I never thought I’d get here. Not because I floated on clouds and walked with God perpetually (maybe if I read my Bible more or prayed more, I wouldn’t be engaging in this err… hmm… Is there a ‘saved’ way of explaining sex? ‘Engaging in a torrid, sensual tangle’ sounds wayyyy Mills & Boon,grrr…), but because I had values. I was brought up to hold my virginity as precious, as something to be shared in the sanctity of marriage, because sex was the most beautiful expression of love. I think one of my aunties said that to me when I was sixteen.
Yeah. Turns out I’ve expressed my love now about three times.
I would really like to say it just happened, but I’d be telling a lie. I knew what I was doing. Sam didn’t just happen to be at mine when Shola, my unwavering virgin soul sista house mate with all her good intentions and amazing chaperoning skills was away for the weekend (most times I wanted to strangle her. In true Christian sister fashion, we decided never to lock our doors when respective partners were visiting, to be accountable to each other whenever the goings got tough and our loins burnt with passion. Whatever. She would knock and ask for a comb WHEN HER HAIR WAS IN BRAIDS just so she could check up on me. She would bring us tea without asking whether we wanted some, and linger around talking about the dishwasher needing servicing and the concierge asking her out on yet another date and promising her unconditional love. It was sweet of her to take her role so seriously, but so, so annoying).
Maybe in some ways, some small ways, it did just happen. Sam was not meant to spend the night, oh no sir not once in our two years had he slept over thank you very much. We were only going to have dinner. We weren’t pubescent teenagers (or rabbits), we could control ourselves. We talked and talked about our decision to meet at my house without Shola looming the corridors with tea and baked goods, coming to the conclusion that we could do this, because Shola wasn’t always going to be there, and we needed to stop putting so much importance on the issue of fornication (Like, who comes up with these words? Fornication. *shivers* I remember hearing it when I was younger and members of the choir (it always seemed to be the choir, mind) were suspended because they fornicated. I feared the word from that day, vowing never to be associated with such. Haha, who’s laughing now eh?) because focusing on it makes it more important than it is, and there’s more to us than our sexual desires, and blah, blah, blah.
Perhaps a large part of me was sure we could be in such close quarters without compromising ourselves. Perhaps I made myself believe that if we could have lasted for two years doing nothing but kissing and holding hands, then we could control our baser desires, sit through one measly dinner and come out victorious.
The little part of me that was tired of being sensible, tired of pretending her mind didn’t fall prey to unsavoury thoughts more often than Rihanna changed hairstyles and so unbearably curious, woke up that Friday morning, excited at the prospects of an intimate dinner with her lovely Sam and put on her most (and only) decadent lingerie set in all its lacy glory with claims of self empowerment and appreciation to counteract the niggling voices: ‘are you sure THIS is the right day to wear such?’ and ‘you had better behave yourself and get back into your mismatched Primark underwear’ , cooked the best chicken and seafood pasta for dinner, and ended up getting herself laid.
“Babe, I’m so sorry, we shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have… I honestly didn’t think anything would happen, we’ve been so good…” Sam starts saying soon after we untangle ourselves from each other. Sometime toward the end, guilt rears its familiar, ugly head, weaving intricate images of our shameful encounter. I sit on the edge of the sofa speechless, barely holding on to the last shreds of my Christian virtues and so vulnerable to the hollowness I feel about what just happened here. A part of me feels a rush of excitement and… maturity, I think. I had always associated sex with older people in hazy, wedded bliss, yet something about this moment made me feel… Woman. As though my body had just been awoken. Or something. I was different, I was loved, cherished even, by this man, so terrified of our sinful act and unhinged by my silence that he could do nothing but bury his face in his hands defeatedly.
“Babe, please stop saying sorry, I’m sorry too, we were both here and… did what we did”, I mumble after what seems like hours. I think I feel numb, yes. Numb. And empty. What we, I, held so dearly all my life was gone. Gone, in a matter of minutes.
“Let’s pray”, I say. I don’t really want to pray at this moment though. I want to dissect every moment before the moment. I want to remember just how sincere Sam was when he said he loved me and always would. I want to remember only the feelings of elation and sheer joy I felt for being with Sam that way. I don’t want to think about this, this unfair and archaic idea that what we just shared is considered sin. I’m confused. I cannot understand why this is sinful, but the guilt I feel let’s me know just how low I rank in the Christian ladder right about now. Why is it so bad? No one explains plainly why we shouldn’t do it. All they say is blood covenant this, and soul tie that, and frankly, I don’t get half of that JesusSpeak. I mean, if I love Sam, a soul tie surely cannot hurt. Isn’t that the point? Blood covenant? O…Kay… Urm why is that affecting me?
Oh, I don’t know.
I ask Sam to pray. He mumbles a dozen more apologies to God and myself, gives me an awkward hug, and says we should try getting some sleep. Yeah, of course Sam, sleep is definitely on my priority list right now. I want to stay with him, curled beside him on the sofa, but of course Christian etiquette still demands that we sleep separately – so off to bed I go, frustrated, guilty, confused and so unbelievably angry at this stupid, unfounded ‘no sex before marriage‘ rule.
And FINALLY, we have the second part of the series. I knew the route I wanted this next part to take, but every time I tried writing it, it felt so… wrong, I guess. Anyhoos, thank God for inspiration and direction!
The lady in question still has no name, but I think I like the sense of anonymity our lady is beginning to have, haha. She’s able to voice her confusion and frustration at the lack of pragmatic pre- marital sex teachings that simply say “just don’t do it because God says so”, and is really trying to understand how what she and Sam have shared could be considered sin. Is she allowed to have these thoughts? Are they unfounded, like she expresses, simply a way to excuse what she KNEW was unacceptable all along? I’d really love to know!