the one where I talk about sex {again}

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let's talk about sex.
I'm serious.

it's everywhere.
I'm serious about that too.

but you know something else?
it's also a really big secret.
{especially in church}

I grew up in a world where gateway drugs weren't seven-leafed plants held rolled and drooping between teenage fingers. it was the fingers themselves that were the problem. because if skin touched skin, that was the start of a slippery slope...

...a slope that led to bodies and skin and nakedness and words that were alluded to, but rarely spoken aloud. just in case there was someone listening. and the idea of it being mentioned in church? never. just in case God might overhear.

we talked about purity, of course. about guarded hearts and the mystery of a man with a woman and the way it should be for marriage. but what, exactly, should be for marriage? we were never sure. not really.

it was all a mystery. until churches and white dresses and rings slipped onto sweaty fingers and hotel rooms where the door shut with a heavy thump...

...and then it was still a mystery.

because it was a secret until that minute, except that everyone seemed to have forgotten the "sex kitten" potion that was to transform a blushing new bride and a nervously fidgeting groom  into ravenous sexual creatures. they forgot about what happened when the door closed and we stood there with shuffling feet and the acute awareness that there was nakedness under our clothes.

this is the part where I am supposed to present a solution.
the only one I have is for us to talk.

we have to stop making little words that start with "p" and "v" and "s" into dirty unrepeatables that linger like forbidden fruit squashed into pulp on tongues. we have to find that line and realize that it's written in the dirt, not carved into rock.

we need to talk.
with words, not euphemisms and "when you're married, you'll understand."

because it doesn't work that way.

we need to talk.
about sex.
about penises and vaginas and hormones and sex. hear me say it. sex.

because the most important thing is a heart.
not a hymen.

knowing him with the lights on

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I want to talk about sex.

again.

on Monday, I wrote about Beyonce and her husband-lover and the way they held each other close and moved as one flesh at the Grammys, and the way the Christian world rose up against them. I wrote about redemption of sex and of freedom to wrap arms wildly around the neck of marital lust.

and that was when I realized. I've found a voice and I've started wondering things...more things.

I wonder why we're made so afraid of sexuality, as though being sexual creatures is not something Holy-Created, as though whispering the words or leaning too close on your husband's arm within the confines of Church is scandelous. we look at the wedding rings and we know, we see the pregnant women and smile at their joy, all the while refusing to acknowledge what brought this new life into being.

I wonder why we can read the words laid out in Biblical black and white, but then cringe and giggle and find ourselves whispering the names for our body parts in sheepish undertones, as though they are not there if we don't pronounce them, as though our sexuality is non-existent if we do not speak its name.

there's safety in the darkness, quietly tucking ourselves into dimly lit bedrooms, curtained off like voting booths, every action a secret and never discussed. it's as though we expect our bodies to burst into flames if their flesh is exposed to the light. sexuality is the new vampirism.

but there's that Hebrew word :: yada. that word that comes up whispered in the early pages of the Word, when the first man took the first woman into his arms and knew her. that's yada. that's knowing. and then comes the word, the whispering of be still and know. that's yada. same word, same holy hush falling.

I delight to sit in his shade,    
and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
:: song of solomon 2:3

we as woman are told that we are dangerous. each morning as we dress, we cover the danger, and the more we wear, the safer we become. we press our palms against the man-hands beside us and blush, hesitant in that affection, that rare bit of skin allowed to brush in public. there are expectations, and being Beyonce isn't one of them.

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and so we go home and turn down the lights and slip down to our skin in darkness and slide under covers, less for warmth of body and more for safety of soul. who are we protecting? is it ourselves, the shame from the outside carrying into this marital room where only you and he will ever lay? are we protecting the man that shares this mattress, that burden placed upon our bodies for all male creatures...how are we supposed to turn it of for him, for one hour or two or six, and then make sure that we put the vixen away, and carry on as normal for everyone else that we are supposed to call "brother"?

I want 
to do with you 
what spring does with the cherry trees.
:: Pablo Neruda

and so we come back to yada. being known, the deepest and most intimate knowing of all. it's holy ground. shaking is appropriate.

so you, oh woman, you are not dangerous. your body is not a wrecking ball and your touch is not acid. your loving him is not a sin, and your wildness need not be hidden. not here, not with him.

did you know that silence is not required here? it is allowed, of course, but not required.

it's in those moments when bodies meet, not passing like ships but merging like an eclipse, that the loudest crashes are heard. because that is the sound of walls tumbling. every move he and I make together is a pass around Jericho walls, and with a mighty shout, the fortress crashes.

so, oh woman, blow out the candle and flip the switch.

he can call me Peaches with the lights on.

the one where I talk about sex

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I want to talk about shame.

I want to talk about how good it tastes, how easy it is to cut off a slice and take bite after bite, decadent and bloating until your very soul feels as though it will choke.

I want to talk about Beyonce. I want to talk about marriage. I want to talk about sex.

I want to talk about double standards.

I want to ask questions.

maybe I would ask, why so much shame in sex before marriage that we rush to point fingers, gawking and whispering like Ham, son of Noah, running to bring others to look and comment and take a bite of the shame? 

and then of course another question would follow. why so much shame in sex after marriage that we make a point to turn our heads so we don't see, stopping all conversation at the church doorways, making sure we never cross the thresholds with words like orgasm or sensuality?

these questions of mine keep coming, marveling at how we make sex so forbidden, making sure to laud marriage as the ultimate and only place for sexuality, except we freeze it out and make it odd and matronly, using words like intercourse, all the while forgetting that the word used in Scripture is knowing, deep intense provocative knowledge of the one whom your soul loves, and it doesn't get more sensuous than that.

and then Beyonce and Jay-Z performed at the Grammy Awards and the internet exploded and the church rose up in arms. I watched them tear one another apart, throwing mud and stones at the couple's actions, words, lyrics, wardrobe, and I sat in awed confusion.

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because I didn't see something raunchy or scandalous. I saw something transformational. they're celebrities, rubbing shoulders with people who last barely sixty days into a marriage before filing for divorce. they live in a world that tabloids feed on, plastered up and down the grocery checkout lanes where separation, break-ups, and divorce are bread and butter to that brand of so-called journalists.

this April is six years of marriage for them, six years of til death do us part in a world of broken vows. yes, this couple and their faith differ from mine. yes, their actions in the public eye were far more erotic and intense than I would venture with my husband between the eggs and the milk of the local grocer's.

were there issues with the words, a few rough edges regarding a metaphor or two? were they explicit to the nth degree? yes, and yes again. but in this world, promoting it all before and nothing but ice and high collars afterward, that love is refreshing and inspiring.

there is no shame in nakedness. there is no shame in that passion, that marital lust that flows when skin touches skin and eyes meet. I'm no Beyonce, and he's no Jay-Z. but there's music when we meet that rivals theirs in beauty. when I get behind the door with my husband and I hear that latch click, there's no more veils there.

and you won't be hearing any apologies from me. you might just hear a little Beyonce.