the vibrator and use my actual finger. Something about touching myself directly seemed wrong…but when I had a third party (person or device), I was okay.

Eventually I called a friend and asked him if he could help me with something–punching my V-card. I should’ve made my orgasm a non-negotiable part of the deal. Same with all my subsequent one-night stands and relationships. Advocating for myself didn’t come naturally.

Enter erotica. I have been an avid reader practically since I could pick up a book. The romance novels of my middle-school years, the sublimated fantasies in literature (like Dracula and Phantom of the Opera), and finally, an addiction to free erotic story sites allowed me to explore my likes, dislikes, needs and wants in the safety of my own bed. I didn’t feel comfortable watching porn, but reading books–whether they were sci-fi or fantasy or novels with a little smooching thrown in, or all out romance reads–allowed me to get in touch with myself and…ahem…touch myself. Because I was still learning to put up boundaries-my religious upbringing drilled submissive, subservient behavior for all women, especially when faced with male leadership–and learning I could say “no”, living vicariously through a heroine with heaving bosoms wasn’t a bad way to go.

The story has a happy ending. I’m married to an awesome guy. On the outside, we look like total WASPs, but there have been some fun visits to the sex shop. I don’t subscribe to a religion, but everyday I choose to live a life filled with honesty, love, gratitude and forgiveness. 

And sexy werewolves. Lots of sexy werewolves. 

Turns out, if you’re a writer, reading erotica by the metric ton gets the juices flowing. Literally, and literarily. 😀 So when I sit down to write, my pen flows with sexy smut. And I’m perfectly okay with that.

 

Why do I share this? For one, it’s cathartic. Two, I bet there are a lot of women on this journey. There’s someone out there who needs to know it’s possible to walk through all this, so I’m writing this to them. Self love is not only good, it’s the best gift you can give yourself. I hope that, wherever you are, you continue on a journey to love and acceptance, whether it takes just a quick flick of a clit, or a lifetime of letting the walls come down.