[Picture is her tenth anniversary trip; hiking the Navajo Trail in Bryce Canyon just after sunrise.]

The first year of marriage was hard for me. I thought it was because my independent streak and need for alone-time were too powerful to make living with another something that came naturally; hadn’t I had the same difficulty on my mission? I certainly wasn’t conflicted about marriage, but I was fairly ambivalent toward the whole having-kids-thing and was motivated by career dreams.

 I didn’t know whom to talk to about my difficulties. I’d never met anyone who suggested the first year of marriage was anything but bliss: a never-ending honeymoon. More than one friend told me with a wink and a smile that if you put a jellybean in a jar every time you had sex the first year, you could eat one of those jellybeans every time you were intimate in the years after and never run out. I hate jellybeans. I was also told that women give sex to get love, and that men show love to get sex.It took SEVEN years of marriage before I realized, in fact, much of my difficulty had nothing to do with independence, but everything to do with sex. And maybe a bit to do with a birth control pill that triggered severe emotional meltdowns in place of ovulation. 

 As a biology teacher, I was plenty smart about the mechanics of sex. I was also plenty smart about Church doctrine regarding sex. On my mission I’d asked Australian men at the peak of their virility to live the law of chastity without flinching. What I didn’t know was anything about how married LDS men and women felt about the sex act itself, or the appropriateness of an LDS women oozing sex appeal for her husband. Any talk from a church leader that I’d ever heard regarding sex was about fornication and sin and pornography and agency with the occasional addendum, “Sex is wonderful, but later.”

 When I was engaged to my sweetheart I had no doubt we were attracted to one another. I knew holding hands was blissful, kissing incredible and that certain kinds of touches had to be avoided for fear of starting “the launch sequence.” What I didn’t know is how powerful the sex drive is for men. I didn’t know I would feel a measure of guilt over something that had been a “no” my whole life. A single “yes” wasn’t enough to undo my many and varied hang-ups. I didn’t know how to talk to my husband carefully and tenderly about what I did and didn’t like during our lovemaking. I didn’t realize that sex wasn’t just for him, or a tool of manipulation for me: it was something for us.

 LDS women will talk, at length, about intensely personal things from episiotomies to hysterectomies. But we don’t often talk about sex—our reservations and difficulties, advice for eradicating some of our unhealthier inhibitions, or the sheer enjoyment to be taken from this act of perfect union.

 Please don’t misunderstand: sex is not only highly personal but sacred. I’m not advocating devolving our girl-talk into kiss-and-tell sessions. But there must be times when it is appropriate to ask questions of people you trust. There must be circumstances where we feel okay about confiding the joy that comes after the best lovemaking.

 Mostly I think I’m talking about communication with our spouses on a more specific and personal level. After seven years and several key events I wondered when exactly I had begun taking my husband’s love for granted. When, exactly, did I start treating him like a roommate who occasionally received his wife’s dutiful intimacy? And in the dark, on a walk in the woods, I was finally honest with him about my issues.

 When we became open with one another, it broke my heart to learn that my husband’s too-often reluctance was a fear of being rejected. These fears led him to be less attentive, leading me to be less willing, etc., etc. Neither of us had been able to break a cycle we didn’t even realize we were trapped in.  I was energized. I had once flirted and acted coy. I had once put all my effort and energy into attracting his wonderful self, and I could do it again.

 Guess what? I found joy that summer. Real joy. Our relationship flourished under the attention of regular dates and frequent pillow talk—both as foreplay and as tender communication afterward. I didn’t give sex to get love, but when I was a willing, and even eager partner, my eternal companion was able to express love in a way I had only caught glimpses of before. Sex and love ceased to be dichotomies, and instead intimacy became as valuable to our relationship as serving, working and parenting.

 How can we teach our children to recognize the glorious and empowering divine to be experienced with the act of sex while simultaneously warning them against the darker and debasing aspects of human sexuality? How can we move beyond the “fire warms and fire burns” adage to teach them that sensuality and spirituality are not mutually exclusive?

Related posts:

1. Aren’t I Lucky?
2. …That Lovin’ Feeling?
3. To be an Help Meet for him…