Purity, shmurity…

Yeah, Peeps, I know shmurity isn’t a word.  The spell check is hella pissed that I keep repeating it.  And also it doesn’t like hella…


Y’all know I’m a huge TV junkie and one of my guilty pleasures is Sister Wives on TLC.  I usually feel pretty positive and almost inspired by the family that the Browns are building, but then something happened a few episodes ago that made me all,  “Um…  Stuff it Browns!”

They are Fundamentalist Mormons, and since moving to Vegas, have no “church” community to call their own, so they have service in their homes.  (Maybe they always did this, I don’t know…)  Kody leads the service and the moms take turns giving a speech or testimony or whatevs.  In the episode in question, Robyn decided to share the story of the biggest mistake of her life.

I was all intrigued, you guys…  Like, what could it be???  Did she shoplift?  Did she cheat on her taxes?  Did commit a hit and run?


She “gave” her “purity” to someone before marriage, and this “surrendering” of her “virtue” resulted in a pregnancy and a decision to marry the “wrong” man.


Look, um, *sigh again*, um…  What?

There are just so many issues I have with this.

Firstly, she said this speech IN FRONT of the child in question as well as her other two kids who share that same father.

I saw the sadness in her daughter’s eyes.  I couldn’t believe that she just kept going on and on about it.

I am a grown woman, and I know the regret of wasting time trying to make a failing relationship work.  I know that sometimes children are involved and that makes the whole situation tougher.  But, I can’t imagine writing off the conception of any of my kids as a mistake.  I just can’t.

My parents divorced when I was 10 or so and my mother always said that she never regretted marrying my dad because she was able to have my brother and me.  She said that she’d never do anything different.  I know that marriage caused her a lot of heartache, but I also know that she loves us and values the opportunity to have brought us into this world.  I also know that despite the bad times, there was a lot of love between my parents, and my brother and I were conceived by two people who loved each other and wanted to be together.

I feel that Robyn discounting her relationship with her ex as a mistake just invalidates any joy or pride that ever existed in that previous family.  It’s sad.  So sad.  Watching that look in Robyn’s daughter’s eyes was just- ugh- gut wrenching.

I feel like Robyn’s been so “shamed” by the Fundamentalist ideals of one true, spiritual marriage that she is willing to discount any love or affection that occurred before she married Kody.  It’s sad, and short-sighted, and ludicrous.

Secondly, you guys, let’s discuss the idea of “giving” or “surrendering” your body to another person.

Well, hell…  I was brought up, or led by society, to view my virginity as a virtue as well.  To think that it was something to hoard or protect and that the longer I did so, the happier or safer I would be.  For a long time, I assumed that I would wait until marriage.

Then, a funny thing happened.  In college, long after my peers had already done so, I started a physical relationship with someone.  Kissing, making out, bumping and grinding…  All the fun stuff.  Feelings and sensations were awakened and suddenly my body and soul were really alive.  Really feeling.  And I was saddled with a philosophical dilemma.  What did it mean that I had this urge to have sex with someone I had no intention of marrying?

I was hesitant to “go all the way” and I said as much to my boyfriend.  He was kind of a jerk about it, actually, and said something like, “Don’t flatter yourself.”  And I remember being really hurt, and super frustrated that he assumed that I meant I was reluctant to “grant” him with the “prize” of my virginity.  What I meant was, I didn’t know how to handle these new desires and how they didn’t mesh with my old ideals.  I wasn’t sure what it meant.

Anyway, we didn’t talk for a while.  And during that time, I found that I missed that intimacy, and I missed being a sexual being, and that I was okay with that.  I felt that I wasn’t “losing” anything.  I felt that I was only gaining.

So, yeah, I soon forgave him and we finally did it.  A lot.  And I don’t regret it for a second.  Nor do I regret sleeping with any of the other guys I’ve slept with.  (Well, except for one, but that’s a whole other story for another time.)

Let’s move on to the word “purity”, shall we?

I will say that I don’t feel that my soul has become any less pure than it was when I was a virgin, and I’m still sure of that after sharing my sexuality with 8 lovers.  Even though I regret one of them (still not saying which), I don’t feel that encounter made me less pure or good.

Sex isn’t dirty.  It isn’t damning or darkening.  Sex is, or should be, lovely.  It’s a physical connection and expression of your humanity, your body and soul.  It’s fun, it’s kinky sometimes, romantic other times, and good.  As long as two willing partners are participating safely and willingly, it’s an amazing part of being human.

If sex makes you feel impure, you’re doing it wrong.  Look inside and make sure it’s what you really desire and that it enhances you.  Like healthy food & drink, like exercise, a good night’s sleep, meditation or prayer, sex should help you.  Never hurt you.

I hope that I can somehow pass this idea onto my daughters.  That their bodies are precious, and wonderous, and sharing them with the person of their choice, when they are ready and safe and prepared, will be marvelous.

If I can’t, then THAT would be MY biggest mistake of my life.  😉  Smurity…


Confession of a Groupie

It’s the last song of their last set.  My last chance to catch his eye.

My mouth is cotton-dry from a joint that some dude was passing around in the back row.  I’d kill for a beer.  The thought of hoppy bubbles makes my tongue feel thicker, scratchier.

But I finally worked my way through the sweaty, gyrating crowd.  I am finally standing at the very front, so close that I can see the glisten on his forehead in the stage lights as he plays.

No way I’m leaving this spot.  I’ve come for him.  And he is what I’ll have.

I watch him slap the strings of his bass guitar, and imagine the roughness of his fingertips on my skin.  His eyes are down, looking at his instrument so that his lashes leave shadows on his cheekbones, and I ache to kiss them.  His luscious lips are parted in concentration, and I yearn to taste them, my once dry mouth watering.  His body is swaying with the beat, and my body responds to his rhythm.  We move together.  We feel the music.

I am transfixed, tingling, titillated.

He flicks his head up to shake a dark curl out of his eyes.  His focus shifts to the crowd.  Our eyes meet.

I see that sultry twinkle in the depths of his rich brown eyes, and I know.  I’ve hooked him.

For the remainder of this song, this set, this show, there is only me and him.  When he smiles, I know he shines for me.  When he licks his lips, I know he burns to lick mine.  When his fingers move up and down the fret, I know he itches to touch my skin.

The song ends, the lead singer speaks, and we are still locked in this silvery flirty dance.  I see him whispering to a band mate, motion in my direction as they leave the stage.

I know what comes next.  This isn’t my first concert conquest.  I wait.

And sure enough, I am soon being led backstage, back to him.

We are divinely alone in this small room.  I take off my shoes.  The checkered tile floor is blessedly cold on my hot feet.  I pad, soundless, across the room to where he waits.

An oscillating fan whirrs towards us, cooling the sweat on my arms and chest, bringing up goosebumps.  My skin is alive, waiting for his touch.

I’m standing before him, and I move in to kiss, but he stops me and mutters, “Wait.”

He’s holding something tiny pinched between his finger and thumb.  He runs his free fingers along the inside of my forearm, and I exhale shakily at his caress.  His fingers continue past the tender bend of my elbow, up to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw, my lips.

“Open.”  He whispers and I comply.

He places a small square of paper on my tongue and I smile, knowingly.  He shows his own hit to me and I giggle.

Finally, his hands are on me, strong and hot, pulling me close.

Now is That Moment.  My favorite moment of all.  Those milliseconds before lips meet lips.

His eyes glow with flecks of gold and green in the brown, his heavy lids nearly close as he focuses on my mouth.

He licks his lips like he had onstage, and he grins greedily, hungrily .  Yes.  This.  Now.

Soft and strong, warm and wet, his kisses taste like orange.

His mouth leaves mine only to lead me to the couch.  He pulls me down to him, I straddle his lap.

We are face to face, heat to heat.

His lashes shade his face once more as he looks at my body as if it were a new instrument to play.  I kiss his cheekbones, taste the salt of his skin.

I kiss his jaw, his chin.  I kiss a warm, wet trail, cooling it with my breath, until I reach that tender morsel of earlobe.  I take it in my mouth. I graze it with my teeth.

With a groan he lifts me, turns and shifts until he is above me.  I cannot blink, cannot look away as he tears off his shirt, slides out of his jeans.

My eyes take in the sight of him, ready and needy as I slip out of my dress.  The silk falls, pools on the floor like molten wax.

We are skin to skin, heart to heart.

I close my eyes and succumb.