The following weekend at church I wandered into the church library to seek out the book I had taken note of. I knew the title by heart now. I nonchalantly walked over to the marriage section of the library and began to browse through the books. My anxiety heightened, however, as I scoured the shelves without seeing the title. Did we not have the book? I needed . . . I needed to learn about those stretches! I looked over at the librarian at the desk. I considered for a few minutes whether or not I should ask her about it. It was a scary prospect, but at least everyone in the church knew I was engaged. There was nothing wrong with it, and I needed this book. I had to ask. I approached the little mild-mannered lady and asked whether our library had the title in question. She looked at me thoughtfully.
“I think there are better books on the subject,” she commented – meaning the subject of sex in a married context. I looked at her unresponsively. I didn’t care whether there were better books on the subject; I needed the instructions on stretches that I knew specifically to be in this book. But I wasn’t about to say that. I continued to look at her. “No, we don’t have the book in the library, but I have it at home. I could lend it to you,” she finally said. I was satisfied.
So the next week I found myself drifting into the library again, and I acquired the book from her. She smiled as she handed it to me, and I thanked her. I looked at the cover. My heart sank.
It was horrendous.
The back cover featured a full-page photo of the homely-looking Christian couple who had co-written it. It had been taken in the eighties or nineties – the motherly-looking woman flashed a fuchsia-painted smile, and the man wore a thick brown mustache. They both wore outdated tan and mauve business-casual suits. It was posed like a prom photo, the smiling couple standing in a partial embrace before a photographer’s backdrop; except that they were old enough to have kids themselves attending the prom. My heart sickened at the thought of receiving sexual advice from these two. I slipped the book into my purse.
Nothing I have ever experienced in life can compare to the horror I felt upon learning the truth about these so-called “stretches.” Once at home I looked through the book frantically, alone in my bedroom, looking for only one thing. All this time I had entertained a vague notion that I would be doing some type of yoga-like moves which could be performed inconspicuously in the living room with my family around, or at the very least on the carpeted floor of my shared bedroom when my sister was out. I don’t understand now how I could have ever been led to believe this. Anatomically, it just doesn’t make any sense. But that is what I had believed. All I need to say, though, is that I discovered that this activity in fact requires the use of your fingers, and is not something you could do outside of the bathroom behind locked doors. I was shocked, horrified, revolted; “You want me to do WHAT?!” I asked the grinning middle-aged counselors on the back cover. My mantra began to replay in my mind: “Never! Never! Never!!”
The book was all downhill from there. I read it frenetically, hoping for any bit of information that might calm my nerves, that might assure me that everything was going to be OK. There was a chapter on the physiological experiences of sex; the authors had the thoughtfulness to quote a doctor who described the female orgasm as a sort of “pelvic sneeze.” There was also a chapter on the spiritual side of sex. In it, the authors told the story of a newly married woman who wasn’t enjoying sex. “In fact, I hate sex!” the woman had told them. This story piqued my interest so I read on. It turned out that the couple (who is a marriage-counseling team at their church) identified a spiritual problem in this woman’s relationship with her father: she harbored resentment towards daddy which was (somehow) inhibiting her ability to enjoy sex with her husband. They encouraged her to get down on her knees and ask God for forgiveness for hating her father. “Now I love sex!” she told them in a follow-up session.
I swear to you that I am not making this up.
So, this was the picture I had of sex: You had about a fifty-fifty chance of your parts fitting with your partner’s, and this meant you faced a very high likelihood of having a supremely awkward first night. Furthermore, if you didn’t prepare for it adequately, you were in for excruciating pain. Then, the best sensation you could possibly look forward to in sex resembled that of getting wool fibers caught in your nose – it was nothing more than a glorified Achoo in your nether-regions. And apparently you had to look like your mom and be on good terms with your dad. OK, so I don’t know where I acquired the idea that you had to look like your mom – I think it had something to do with the fact that all the advice I had received thus far had been from dowdy middle-aged women who regarded negligée with uncommonly high esteem. And to make matters worse, I knew that it was all different for the man – he’d probably be experiencing the greatest pleasure of his life on the wedding night, so he wouldn’t understand at all. He’d be dumbfounded, asking stupidly why you were crying so much as you sobbed silently into your pillow.
And the pastor’s wife had felt she needed to warn us not to set our expectations too high.
(Continued in Part Three: The Chat)
