I was 14 years old when I married Jesus. Not Jesus, the Panamanian who worked at Six Flags. I mean Jesus Christ, the Lord. My parents sent me off to Baptist youth camp in Panama City Beach for the week, and I came home with a tan and a purity ring. I sat with my legs crossed, cramped in a theater with 200 sweaty, sobbing teens as our pastor described the unwavering bonds of sex and why it should only be experienced within the confines of marriage.
The lyrics echoed in the background as he shouted about STDs and unplanned pregnancy from the pulpit. Cause I am waiting for you, praying for you darling, wait for me too, wait for me as I wait for you. One by one we each placed a ring on our fourth finger and made vows to an apparently bi-curious Jesus who took teenage husbands and wives by the dozen that night.
I didnt buy into a word of it. Jesus as my husband: Were they kidding? But that ring! Silver and engraved with entwined hearts everyone I knew was wearing one and Id finally been given the opportunity to get my hands on it. And it wasnt just the ring. This was a movement with T-shirts and hats and the added bonus of superiority over kids in school who couldnt keep their clothes on, those sinners. After an intense and very detailed sex talk with my mother , where she stuttered and I blushed and we both used the word flower, I was terrified of sex. That and the slide show in sex ed didnt help one bit. So I scribbled Jesus + Jess on my Bible cover, and I casually mentioned my virginity in daily conversations. I committed to the idea hoping it would ensure a successful marriage. Instead, it led to my divorce.
He carried me through the door of the hotel room and immediately placed me down in a chair. If my 120-pound body wasnt too heavy, the 30-pound dress covering it was. Rose petals were scattered on the bed surrounded by a dozen lit candles. I had never been more romanced and less interested in having sex. Was I tired? Was I hungry? Shouldnt we have been pouncing on each other? I slowly changed into an ivory silk nightgown. When I came back into the bedroom, he was lying down, half undressed, completely hopeful.
Are you not exhausted? I yawned into a pillow. Is having sex tomorrow an option? I asked, only half-kidding.
Really? You only get one wedding night, Jess. Even then, I doubted that would be true.
As he began to kiss me, my mind shut off. I felt his movements and I heard heavy breathing but I thought nothing, it was as if it was something that was happening next to me, or to someone else entirely. It didnt hurt, I remember that much. Three minutes later when he finished he appeared pleased with himself and I was glad that it was out of the way. I smiled and asked if we could get something to eat. My wedding day began with my face leaning over a toilet and ended in a Waffle House.
Then, as if Jesus were punishing me for moving on, I got a urinary tract infection on the second day of our honeymoon. I sighed in relief when the doctor told me that I should not engage in any sexual activity until I had finished the antibiotics. Seven days later, my wifely duties resumed and almost every time our clothes came off, my mind seemed to check out. I soon noticed that during those few-minute intervals of sex, my mind was focusing on something else, anything else.
Do you like that? he would ask after light repetitive movements.
Yep, I answered. Lettuce, milk, paper towels
Are you close? he was anxious to know.
Uh-huh, I lied. Buy stamps, get my oil changed, send thank-you cards
This was not lovemaking. There was no bond, no sanctity this was not the amazing sex I was promised from the pulpit. This was disappointment three to four times a week.
Before we got married, I used to love kissing him. We would spend hours attached at the mouth because aside from occasional drunken foreplay, it was all we had. In our marriage, we stopped kissing because who needs kissing when sex is on the table? Me, I did. I needed assurance that some physical aspect of our relationship was working.
Six months into our marriage, the idea of separating seemed more appealing than feigning headaches for the rest of my life.
Had we had sex before our relationship transitioned into a contract, I would have known that there was no passion, no spark, nothing happening between our bodies. I would never have agreed to marry him because sex is a significant part of a relationship and therefore a significant part of our relationship was failing. With the failure of our sex life, I felt like less of a woman, no longer a sexual creature but more of a plant. Sitting there, day in, day out, wilting while I waited for someone to take care of me.
Without having sex before marriage, I blindly walked up an aisle and committed myself to a man who didnt know me and gave my long-held virginity to someone with whom I had no more chemistry than a second cousin.
Soon after our divorce, he got remarried to someone who suits him better than I ever could have. And years later, I can confirm that I am not that woman who has no interest in sex. I dont quilt. I havent compiled a grocery list in bed in years, and I now know that sex can be amazing
with a bartender who only knows your first name, a pilot you meet on vacation in Costa Rica and yes, with the right guy sex in a marriage can be beautiful. The key is to figure that out before you find yourself walking down an aisle in a dress that costs more than the family car (my mother has since reminded me). It isnt the most important thing when it comes to love. But for me, I learned that sex is important enough not to wait.
I'm guessing she wasn't genuinely saving herself for marriage and was only doing it due to religious reasons. Hence, why she got married so early. This is yet another reason why some people shouldn't wait to have sex until they're married.
