This is the hardest blog I have written. Here’s a secret — this is the first time I have expanded on this topic — ever.
It’s not because it was traumatic. On the contrary, it was empowering, though painful. The reason it’s so hard to talk about is because, from the time I knew what sex was, I was primed to shy away from any mention of it. In the South, sex is the single most polarizing issue, influencing every-day life in multifaceted ways.
Here in the South, those who pursue sexual practices other than those “approved” by the Bible are seen as ‘other’. This includes the LGBTQIA+ community, whose sexual practices cannot be monitored and controlled to the extent that, say, some heterosexual Southern women can be dominated. These women are told to submit to their husbands, gaslighted into believing “this is what they want”, but in a same-sex relationship, how does this dynamic work? There is no black-and-white answer.
If there is any doubt that radicalized Christianity has nothing to do with this dynamic, consider this. Even though I came out over 4 years ago, I am still working through the shame associated with being gay. The source of this shame? Toxic dogma fed to me over a span of years by friends and family, justified through Sodom and Gomorrah, verses that have nothing to do with same-sex relationships. Nonetheless, the interpretation of these verses and others are the reason so many LGBTQIA+ people question themselves after coming out.
This isn’t to say that Christianity is malicious at its core. On the contrary, I identify as an Episcopal Christian. This is to say that this particular interpretation of Christianity is deadly, othering those who need support and community — both of which the Church could provide if they would adjust their priorities.
Imagine if the Church embraced those on the fringes of society instead of prescribing to a white savior complex, helping those the mainstream identifies as nonthreatening — poor, black, homeless, those in developing countries. This isn’t to say that these populations don’t need help, but if one wants to exercise true Christianity, shouldn’t it be all-encompassing? Imagine if the Church embraced LGBTQIA+ people from their own community and, wait for it — talked to them!
Maybe if the Church had embraced me, it wouldn’t have taken until grad school to commit the revolutionary act. First of all, I had always envisioned having sex with a woman (even though vaginas disgust me). When I started asking questions about sex in elementary, my Mom gave me a book on the subject, complete with detailed descriptions and images (This was the first time I saw a complete vagina. I still haven’t recovered).
As I sat in the back of my Mom’s car one day, clasping the sex book, I looked up at her. “You mean the penis goes into the vagina?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, unsure where the conversation was heading.
“Wow,” I said. I couldn’t comprehend how anyone achieved pleasure through such a primeval practice. I asked myself, “How will I ever make myself do that?” And though I read the book, it didn’t prepare me to have sex, and let’s just say the gay sex book was not a part of my Mom’s personal library.
You see, when two men have sex — as in penetration — one man gives while the other receives. Now, there are multiple ways to have sex, and many in the LGBTQIA+ community have their own individual ideas of what does and does not constitute sex, but for our purposes here, I am referring only to penetration.
Before I gave up my V card, I consulted with one of my gay friends, who told me to prepare myself. After all, a man was going to stick his dick inside of my hole, something that had never been done. It would follow, then, that I should prepare for such a feat, massaging the hole with my fingers and/or using a butt plug. Instead of heeding my friend’s warnings, I thought, “Whatever, I’m sure it isn’t THAT bad.”
It was. The guy attempted sticking it in, but my hole wouldn’t permit it. He continued, pushing until he made leeway, to my detriment. Searing pain started from the hole, radiating throughout my entire body. It was almost unbearable, but at the same time, I liked it.
He wanted me to sit on it, which I tried, but that was even more painful because I had to rely on the strength of my thighs to maintain an uncomfortable position. It lasted for a few seconds before I nixed the whole idea.
We transitioned back to penetration until, a few minutes later, he came (outside of me), the deed complete. I managed to achieve climax through a jack-off, grateful to extend a minimum amount of energy for a quick release.
Afterwards, we cleaned ourselves before I escorted him out. Once he was gone, I realized all the hype around losing my virginity had been just that — hype. I didn’t feel off, nor did I feel God would punish me for committing the supposedly “sinful” act.
I felt exhilarated, having embraced my gay identity, free from the bonds of the Bible’s supposed interpretation of my sexuality. The “first time” was done, but it was only the beginning. I planned to try every. Single. Flavor.
