Sovereign Spirit | One Woman's Path from Shameful Sheep to Spiritual Sovereignty | Chapter Four, Part Three

Sovereign Spirit
..One Woman's Path from Shameful Sheep to Spiritual Sovereignty

Chapter Four, Part Three

I didn’t only date boys my mother disapproved of. There were several boys I had relationships with from our church or from other churches in the area. But dating boys who weren’t of any religious affiliation was much less confusing for me.

Church boys were complicated and inconsistent. Their words and behavior were one way within the church walls, and they became entirely different people when we were alone together. Or, they were so pious, and I, so sensitive, that I almost disappeared as I succumbed to their every admonition as to how they thought I could or should be a better young Christian woman.

One boy I was dating, who was of a different Christian denomination, but who was incredibly devout, (and with whom my mom was very impressed) spoke with me one evening over the phone about a problem he was having. He told me he had prayed about it, and that he thought God wanted him to tell me what he was about to say. He went on to say that lately, when he looked at me at school, or whenever we were together, he “stumbled.”

To “stumble,” is Christian lingo which means that someone or something has caused a person to sin, either in word, thought, or deed. It is often used in reference to lustful or sexual thoughts and actions. A “stumbling block” is the someone or something that causes the sin; in many cases, who or whatever gives rise to the lustful thoughts.

My boyfriend told me that he’d thought about it for a long time, and had prayed about it very hard, and he’d come to the conclusion that the tightness of my jeans were what was making him “stumble.” He mentioned a few things about the way a Christian woman should try to glorify God with the way that she dressed. This was something I already knew. At church we were often confronted with sermons or lessons pertaining to our choice of dress as Christians. My mom was also very concerned with me dressing appropriately, and I was one of the most conservatively dressed kids in my school.

Apparently, I could do better.

My boyfriend told me that it was my decision, but if I didn’t start wearing jeans that were less tight, he wouldn’t be able to spend as much time around me anymore, aka: we would have to break up. I was becoming more and more of a “stumbling block” for him.

Today, I view this conversation as one of the most absurd I’ve ever held. My reaction to it, even more ridiculous. However, at age seventeen, I was a much different person with a much more limited, far more naïve perspective.

I was a very athletic girl with short, but nicely shaped muscular thighs and a small waist due to my gymnastics training. I had an incredibly hard time finding any jeans anywhere that would fit my body. It was either, one: buy jeans which fit my waist (with a belt) that my thighs could get into, even if it was a little bit tight, or two: buy jeans that were loose on my legs, and, consequently, really, really loose on my waist, and maybe I could just hold them up by suspenders and walk around campus looking like a clown all day.

So obviously, up to that point, I had chosen the first option, and I was happy with it. I actually loved the way my body filled out my jeans, and I felt confident walking around in them.

Until this boy came along with his “stumblings.”

I immediately took full responsibility for this guy’s “problem,” even though the tightness of my jeans was something that I had never dreamed could be a issue. My mom’s dress code standards were the strictest I knew of, so if she OK’ed my jeans, I thought there would be no problem as far as dressing like a Christian goes.

This guy made me feel like it was my fault that he was having sexual thoughts about me, and I believed him. I believed it was my fault that he had desires that are normal and natural to any male person, my fault that he couldn’t look at me without his own pants getting tighter, my fault that he couldn’t control his own thoughts or desires. I felt shame about my clothing choices, but a much deeper shame over my own body.

I wish I could say I had worn skin tight leggings the next day at school, or something at least somewhat scandalous, just out of spite.

I didn’t.

Instead, in my shame, I turned my back on what was right for me, and went into the depths of my closet so that I could find clothes to wear that someone else decided should be right for me. I turned my closet upside-down that night, desperately searching for a pair of pants I could wear the next day at school that might be considered appropriate. At the bottom of my closet, pushed away at the back, underneath piles of years old clothes I hadn’t worn in years, I found a pair I thought might work.

You guys, they were hideous.

They fit my waist, but they came up to my belly button, which was not cool in the nineties, and I hated the way it felt to have pants pulled up too high. The fit on the waist made the pockets balloon out on the sides, and the leg length was way too short; they were borderline high waters. The shape of my ass, which was usually so perky and cute in my normal jeans, was distorted given the cut of the pants and the fact that they were probably made for someone 5 years younger than me with a much different body type.

But, the jeans were loose on my legs. Those pants couldn’t possibly make my boyfriend stumble, and, in my head, that was all that mattered. So, I pulled them up over my beautiful, sexy legs, making sure that my curves were well hidden one more time, lied to myself and told the girl in the mirror I looked pretty good, and headed to school.

It was Valentine’s Day, and, despite all my efforts, all I was given were three awkward words: “You look … different.”

In stark contrast, when I was sixteen, I was dating another church boy, this time, from my own church. He was a few years older than me, and my mom wasn’t crazy about him, but he was a Christian. That label held a lot of water in my household, so he was tolerated.

One night I was talking on the phone with this older guy, someone I hadn’t known terribly long. He brought up the subject of sex. I had told him in an earlier conversation that I was waiting until I was married to have sex. It was something that I was always very upfront about with the boys I dated, and had no problem freely stating that sexual abstinence until marriage was my goal. He respected my wish and never pushed anything on me, but he was curious about my sexual life, or lack thereof, and my reasons for wanting to wait. I thought he should already know the reasons why given that we attended the same church and held the same beliefs, or so I thought. He kept probing deeper and deeper into my ideas about sex, how far was too far, and how far I had ever gone with a guy. I was shy, but I answered his questions. I could tell that he was trying to get a sense of how far I would allow him to go me, and I thought it best that he know where my boundary lines were.

He couldn’t believe it when I told him the extent of my sexual life. He thought I was lying until he asked me how often I masturbated, and I told him I didn’t. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know girls could masturbate. I thought it was something only guys could do. I hadn’t the slightest clue as to what an orgasm really was. I had heard they were a sensation that felt good, and that you could have them during sex, but I didn’t know how it worked. It had never occurred to me that a female could experience sexual pleasure alone.

Of course, I didn’t divulge that information on the phone that night. I sensed that being honest about how little I knew about sexual matters would just make me seem too weird to handle. Instead, I just explained that I had never masturbated, and I didn’t know how. To me, that was a little more normal sounding, but to the guy I was dating, even that was something he couldn’t wrap his head around.

After several rounds of,
Him: “Really?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “Are you sure?”
Me.: “Yes.”
Him: “Maybe you just didn’t know what it was called.”
Me: “Nope.”

He changed his tone, and gently asked me if I wanted to try it. He would guide me through it, he said.

It sounded sexy and exciting, and even though I knew we’d been told that masturbation was wrong in church, I wanted to try it. Just once. Just to see.

As promised, I was tenderly guided, step by step, on the phone that night on how to pleasure myself. When he thought I was getting the hang of it, the church boy suggested I hang up the phone and go practice. Tense from the nerve-rattling conversation I’d just had, I didn’t get there the first night, but the next night I remembered all the tips I’d been given and tried again. The more I relaxed, the more my body responded, and I finally learned the rich thrill of what Woman feels like.