My first fucking was from the church.
When I was young, I learned from the church that sex was something very special and holy, to be reserved for a honeymoon night between two married Christians. Consequently, I had a vision of it… the only “special” feelings I knew were the emotions that came up when I felt “filled with the Holy Spirit,” so that’s what I thought sex would be like. I figured we’d arrive at our honeymoon hotel, take an aromatic jacuzzi together to relax, then step out of the tub into a bed surrounded by candles… maybe kneel in prayer together and even take communion, before we entered this holiest of holy acts of our marriage.
Maybe that works for somebody, but it sure wasn’t me.
So all those other “special” feelings I had when I was in junior high, when Rick V. tossed a barrette from my hair down my shirt, and went in after it in his folks’ RV parked in the driveway… that was evil. That was the enemy I was fighting against.
They called it “petting.” And I remember that they said it with such disdain… making the “p” hard and ugly. They strongly advised us against it, saying it was a quick path to the evil, dreaded “sexual intercourse.” (Emphasize the “x.”)
But god, it felt so nice.
In college, I remember I used to love sneaking off to the movies with my then boyfriend, later first husband. (Going to the movies was against the rules of the Nazarene religion.) I always hoped there would be some sexy scene that would get him worked up, so we could make out in the car. God forbid, he would touch my breasts, because the next day, he was on the phone apologizing for being so “sinful” and disrepecting me. And I was rolling my eyes, thinking, please, PLEASE disrespect me! Then I felt guilty for being such a sinner.
See what I mean? I was fucked. Guess I wasn’t a virgin on my honeymoon night, after all.