'My religious upbringing made me physically incapable of having sex.'

Like most women, I remember my first time clearly. It was with a giant stuffed purple racoon who’s name now evades me. For identification purposes though, I’ll call him Waffles.

Waffles was more of a gentleman than most of the men I’d go on to date in my early adulthood: he never pressured me into anything I didn’t want to do, he was a good listener, largely because he couldn’t talk and he never forgot to text me back, mostly because he was a stuffed racoon who did not have a cell phone nor the opposable thumbs needed for such a task.

However, I was incredibly ashamed for humping Waffles in my room that day as I was born into a traditional middle class Christian family, where there was an unsaid understanding that sex was a filthy thing.

My parents brought me up to view sex as an act that could only be purified when it was between a husband and wife. Nobody really spoke about sex unless it was necessary and from memory, it was only ever spoken about twice: the first time being when I was forced to attend a sex education night at my school with my parents (because sex education without your parents wasn’t mortifying enough apparently) and the second, when my mother called me in tears because she had found used condoms in my brother’s room, “sex should be a sacred act between a husband and wife,” she wailed over the phone. “At least he’s using protection,” I responded.

This did not console her. My brother, of course, bragged about his new sexual adventures at a family lunch with my Grandparents and showcased his freshly developed hickie in between mouthfuls of chicken schnitzel. My mother was humiliated and I thought it was hilarious. If anything, my brother overcompensated for the lack of communication about sex in our family, but at least someone was talking about it.

Despite the repression of sex in our household, I always had a dirty mind as a child, often forcing my dolls to rub their tiny genital-less bodies against each other. As I got older though, I became less and less sexual. I was a late bloomer, not having a boyfriend until the age of 17. I remember my first time with him, which was dramatically different to the time with Waffles. We were in my room, my parents were out and I was ashamed of the black, toupee-like hair down below.

I remember the sound of his insidious grunt and the sharp, pulling pain in between my legs. I also remember being relieved that I didn’t bleed all over the bed as my hymen did not break during my first time. In hindsight, it was probably a good thing that my hymen didn’t break as my mother came home soon after we were done. Explaining the blood-soaked sheets and naked teenage boy in my room would have been a traumatising experience for all parties involved. I remember the odour of sex still hung in the air but I don’t think my mother suspected anything. Perhaps she didn't want to.

The religious upbringing that I received deeply affected my relationship with sex and my body. I always felt shame after sex and masturbation. I felt like a dirty thing who was probably going to burn in hell for all eternity because I touched myself in a place that only my husband should have the privilege of touching. Because of my negative views surrounding sex, I developed a condition called vaginismus.

Vaginismus is a sexual dysfunction where the pubococcygeus muscle, which is a hammock-shaped muscle that stretches from the pubic bone to the tail bone, involuntarily spasms during penetration. The spasm itself causes excruciating pain. The condition is very common in people from strict cultural or religious upbringings where it is expected that women wait until marriage to have sex but more often than not, once they do attempt to consummate their marriage, they experience pain and shame at their inability to engage in intercourse.

Vaginismus is as much a psychological condition as it is physical as the brain anticipates the pain during penetration, which causes the muscles to tense, thus causing the pain in the first place. As such, vaginismus is a vicious cycle of anticipation, anxiety and pain that is difficult to break out of. I struggled along with vaginismus for several years under the understanding that I was probably just a prude. As a result, I did not receive the physiotherapy needed to treat the condition for seven years.

Whilst I was attracted to men and usually became aroused, as soon as I saw their genitals a wave of doom washed over me. To me, sex became something threatening and not something to be enjoyed. Vaginismus and my anxiety surrounding sex also greatly affected my sense of self-worth and my relationships. I also had a run of bad boyfriends; if they weren't narcissistic or alcoholic they were narcissistic alcoholics. But it was partly my fault as I failed myself when I allowed them to treat me poorly.

I failed to stand-up for myself or walk away when I was threatened with being kicked out of my boyfriends house if I didn’t have sex with him, or when sex with me was compared to sex with a corpse (the fact that he seemed to know what sex with a corpse was like is not even the most traumatising thing about that experience). Then there were the countless boys who I obsessed over who lost interest and ‘ghosted’ me when sex didn’t happen the way it was supposed to.

Despite the epic disappointments from boys and my inability to have penetrative sex, I continued to live my life, but I always felt ostracised from most people my age. I’d go out to bars with my friends but would never go with the aim of hooking-up with someone. I only started using dating apps last year as I didn’t see the point because I couldn’t really hook up, at least not in the traditional sense.

Two very different women discuss all things sex and relationships. Post continues after audio.

So when I was only able to engage in oral sex, I felt like a half-baked cake. The fact that most of the men who I had oral sex with did not know what they were doing made it even more tedious. Many times, I so desperately wanted to yell out, “hey! It’s not an apple, buddy!’ But I never did because I was worried about hurting their feelings and bruising their egos. Most of the time, I would painfully lie there and just wait for them to run out of energy.

After a few more bad sexual experiences, I was at a loss as to what was wrong with me. I felt horrible about myself sexually and dreaded becoming intimate with anyone because I was living the same cycle of developing feelings, having intimacy issues and being heartbroken when things didn’t work out over and over again.

I yearned for someone to be patient and understanding with me, which might not sound like it is hard to come by but you’d be surprised at how quickly people lose interest and patience when you simply cannot have sex. That person finally came along when I met my current girlfriend, Kyra.

There had been a history of me liking girls here and there, but I’d never really pursued it. I had repressed my attraction towards women, not out of shame but out of nonchalance. I knew there was something there but always thought I preferred men, largely because they were actively there: wolf whistling, flirting and leading me on. I had never even been loved let alone hit on by a girl.

Meeting Kyra was certainly an unexpected curveball and things progressed quickly despite our feeble attempts to take things slowly (we were room mates, which complicated things even more). My biggest anxiety was obviously sex because my past experiences led me to believe that I was bad at it and that I would make the sex awkward because I believed I had been the faulty variable in my past sexual relationships. I had also never been up close and personal with a vagina - I genuinely feared getting lost or suffocating.

But, to my surprise I started to find sex fun. It stopped being a chore or a transaction for after-sex brunch. Instead, sex became an intuitive expression of love. When I kissed Kyra, I felt the mental chastity belt that I had created for myself fall away and I was emancipated from my previous anxieties and sense of shame and guilt.

If anything, given my upbringing, I should have been more ashamed and guilty for having sex with a woman because the Bible so kindly ropes me in with the ungodly, the murderers and the slave traders (1 Timothy 1:9). I waited for it to come but it never did. Instead, I felt liberated and empowered. For the first time in my life, I really, really liked myself. How could something that made me feel so loved and empowered be sinful?

I am now 25 years-old and my girlfriend was the first person in my eight years of being sexually active to be limitlessly patient with me. It was the first time I felt not only comfortable but beautiful. Kyra was the first person to tell me that I didn’t have to have sex, if I didn’t want to.

For the first time, unlike my previous relationships, sex was not the foundation of the relationship, it was something extra to be enjoyed. Our foundation was the fact that we wholeheartedly loved each other for the good and bad. To most people, this won’t sound remarkable in the slightest, but because I had never received patience and understanding, it completely changed my life. I now understand why sex is so ingrained in our advertisements, films, music videos and fashion. Sex, when done the way it is supposed to be done, is life. It is the beginning of everything, it awakens us and baptises us into our raw form.

Regardless of sexuality, gender or identity: I believe that we are sex and we are love. I think that we focus too much on everything else that surrounds these two fundamental things. Right now, I don’t know if I am gay, bi-sexual, pansexual, or poly-sexual or any of the plethora of other sexuals and you know what? I don’t actually give a damn.

I am someone who is loved and who loves not only someone else but also myself. And when it comes down to it, isn’t that what we all want? Isn’t that the common fundamental of all our religious traditions? To love and be loved in return.