I did something scary this week.
And by scary, I mean paralyzingly hair-raising.
I wrote about sex. And I didn't write about it in my diary or in a secret love letter that I sealed with a kiss and left on my husband's pillow. I wrote about it for a blog. A big blog. A big British sex blog that discusses things like erotic asphyxiation, OTK spanking, sugar babies, spit roasting, sploshing, and something called bukkake.
To adequately convey how unqualified I was for this task, consider this: I had to look up definitions for all but one of those things. And one of those I had to Google several times, and I'm still not sure what the hell it entails.
But Girl on the Net was kind enough to allow me to guest post about how my sex life has changed since I was diagnosed with medical issues that made me gain 130 pounds and caused me to start spontaneously shitting myself.
I struggle mightily with how gross I've become. This revulsion especially applies to bedroom activities, as it's hard to feel anything but disgusting when your partner has to hoist your fat flaps to find your vagina, all while he wonders if this is the day that you shit on him... again.
But if I'm keeping things real with y'all, sex made me feel icky long before I became an obese incontinent person.
This might surprise you, since I have a blog that is most commonly found with the search term "fat vagina." Plus, I've used this platform to converse about coitus-related conundrums before. But the real me --- the me that isn't on the Internet --- doesn't talk about sex.
Sure, my husband and I have conversations about intercourse, and occasionally, we even do the actual deed. But that's between me and him and sometimes our cats, because those little voyeurs hide under the bookcase and we don't know they're there until they slither from their secret place immediately after we humans have finished. Or they sit outside the door, like the little purrverts they are, waiting for us to complete our congress.
My point is this: I didn't want to write that guest post. But I believe in the depths of my sweary soul that the best way to live life is to live the real version of it, so I figured, "What the fuck do I have to lose?" So then I wrote the guest post, and now I'm writing to tell you why I have problems with sex.
Let's go with bullet points, shall we?
I was raised in an Evangelical Pentecostal home where sex wasn't just bad. It was a sin. And a big sin. The biggest sin ever. If you asked 14-year-old me which was worse -- axe-murdering a homeless pregnant woman or giving a classmate a blow job -- teenage me would honestly have to pause and think about it.
It probably didn't help that my sister, Audrey, got pregnant in high school and was expelled for it. But the administration at our Christian school didn't do it on the down-low. My sister was brought on stage during a special chapel session, and the principal distributed small stones to the entire high school student body. The man then gave a speech about how "he who is without sin can cast the first stone." So we all prayed and contemplated whether we should chuck these bits of gravel at my sister, who sat sobbing in front of all her peers.
Then there's this next thing. Three people in the entire world know what I'm about to tell you, and unfortunately, it's about as unfunny as that anecdote about my sister.
When I was about 12, a foster kid staying with my family sexually assaulted me.
Yeah. It sucked. No. I'm not going to go into all the details. Let's just say that my first real introduction to sexual activity was not normal, right, or loving.
Some of you right now might be thinking, "Oh, okay, Bekah, you're a Duggar." You'd think so, wouldn't you, what with all the sexual naïvety and repression, the creepy cult-like manner of dealing with sex, and the molestation. But we were allowed to cut our hair, I wasn't forced to wear a skirt, and my parents didn't know about the sexual abuse, much less just let it fly.
The three previous bullet points result in this one overarching point: I thought that if I got sex wrong, I would go to hell. Then I had a sexual encounter that was all wrong. And then my sister got sex wrong, too. I've been understandably terrified of the beast with two backs ever since.
Hand to God: I've been so skittish about physical affection that I didn't even kiss my husband at our wedding rehearsal. For years, I'd feel guilty after we had sex, even long after we were married and I knew God would be cool with it.
So, yeah, I was in my personal brand of hell when I was writing the guest post, even though the owner of the blog couldn't have been nicer and the message of the post (body positivism) is one near and dear to my chunky-veined heart.
While the content was important, the process was just as vital.
In life, we all have things that scare us. Being completely open about some stuff (my weight and my sex life, for example) absolutely terrifies me. And to be that boldly plain about all of the dirty details to scores of strangers?
Shoot me, please.
I don't want to smother you with what I want to be my blog's overarching takeaway message, but let me repeat something I've said before: I started this blog because I fucking despise how society pressures people to sugarcoat their lives. This emphasis on curating the optimal online persona only contributes to the polite lie that everyone except you has a perfect existence, and we all know that's bullshit.
So, this week, I did something that scared me. I told the truth. And I told it all. And I told it publicly.
And it felt good.
Now, what should you and I tackle next week?
True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. What scares you? Do you confront it and open up about it? Or do you hide it and hope that it never sees the light of day? Should our shit be public? Would the world be better if we had an honesty-only policy? Or is this whole concept just bullshit? Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.