The first time I had sex, I said, Let’s do that AGAIN!
So we did. And then I wondered, like many a teen heroine before and after me, how does anyone have time to do anything else???
But it was Christmas vacation of my first year of University and I had to work. So I reluctantly dressed and dragged myself to my job at a trucking company where all day the drivers alternated between hitting on me and taking me down a notch or two.
One said to me: You’re a pretty girl. You dress just like my niece. She’s a refugee from Kosovo.
(It was the nineties. I was knee deep in knee highs, Doc Martens, baby doll dresses and grandma cardigans. He was probably not wrong.)
Slings and arrows and fashion digs aside, I glowed all day. I wondered if it was obvious I was glowing. I glowed about glowing.
Ah, young love and new sex. The giddiness. The knowing of a new corner of yourself. The poetry and physics of what a body can do; the magic of what two, together, can do. Divine. A dividing line.
First sex is a dividing line: you step over it and transform from girl to woman, boy to man, child to adult. Conversion. Communion. It is called ecstasy for a reason.
Which is why virginity cannot be lost. There is no loss. There is only gain. Unfolding, knowing, more.
This, of course, is why there are so many rules about sex. Sexuality is a basis for power and agency and awe. Stepping over the divine line into the miracles of body and self makes you wonder: what else is possible? What could possibly be impossible?
This is why cults encourage celibacy or polygamy. Dyads are dangerous to cult authority. They give you an ally. Directing your passion towards the cult with celibacy or fracturing your affection across multiple relationships is a great way to ensure that your first loyalty is your guru. Religions, too, encourage celibacy or monogamy or rigidly circumscribed polygamy. How would the Vatican get rich if priests had families? Families tend to accrete resources rather than direct them to the Church. In any case, in any system, the first order of business is to regulate sexuality.
With good reason.
Desire can be destructive, and divine. That’s the nature of mother nature and creation. There is a reason Kali the destroyer is revered as a mother. Because raucous, joyous sexuality is a source of strength for women. This I know.
When I started having regular, raucous, loving sex with my first big love, we broke the bed. The heavy, oak, four poster bed from the Empress Hotel in Victoria – which is to say: expensive, well-made, and presumably, unbreakable.
His father fixed it. Once. Twice. The third time he said, I’ve got to meet this girl.
And that is what we should do when our young ones start having joyous sex. We should celebrate. Congratulate. Smile at the fumbling attempts towards fluency.
Sex is a language. Kisses and touch and connection are the vocabulary of personal, heartfelt, libidinous expression.
And that’s why I write about sex. I write about sex as an antidote to the titillate and condemn, titillate and condemn, again-and-again pornification of our world. I write about sex because sex is a school and love is an ashram. They are sacred sites for learning, laughing, growing, stretching, unfurling.
just so you know, I like it when you follow me on Twitter. I’m @KellyDiels.