Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Sacred Sexuality

Once upon a time, I had a "boyfriend" that was an abusive asshole and hated sex.

Hated. Sex.

We went to the bookstore together one day, and while browsing the bargain books, I picked one up, flipped through it, clutched it to my chest, and declared "Mine!" He glanced over, looked at the title, and sneered, "Why do you have to get such a shitty, whorish book? Put it back."

In a then-uncharacteristic act of defiance (and a now-unnecessary one), I refused to. The book? "The Encyclopedia of Sacred Sexuality". I knew what I was interested in; I knew what was worth my money.

Hence, this beautiful book came home with me. When I left him, it's one of the few books I cared enough about to take along to Connecticut. There's nothing terribly revolutionary about it, and while it's certainly educational in both text and pictures, I love it so for one image:

I love everything about this picture. I adore the bats hanging upside down from the nipple rings, and the glistening, oiled skin. I admire her shorn, smooth mons veneris, and the pouty weight of her breasts. I idolize the simplistic stylized black tattoos fiercely protecting her ovaries and pointing down towards that promising gleam of silver clasped between her labia. But most of all, I love the freedom here: this is her body, and she will decorate it as she pleases, adorning the natural work of art that is a woman's form with the jewels and inks that express who she is.

It was the freedom I didn't have, because I wouldn't take control of my situation. He hated that I'd gotten my belly button pierced, especially since I hadn't told him when I was going to, and even moreso because I'd done it with a female friend. So did I attend to my piercing, coddling myself, taking care of it because I wanted it so badly? No. I neglected it. I let it get infected. I constantly kept it hidden. He did not like it, so why should I? I wanted to get my clitoris and nipples pierced. Only sluts do that, and you're sluttish enough that you don't need to, and if you did you'd probably just let the guy who pierced you fuck you anyway, since you can't control yourself. I wanted tattoos. Only whores and bitches get tattoos, and when you get pregnant, they'll stretch out and be flabby all over the place and you'll never lose the weight to make them look decent again.

I wanted to be me... but I was terrified of it.

I won't be so melodramatic as to say that book and image changed my life. They didn't. But they did open my mind and eyes to an entire world and idea of what 'womanhood' encompassed that I had never dared to imagine before. "Sacred sexuality" became the mantra I repeated in my mind as I fell asleep. It was the ideal that kept me sane when desire, even for the man I hated so much, threatened to overwhelm me. I didn't need the physicality of sex so much that I would debase myself by begging him for it (though I did, several times, each rejection cutting sharper than the last), but I needed that spiritual connection with someone, atop of which the actual physical caresses would be sweeter.

I was eighteen.

Standing here on the brink of twenty-two, my views of sex and sexuality have changed. I appreciate it from every aspect, as I think has been made clear in several entries here. But that awakening is something I still look back on with intense fondness and appreciation.

Oh, and my boyfriend now? Loves that picture. Loves that book. When I tell him that I want to get kundalini serpents tattooed at the chakra at the base of my spine, he understands. And he supports me.

And honestly, isn't understanding and support what a loving relationship is all about?