- I waited until I was 41 years old to have sexual intercourse.
- At 16, I pledged in a church to wait for marriage to have
sex . It became my own story to untangle, not the church’s responsibility.
I waited 41 years to have sexual intercourse with a man in a loving, committed relationship. That man is my husband and the father of our child.
When I was 16, I chose to be a part of a True Love Waits ceremony at a church in which I pledged to wait until marriage to have sex. While this experience planted a seed, I don't blame "purity culture" for the falsely safe patterns of control I developed. It became my own web to untangle.
By my mid-20's, I wasn't waiting for marriage anymore. But I still felt in my gut that I wanted to share the experience of intercourse in an exclusive relationship with someone who loved me. While my strong libido made it hard to resist sexual intercourse, my fear that celibacy pushed away potential relationships made it even harder.
But after dating over 100 men in the span of 20 years, I learned it's possible — even healthy — to wait to have sex in a committed and loving relationship.
Waiting for what I wanted wasn't wrong. But longing for unavailable men and chasing rejection for 25 years wasn't healthy.
Ultimately, I learned
I didn't waste the best sex years of my life
You don't owe sex to anyone, ever. Not the one who brought you to a five-star restaurant, the one who flew you to the Bahamas, or the one who said you seduced him. You do owe yourself permission to have sex whenever you feel ready.
When I was 35, my New York Times
These strangers had no idea how often I orgasmed.
When I finally did have sexual intercourse at 41, it still mattered to me. And it was fun, freeing, and at times "I'll have what she's having" good.
It took me over two decades of dating to realize there's nothing more orgasmic than having sex with a partner who loves me unconditionally.
I'm 43 and 16 months out from having a child, and sex is still good.
Longing for Mr. Big is addictive
We all have a Mr. Big in our lives — people who are physically, mentally, and emotionally unavailable.
Mine was a farming painter from Chicago I dated in my early 20s. In my 30s, we'd have weekend flings every couple of years. It was more comfortable — even thrilling — to long for love from him than risk accepting love from someone who I feared might disappear. He never loved me. He barely returned my phone calls.
Our brains are wired to crave what we don't have. Anticipation, not the attainment of the thing we want, results in a dopamine release. Like alcohol or drugs, longing is a temporary way of escaping the discomfort of reality. When I quit longing, I stopped believing the illusion that I was in control.
While I wasn't having sex like many of my peers, I did buy into the pervasive cultural message that tells women that emotionally disconnected intimacy made them stronger feminists.
I became so adept at disassociating with men in alcohol-fueled encounters, it took an ER doctor whom I dated breaking my heart to make me aware of my patterns. I began crying and my body shook each time I'd become intimate with someone else after him.
I couldn't allow my body to live a lie anymore — to pretend it didn't need emotional intimacy. Six months after that heartbreak, and a few more dating mistakes, I met my now husband.
The reality is, there are an infinite number of "firsts." My infant daughter taught me this.
During her first year of life, she received her first piece of mail, blew her first kiss, ate her first piece of chocolate, and had her first daddy-daughter dance. The important firsts aren't dictated by some book new mothers fill out. We imbue value in first experiences. Look for those many firsts and you'll find more joy in your life.