I used to be kind of slutty.
I am not proud of this. Please don’t get me wrong. But I’m so tired of hearing about how sexually repressed I am that I have to explain a little bit about my past. I don’t want to. It’s not a joyful experience. I don’t like the idea of my husband or mom or in-laws or future children reading this.
But I am just completely sick of hearing that I use terms like “lady plumbing” not because it’s a funny way of describing the multifarious functions of our reproductive organs including our vaginas and uteruses and ovaries and fallopian tubes, but because I’m too sexually repressed to say “vaginas and uteruses and ovaries and fallopian tubes.”
I’m bored with hearing that I use words like “ta-tas” or “bewbage” because I am scared of the word “breasts.” That is…maybe not the dumbest thing I ever heard, but it’s up there.
I’m a writer. I choose words for lots of reasons. You may not agree with the reasons, or think the words are awesome, but it is apocalyptically stupid to conclude that I say “doing the nasty” instead of “having sex” because I am a sexually repressed, quivering little hausfrau who blushes and giggles when I inadvertently walk through the family planning section at Walgreens.
I am also fed up with being told I am only pro-life because I want to “shame sluts,” and that I want to shame sluts only because my mean patriarchal religion has made me a sexually unfulfilled, horribly repressed shadow of a woman.
Get over yourselves.
I’m 33. I was earning my slutty shame when some of you were buying your first Britney Spears CDs. Sorry to destroy all your illusions about my church-going formative years, but the closest I got to a church between the ages of 14 and 26 was weddings, funerals, and that time I traded a pack of Newports for a joint from a tranny prostitute in front of some cathedral in Manhattan.
I read pornographic literature, and I wrote erotica. I experimented with harder drugs. I stole another girl’s boyfriend on purpose. I fancied both men and women.
I was going to go into a lot of detail in this column, but I think that’s enough. I keep writing about all the slutty things I did between the ages of 15 and 26 and then deleting it, because I am ashamed of it. And – this is a weird sentence – I am proud to be ashamed of it. In the words of somebody smarter than me, shame is the one bad thing we need more of.
I did not get married a virgin, to say the least. I was never what you would call a slut, but I could certainly be slutty. And wild. And reckless. I was not terrible in high school, but there were some terrible situations. One of them involved a 27-year-old Elvis impersonator. That is a looong story.
I moved in with my friend at eighteen and got drunk every. single. day. for a few months, then moved out. I moved in with my boyfriend at nineteen, and we lived the life. Boy howdy. It involved lots of pot, lots of LSD, and lots of…let’s say interesting encounters.
Don’t get me wrong: most of the time I spent with him, and with my friends in those days, was fun and harmless, and I don’t regret it. Even a lot of the bad stuff I don’t regret, because it taught me things that God wanted me to learn. But there were incidents and encounters that were foolhardy, to say the least. Hitchhiking alone and drunk and blonde at age 20 in a, um, figure-enhancing outfit on a major interstate in Dallas comes to mind. By the grace of God, I was not raped and murdered.
After that time period, there were other men, and other situations, ranging from slightly miserable to I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.
At 27, I became pro-life. I was most vehemently not a Christian. A year later, I was Catholic. (Go figure.)
It would take me another year or so to figure out what that meant to me as a single woman. I had to look at what Christianity told me about sex and ask myself, “Self, how come this seems to be the one teaching that everybody just kinda sweeps under the rug?” I talked to married couples – Christians – and asked them if they had sex before marriage. They pretty much all said, “Um, yeah. Duh.” I asked them if they felt like this was against the teaching of Christianity. They all responded, “Yeah, it’s against Christian dogma, but we have to live in the now.”
At the time, I was in a relationship with a man who did not treat me very well. It was a sexual relationship. It ended badly. I felt deeply regretful about giving my body to someone who did not value me. But I didn’t learn my lesson then. Not yet. It took a sordid, soul-crushing, disgusting, short-lived “relationship” with another not-very-nice dude to really drive the point home.
After that, I vowed before God that the next time I had sex, it would be on my wedding night. And, by His Grace, I kept that promise. I was married two months ago to a man who treats me like a queen. And he was no virgin, either. He was 43 when we married. But he had learned the lesson I learned: that sexual libertinism is not liberating. It destroys you a little piece at a time.
I love sex. Seriously, who doesn’t? I love hot marital sex. I believe that sex, by bringing us together as couples and by making babies, serves God and serves mankind. Sex is for us; we are not for sex. I don’t worship it because that’s unhealthy and stupid. I don’t need to use the word “vagina” in every sentence to prove to you that I know how mine works.
My point – and I am almost positive I have one – is that I am not afraid to say “vagina” or “penis” or “sex.” You can trust me on this: I am familiar with all of those things. I am familiar enough with all those things to know they are great, and they all have a purpose. But if you divorce anything from its place in the Natural Law, from its true purpose, you pervert it.
Fauxminists loooove this idea that every pro-life female just needs a good rogering from someone who isn’t her husband or a night out on the town with “real” feminists to abandon women and children to abortion and pornography and sex trades and join the “real” feminists in their frolicking. Oh, if they could just show her how fun it is on the other side, thinking strip clubs are liberating and ScarJo is inspiring, she would be confidently strolling through Victoria’s Secret with flavored condoms in her purse just like the “real” feminists!
Sorry, ladies. I’ve been there. I’ve done it. I’ve seen the other side. I ain’t afraid of it. But you can keep it.