Sexual Expectations Born in the Church

I don't know about everyone in the church, but I've heard a lot of stories from young women about how being raised in the church has impacted their sex lives. Especially the "sex was treated as a taboo topic, and now I'm married and dealing with _____ problem." I'm fairly sure most of you have heard it before as well.

Then there's the other side of the coin though. The church in America seems to be gaining awareness that treating sex as something inherently sinful right up until a girl has a pair of rings on her finger is harmful (I have no idea how it impacts boys/men so I'm not even going to stray into that topic right now - perhaps I'll get my husband's thoughts on the matter for later time). So, we also have church communities that go out of their way to address love and sex, not only in their regular Sunday services, but in their youth groups as well. All well and good; they're trying to prevent their young women from entering marriage and finding their first sexual encounter as something nerve-wracking and incomprehensible.

I'm worried that it is creating a new problem, though. I spent my teenage years attending such a church, where my youth pastor dedicated at least one sermon a year to the topic of sex (usually Valentine's Day Sunday, of course). The lead pastor seemed to preach on love, marriage, and sex for at least one month out of the year as well in a topical series. Every time it was brought up in the church, I heard the same thing: "sex is amazing, incredible, glorious, a gift from God, which is why you shouldn't engage in it outside of marriage!" I am not here to refute that - at least the core doctrinal positions it contains. It just seemed like my pastors were trying to counter balance the usual silence present in the congregation and church culture on the subject with reassurance that sex really was worth the wait. Like they were warning against immorality and encouraging marital intimacy in the same breath.

I got it. No big deal, really. I didn't understand the draw towards all things sexual, anyway, so I took the pastors at their word, and figured sex was some sort of miraculous experience I'd get to if I ever was lucky enough to find a spouse.

I did finally find someone, and we got engaged. Then, I had adult friends telling me how amazing sex was. I still didn't get the hype - I was an asexual virgin, after all, but I figured it had to be something far beyond my experiences of stolen minutes making out in the back seat of a car. I even thought I knew what I would like, and was so proud that me and my fiance had so much about our desires figured out before we'd even come together.

And finally, we got married, and sex was hard. It hurt me just to try to make it work. Neither one of us really knew what we were doing. I had never even seen male parts before. I was beyond uncomfortable, unable to get any sort of mood going, frustrated, and already feeling defective for not knowing what to do. It was completely overwhelming.

Not a good "first night" experience at all.

We both started learning, slowly. That was something I don't remember any adult telling me: the fact that sex has a learning curve to it. There were panic attacks prompted from touch, late nights filled with tears, long conversations about things I'd thought I would like and then realized I really wasn't okay with at all. There were ill-fated attempts, and times that started well only for something to go wrong halfway through and send me into such a state that it would take an hour just for me to calm down again.

I had thought sex was easy and instinctual, an overwhelmingly positive miracle sent straight from heaven that had no comparison on earth. Reality was a bitter truth.

Here I am now, almost four years into my marriage, with far more knowledge about how asexuality and autism impacted my experiences than I'd ever considered there might be to learn. No one prepared me for this. Perhaps it isn't fair to expect allosexuals to have been able to prepare someone like me.

Yet I keep thinking that I wish someone had told me that sex wasn't instant sunshine and rainbows and heavenly music and a supernatural soul bond. I'm still bitter about being prepared to wait patiently for ecstasy, only to face years of uncertainty, pain, tears, and self-doubt that still hasn't ended. Have we learned? Definitely. We have far more good tries than bad, nowadays, and thank the Lord for that. But I still get uncomfortable from unexpected intimacy, still end up breaking down in tears sometimes after trying to force myself through the motions because I thought I could handle it when I really couldn't. I do usually enjoy sex while it's happening, but I still haven't experienced that supernaturally physical experience that everyone else seemed to promise me. Because of all this, I still feel broken.

Because it has to be my fault, right? Everyone else seems to think sex is incredible and hear I am, a happily married young woman who can think of lists of things that I think are better. A purring cat on my lap, danishes, minty hot chocolate, a thick soft blanket on bare skin, the satisfaction of a productive day, the feeling of longing after finishing an incredible story that has reached its end ("Better than Sex" mascara didn't make the list - but it was a good product).

It could just be me. I have no real reference for how my experiences stack up against others' after all. I don't know what it is like for the heterosexual girls who came out of my youth group with me. I don't know how much of my problems came from my own body and mind, and how much of it was skewed perceptions from years of enthusiastic promises made by adults who thought they were saying the right things.

If I ever have kids, I hope to treat sex as something normal. Not some taboo sin, nor as some secretive miracle experience. Normal. A bodily function that can be enjoyed in the right context and as an act essential to a healthy marriage. I want to warn them that they might find it easy, when the time comes, but they might also struggle. I want them to be aware of their own bodies so that if they are something other than heterosexual, I can help give them Biblical guidance on how to handle it and, just as importantly, give them hope.

My heart and mind tell me far too often than I'm broken and my husband is whole. I don't want anyone else to feel the same. I think that families and churches can do a better job preparing their young people for the challenges of marriage and sex.