Chastity Belt Included
When God and Mother Nature collude.
By RAMSEY HOOTMAN
As a teenaged girl, I lived in fear of losing my virginity. It wasn’t that my parents were strict — we never discussed sex at all, actually. But I was brought up an Evangelical Christian, which meant that by the time I got my period I was already quite aware that having carnal relations outside of wedlock was basically the worst sin I could commit. I might not lose my eternal salvation, but it would be a pretty near thing.
In retrospect I realize not everyone took the whole abstinence thing so seriously. It never occurred to me that the teen who got pregnant and the adult couple who apologized to the entire church when they had a baby out of wedlock were just the folks who failed to take precautions.
Me, I was on my guard. No “alone time” with any guy I might possibly-maybe-potentially be attracted to. Everyone knows that teenagers are, by definition, mentally unstable. Even though I had firmly decided not to have sex until I was married, an accidental touch or a few romantic words might inflame my passions to such a degree that I would lose my rational mind and wake up in bed next to some guy I barely knew. This was a very real possibility.
— — — —
Nothing was going to enter my vagina until my wedding night, and it would be the most perfect, holy, romantic consummation known to man.
— — — —
It will come as no surprise to anyone that I graduated high school without a single romantic prospect. Regardless of that sad reality, I announced my decision to “court” rather than “date.” I went to prom with another girl. (Which, now that I think about it, broke an entirely different set of taboos …) I opted out of sex ed for “religious reasons” because I couldn’t see why I should learn about STDs or how to put a condom on a banana. I never even touched a tampon. Nothing was going to enter my vagina until my wedding night, and it would be the most perfect, holy, romantic consummation known to man.
Because, more than anything, I bought that lie: If I waited, it would be fantastic. Sex would be the best thing I had ever experienced. Romance just like the greatest love stories of all time. Better than the movies.
Are you laughing yet?
Fast-forward to my wedding night, two years post-college. The man who has just become my husband and I are standing in a cheap motel room, a one-night stopping point between my hometown and the secluded seaside cabin that is our honeymoon destination. This is the moment I have been waiting for my entire life. This is the man I love more than any other. He touches my boob —
And I freak out.
The poor sod to whom I have promised ultimate sexual fulfillment gets me calmed down, eventually, and then suggests I just have a look at his penis.
And — oh, my God — it looks like a penis.
Holy fuck. That … that thing is supposed to fit inside of me?
Caveat: It turns out that my husband is, ah, rather well endowed. But I doubt a smaller size would have made a difference. The important bit was that I was supposed to feel desire, longing, passion. All I had was horror. When you spend your entire life telling yourself you are not going to do a thing, a legal document and a pretty white dress are not going to turn that switch off.
— — — —
Fortunately, my husband is a really nice guy. We cuddle. We hug. Eventually we get our clothes off. Eventually I un-cross my legs. Eventually he grabs a steak knife and stabs me in the crotch.
— — — —
Fortunately, my husband is a really nice guy. We cuddle. We hug. Eventually we get our clothes off. Eventually I un-cross my legs. Eventually he grabs a steak knife and stabs me in the crotch.
That’s what it feels like, anyway. I scream bloody murder.
Okay, so, um. Maybe this is my hymen breaking. No … no biggie, right? I have a pretty high pain tolerance.
We make a few more attempts that night. Our wedding night. He never even manages to get it in. The next day, we pack up and drive out to our romantic cabin by the sea. We try again.
Are we complete idiots? Could we be doing this wrong?
We drive into town. Find a pay phone. I call my mom. Yes, I call my mother because my husband and I are completely unable to consummate our union. Fortunately my mom works for a doctor, and she calls around and gets me an appointment with an OB-GYN.
The doc discovers that I have a band across my vagina — but it’s not obstructive enough that she’d consider cutting. Just a little abnormality that should stretch out over time. She hands me a tube of topical anesthetic and suggests I get drunk. Given my attitude toward sex thus far, you can probably guess my feelings about alcohol. Nevertheless, we buy a case of beer.
That doesn’t work either.
— — — —
We drive into town. Find a pay phone. I call my mom. Yes, I call my mother because my husband and I are completely unable to consummate our union.
— — — —
Our honeymoon lasts a week. Eventually we do manage to get him inside of me, but it’s not pleasant. Mostly what I remember is pain and tears.
So this. This is the reward I get for my chastity, my purity, my oh-so-holy abstinence. Not heavenly bliss but piercing agony. The irony is that even if I had let my guard down at some point, even if I’d lost my mind and my mores to some pimply teenaged boy in the backseat of my Ford Escort, nothing would have happened. He’d never have been able to get in.
I’ll never really be sure what the deal was, but my best guess at self-diagnosing is that my physical abnormality combined with my mental attitude gave me a whopping case of vaginismus — involuntary contractions of the pelvic floor muscles that cause excruciating pain at any attempt to enter the vagina. I am my own chastity belt.
Eight months is how long it takes — not until sex is enjoyable, mind you, but until sex isn’t so painful I have to grit my teeth. In that time I learn that my husband is the best, most patient man I have ever known. In that time I purchase a dildo and a vibrator and learn to use both. I Google every topic I ought to have covered in sex ed, and then some.
And I learn that sex … is just sex.
I’ve been married eight years now and given birth three times. I’m still a Christian, but not really your standard American brand. I lost most of my modesty about the same time I shredded my vocal cords during labor. What remained disappeared with breast-feeding and the marathon of sleep deprivation that comes with a small child. It’s hard to blush about anything once you’ve got a toddler who insists on watching you poop.
— — —
The other day I told my four-year-old that his penis is made to fit into a girl’s vagina “like a stick in a hole.” For a moment I felt myself choke up — Did I really just say that? — and then we both laughed.
— — — —
But you know what? Sex is great. Better now than it’s ever been. There’s nothing quite like a giant baby head to clear out the ol’ vaginal canal.
I read a graphically anatomical “how a baby is made” book to my kids pretty regularly. We discuss sex when the topic comes up. The other day I told my four-year-old that his penis is made to fit into a girl’s vagina “like a stick in a hole.” For a moment I felt myself choke up — Did I really just say that? — and then we both laughed.
Because let’s face it: Sex is actually pretty funny. And wonderful. And maybe … yeah. Maybe even holy.
Ramsey Hootman is the author of Courting Greta, a novel about love between the unlovely. Her current work-in-progress is a modern riff on Cyrano de Bergerac, written from Roxanne’s point of view.
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