I Saved My Virginity For My Husband And Ended Up With Bad Sex
I waited for this? I had saved my virginity until marriage and that was the thought that ran through my head as my then-husband climbed off of me, unaware of the disappointment that was building up inside.
For almost 25 years, I had held on to my virginity aka my prized possession, dodging advances from guys who I knew only wanted to get in between my thighs in hopes of finding “the one" who not only loved it, but loved me too. While many people no longer believe in celibacy and abstinence, I was raised in a family that valued conservative morals and grew up in the church, which often preaches waiting to have sex until marriage. I did not really date throughout high school because most boys I met focused on sex, which I wasn't interested in.
I wanted love.
I met my ex-husband my sophomore year at a Christian college. He seemed different: kind, sweet, and gentle. He never pressured me for sex and seemed incredibly understanding, and it didn't hurt that he wanted to be a pastor. During the four years of us dating, we never had intercourse, although we did engage in other acts of pleasure. I thought I was doing the "good Christian girl" thing by not having sex. Funny thing is, people often said that since we weren't having sex before marriage that I might end up with bad sex as a married virgin. Ultimately, it seems that they got the last laugh.
On Valentine's Day in 2011, he got down on one knee, and I was beyond elated. I had followed the plan—I went to school, got good grades, didn't date a lot, didn't party or do drugs, and certainly didn't have sex, so I made the decision that since I was finally engaged and going to spend the rest of my life with this man, I would unlock the chastity belt.
It finally happened one night when our guards were down and our intoxication levels up.
It wasn't sweet or romantic as I had imagined it would be.
In fact, it was completely unexpected. He still lived at home with his mom, but she was out of town on this particular night. The alcohol got the best of us as we fell into an awkward exploration of each other's bodies. At first I panicked—I didn't have a condom, and though we were engaged, I was still hesitant to share the part of me that I had held onto so dearly for so long. But he was prepared—he slipped his protection on, and I knew that there was no turning back from there.
It was good.
It was exciting.
It was new.
I was finally doing the thing I always wanted to do! And yet…it felt like something was missing. Although I was enjoying it, a part of me questioned whether there was something more that I should've been experiencing. Unlike me, it wasn't his first time having sex, so I was surprised that I lacked the feeling of ecstasy that so many of my friends had described. I just assumed it would get better as time went on. They say practice makes perfect, and after all, we were just getting started.
A couple of months later, we exchanged vows, and the honeymoon was nothing short of amazing. But I began to notice that I was a bit more adventurous than he was. I thought sex should be exciting and fun, but he seemed a bit more conservative. There were things I wanted to explore that he objected to, instead we stuck to the same positions and the same old routine. I tried approaching him on my lack of satisfaction, which only led to uncomfortable post-sex debriefings where he questioned the quality of the performance.
Throughout the years, I began to notice that our sex life was getting increasingly more boring each time we had sex. It got to the point where I found myself drinking alcohol just to enjoy it.
I found myself noticing our sexual incompatibility more often. We seemed to want different things and had different ideas of what was exciting. He valued foreplay, and I penetration. Before long, I began to realize that the unthinkable had happened—I saved myself for marriage to a guy that couldn't fulfill me sexually.
I tried to get creative to improve our sex life, but it wasn't working. Eventually, I had to accept that we were very incompatible sexually.
Sex had become a chore and something I did only when I had to.
As my marriage declined, sex became a means to an end: Maybe if I do it tonight we won't bicker and argue. Maybe I won't have to deal with his attitude. Maybe I'll get some space from him afterward.
But three years into our marriage, we found ourselves signing divorce papers.
It wasn't until I started dating again that I realized the joys of what sex could be, and where I may have went wrong with my ex-husband. My first encounter was with a good friend who I had a deep connection with. With him, I could let down my guard—I didn't feel uncomfortable or embarrassed as I did with my ex-husband. I realized that it was likely because with my ex, my weight was often criticized and my body critiqued in ways that expounded upon my already existing insecurities.
Not only was I lacking in experience, but I also felt unattractive to the one person I should've felt the most beautiful around. I would often retreat inside my head instead of enjoying the moment, and him being a more cerebral person, he did the same.
As I started dating I began to learn more about who I was both sexually and as a woman. As a virgin, I had no idea that I valued a man who could dominate in the bedroom, just as I did everyday in my workplace. I didn't know that I needed an alpha-male, and my ex was everything but one. It became more obvious to me that the signs of our incompatibility were there all along. He was an introvert who preferred a routine life with little spontaneity. I am an extrovert and a go-getter always looking forward to the next challenge—something new.
As hard as it is to admit, I had subconsciously settled for the good guy with the bad sex, not because we were truly in love, but because we were convenient and safe for one another.
While I don't fully regret waiting until I found my husband to lose my virginity, I won't say that if given the opportunity that I would do it again. I know people say that you can teach your partner what you like and learn more about what turns them on, and I completely agree. However, it requires mutual desire from both parts. Unfortunately, that was not my reality.
I saved myself for my husband and was disappointed, yet as unpleasant of an experience as it was, I am thankful for it. I learned to let my inhibitions go, stop judging myself through his eyes, and own and accept my sexuality.
In a sense, it was the sexual imprisonment in my marriage that ultimately lead to my freedom.
- As Told To Kiah McBride
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ItGirl 100 Honors Black Women Who Create Culture & Put On For Their Cities
As they say, create the change you want to see in this world, besties. That’s why xoNecole linked up with Hyundai for the inaugural ItGirl 100 List, a celebration of 100 Genzennial women who aren’t afraid to pull up their own seats to the table. Across regions and industries, these women embody the essence of discovering self-value through purpose, honey! They're fierce, they’re ultra-creative, and we know they make their cities proud.
VIEW THE FULL ITGIRL 100 LIST HERE.
Don’t forget to also check out the ItGirl Directory, featuring 50 Black-woman-owned marketing and branding agencies, photographers and videographers, publicists, and more.
THE ITGIRL MEMO
I. An ItGirl puts on for her city and masters her self-worth through purpose.
II. An ItGirl celebrates all the things that make her unique.
III. An ItGirl empowers others to become the best versions of themselves.
IV. An ItGirl leads by example, inspiring others through her actions and integrity.
V. An ItGirl paves the way for authenticity and diversity in all aspects of life.
VI. An ItGirl uses the power of her voice to advocate for positive change in the world.
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It’s been nearly twenty years since India.Arie’s crown anthem, “I am not my hair,” gave Black women an affirmation to live by. What followed was a natural hair revolution that birthed a new level of self-love and acceptance. Concerns around how to better care for our hair birthed an entire new generation of entrepreneurs who benefitted from the power of the Black dollar. Retailers made room for product lines made for us, by us, on their shelves, and we further affirmed that though our hair doesn’t define us, it is part of our unique self-expression.
Today, that movement has turned into a wig uprising where Black women are able to experiment with colors, styles, and more without causing irreparable damage to our hair. It could even be said that we’ve arrived at a new level of acceptance: one that does not equate love of oneself to one’s willingness or lack thereof to wear her hair the way others deem acceptable. Not even other people who look like us.
However, as with Blackness itself, the issue of Black women’s hair is layered.
On the surface, it’s nothing more than a matter of personal preference. However, in a deeper dive, issues of texture, curl pattern, and of course, proximity to social acceptance, as well as other runoff streams from the waters of racism and patriarchy, rear their heads. The natural hair movement, though a wide-reaching and liberating community builder, also gave way to colorism and often upheld mainstream beauty standards.
Sometimes, favoring lighter-skinned influencers/creators with very specific hair textures, the white gaze leaked into our safe space and forced us to reckon with it. Accurate representations of natural hair in various states of being—undefined curls, kinks, and unlaid edges—are still absent from brand marketing. Protective styles, though intended to provide breaks from styling for our sensitive hair, have become a mask to help our hair be more palatable. A figurative straddle of the fence in order to appease the comfort of others in the face of our hair’s power.
And then there’s the issue of length.
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As a woman who has spent much of the last decade voluntarily wearing her hair in many variations of short hairstyles, from a pixie cut to a curly fro and a sleek bob, what I’ve gleaned throughout the years is that there is a glaring difference between how I am treated when wearing my hair short than when I opt for weaves, extensions or even grow it out slightly longer than my chin.
The differential treatment comes from women and men alike and spans professional and personal settings, including friends, coworkers, and industry peers.
What has become abundantly clear is that long hair is often conflated with beauty, softness, and any number of other words we relate to femininity in a way that short hair is not. That perceived marker of the essence of womanhood shows up in how I am received, communicated with, and complimented.
Even more so than texture, length has a way of deciding who among us is deserving of our attention, affection, and adoration. Whether naturally grown or proudly bought, the commentary around someone’s look or image greatly shifts when “inches” are present.
When it comes to long hair, we really, really do care.
In an effort to understand whether I had simply been misinterpreting the energy around my hair, I decided to take my findings to social media. I began with two side-by-side photos of myself. In both pictures, my hair is straightened; however, in one, I am wearing my signature pixie cut, and in the other, I am wearing extensions.
I posited that treatment based on hair length is a real thing, and what followed was confirmation that I was not alone in my feelings. “Long hair, like light skin, button noses, and being thin are all forms of social capital,” one user commented. “Some Black women enforce the status quo too, why wouldn’t we?”
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This also brought to mind the many times celebrity women (like most recently Beyoncé's Cécred hair tutorial) have done big reveals of their own natural tresses in an attempt to silence any doubt that Black women are able to grow their hair beyond a certain length. Of course, we all know that to be true, so why do we still feel the need to prove it so?
The responses continued to pour in from women of all skin tones, who felt that hair length played a role in people’s treatment of them. “When I have short hair I always feel like people don’t treat me like a woman, they treat me like a kid,” another user commented. “When my hair is long I get a lot more respect for some reason.”
From revelations about feeling invisible to admitted shifts in their own perceived beauty, Black woman after Black woman poured out her experience as it relates to hair length. Though affirmed by their shared realities, knowing that reactions to something so trivial have become yet another hair battle for Black women to fight was disheartening. Though we continue to defy gravity and push the bounds of imagination and creativity by way of our strands, will it always be in response to the idea that we are, somehow, falling short?
Unlike more obvious instances of hair discrimination, the glorification of longer length is sneakier in its connection to Eurocentric beauty standards. Hair commercials, beauty ads, and even hip-hop music have long celebrated the idea of gloriously long tresses while holding onto the ignorant notion that it is inaccessible for Black women.
Even as we continue to fight to prove our hair professional, elegant, and worthy in its natural state to the world at large, we’ve also adopted harmful value markers of our own as a community. It’s evident in how we talk about who has the right to start a haircare line and which influencers we easily platform. It’s evident in the language we use to identify those with long hair versus short hair. And it’s painfully obvious in how we treat one another.
It makes me wonder if India.Arie’s brave rallying cry, almost two decades old in its existence, will ever actually hold true for us. Or will we just continue to invent new ways to uphold the harmful status quo?
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Feature image by Willie B. Thomas/ Getty Images