We had just approached the most titillating part of the whole year: it was time to open the Fully Alive Catholic Religion textbook to the sexuality unit. This meant illustrations of naked male and female bodies, inside and out. The giggles could not be silenced, so our seventh-grade teacher ordered a minute of communal squeals. By the end of the lesson, the boys were shaking hands with each other, grinning, murmuring, “see you in hell.” I had not realized that they were all doing that thing called by the ugliest of English words — masturbation. It made me sad that they would all go to hell because I liked some of them. I supposed I’d have to reconsider my crushes since most of them were doomed and I could no longer be with them in heaven for eternity. My back-up plan to become a nun was starting to seem inevitable, since at that point I was certain nobody would want to marry me (and by that I meant have sex with me), and besides, the recent increase in hell-bound souls meant my options were dwindling.
My older brother had a poster of some bikini-clad girl named Kelli or Brandi (dotted with a heart) in his bedroom. I knew this meant that he too was heading for the eternal inferno, but at the time it did not seem like such a terrible loss. I had seen the internet history log, but there was still time to save my younger brother, I thought, so I would have to do something about those Maxim magazines stashed in the bathroom drawer before he found out he liked them. Fortunately my soul was still pure - yes, my favourite past-time was reading the explicit adult romance novels in the public library, but I didn’t touch myself! That was disgusting.
With this sort of introduction to sexual pleasure, it is no surprise I was one severely guilt-ridden teenager. The rebel within was ever-so-pleased when we learned how to put a condom on a banana in my grade 9 (public school) health class, and I had started ‘taking care of myself’ with regularity, albeit in shameful secrecy. My confused soul wondered if God was tallying up my sins one by one, to be presented to me on a neat, mile-long scroll after my death. Then came the first boyfriend. At this point I had essentially given up my faith, but God’s rule still haunted my mental realm of sexuality. The first boyfriend was a Catholic who was against every form of abortion right down to Plan-B (which, in my opinion, isn’t really abortion), yet he had no qualms with losing his virginity ASAP. We fought over this for at least a month — him unable to accept my fear of possibly losing my soul to the fiery pits of hell, me unable to convince myself he was worth it.
Eventually I gave up on following any sort of Christian guide to sexuality since I found it much more reasonable to live without it. Now, other than the whispers of guilt that visited me when I was alone, my biggest source of shame was my mother. She was a teacher in a Catholic high school, where she occasionally taught religion. According to her, there is no option other than abstinence because men won’t respect me if I lose my virginity before marriage. Not one of them. I would be irreversibly tarnished — there will be no chance at redemption. By this point I had moved on to university and an incredibly respectful boyfriend who never guilt-tripped me into pleasing him, which - to any guys out there - is an effective way to make a girl want to please you.
My trips home usually consisted of finding some high school religion textbook resting on the centre of my bed, laid open to the abstinence page. Jesus Christ. My mom would look me in the eye and ask, with fearful concern, “Have you had sex?” Inevitably I would start laughing, which made her think I had thrown my purity to the wind. Then I would tell her it wasn’t her business, which never helped the situation. Meanwhile, my brothers only had to endure the odd side-comment: “be a gentleman to your girlfriend.” Wink wink.
So, what do you get from loading young women with shame and guilt regarding their innate sexual drives? In my case, you do everything to avoid giving into that fearful naivety. I am the person who goes to sex shops to buy vibrators on behalf of her embarrassed friends. I can list more types of porn than you’d expect from a former Catholic girl. Best of all, I am now involved in sex research that measures genital stimulation while participants watch erotic videos, a choice I dedicate to everyone who has ever told me, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”
- by SARAH HAWKE
