Skye here. One of Copper's Insiders. I know the rules and will heed them.
*****This post carries a lot of Trigger Warnings, including CSA, and religion. You have been warned*****
I just saw a bit on TV about some idiotic little starlet who is publicly announcing her plan to remain a virgin until her wedding night. She flaunted her credentials as a Christian and the values her (too-exposed reality TV show) family. She posted a list of tips on her blog...cute, really. She says to stay out of your boyfriend's bedroom, and keep him out of yours. Because "All alone in a bedroom with the door closed and just the two of you? Nothing good can come of that!"
No fucking shit, Sherlock. If you don't want sexy-time to happen, it is generally considered wise to stay out of private spaces with an attractive member of the opposite sex. Or the same, if you roll that way...but this little featherhead's family frowns on homosexuality. It goes against the aforementioned "family values." Funny, her daddy opposes same-sex unions, but he was fine with his little girl gyrating on the stage of Dancing With the Stars.
*deep breath* Not now, Skye. This is not the blog for that rant. Bi or not, this particular post runs deeper.
Even if I had not had consentual sex with a partner or two, I could never claim to be "pure" for my wedding night. The body I reside in was first penetrated long before it hit puberty. And not to be too graphic, but even barring the partners I chose...well. There is no way I can even dream of calling myself, this body, a virgin. If it can be done sexually, it has probably done to this lump of flesh. Rule 34, made literal.
Those in this body had no choice about it. Fighting earned pain at best...and the worst doesn't bear thinking about.
So we learned to comply, to be "good girls" and to please the people we were told to please. We split and split and split again, just to endure the violence and perversion that was our day to day life.
At the moment, nobody in our System is interested in marriage, but if it should happen...what? Am I to be ashamed to be "impure"? Condemned to wearing a gown of grey or peach or ivory because I can't (according to tradition) wear white? Am I to be shamed because I "did not wait"?
Am I ashamed of the people I chose to be intimate with? Of course not. And frankly, those details don't matter to anyone but us and our hypothetical partner. That doesn't bug me in the least. Were those specially chosen people the only men who had relations with this body, I wouldn't care about dimwits who preach about the virtues of waiting. Everybody is entitled to their own beliefs, after all.
But what bugs me is knowing that I never had the choice. By the time this body was 8, we knew how to please a man, knew what to expect and how to follow orders. And frankly, 8 is probably overshooting quite a bit. As I type that, someone is offering me a wisp of a memory that we couldn't have been more than 5 in...and possibly as young as 4. I know that bad things happened to the body even younger than that...but I'll stick with 8, because I have memory of the body being used sexually around that age.
Little Blondie on TV can flaunt her beliefs all she wants to, but not all of us have the option of waiting. If I confronted her with our story, even a toned down version, would I be sl*t-shamed? God knows, this body has been used by enough men. And even if I choose to ignore the stuff that happened before puberty, when I was too physically small to fight...what then?
The abuse continued well into my 20s. I was fully adult by then, and had the curves of a well-built woman. I was nearly 6 feet tall barefoot, and could probably have tied most of the people I was told to please in knots. But I did not. The body obeyed for the same reasons it always has. We like to eat. We like clean water and access to warm blankets when it's cold. So even as an adult, this body walked tamely into sexual encounters with many, many people.
I wouldn't mind if I had chosen to play my "V-card" with the man of my choosing. Then it would have been a matter of my choosing. Then I would have been able to say yes...or no.
But that option was taken away from me when I was too young to choose. And it galls me to see that little girl (I can call her that 'cause I am almost old enough to be her mother!) dancing around the stage in her skintight short-shorts turn around and preach abstinence. I'd like to challenge her, ask if a rape counts as "not waiting" for marriage. I'd like to ask her what message she thought she was sending swirling her pelvis around on national TV. Dance is art, yes...but even if Daddy approved of the choreography and costume, that particular dance...well, the main adjectives I've heard or seen about it are "racy" and "sexy".
The words she used hurt. She (so far as I know) still has the option to remain celibate until her wedding night. I don't. We don't. If one of us falls in love, we cannot bring a pristine body to the wedding bed.
Frankly, I think there's an absurd amount of weight put upon female virginity...but that is not the point. The point is that I am both sad and angry. A featherheaded teenager rambled on about the importance of waiting (don't be in his bedroom! Pray before each date!) while I struggle through the aftermath of a lifetime of abuse. To put that in perspective, this body was used by whoever felt like it for more years than this little dancing girl has drawn breath.
She's entitled to her views, but it hurts to hear 'em. I would like to take an (almost) pristine body to my wedding bed. But it ain't gonna happen.
It makes me sad, and angry.