The XX Factor: What women really think.

True Love Messes Around

Oy. All due respect, et cetera. True love does not wait. True love necks, cops a feel. True love tries to put off the inevitable and distracts itself giving a blow job. True love gags a little bit, momentarily forgets it is true love, re-evaluates itself—if this does not feel particularly loving, does my selfless dedication to this higher purpose at least underscore its truth?—oh crap here come the Park Police …

Now, I speak as an avowed nonbeliever in the sacredness of sex. I have committed the act hundreds of times, not always under the influence of alcohol, and never once felt the presence of the Holy Spirit.* And I am one of those heathens who has run the numbers on America's Gross National Sin way too many times to be particularly inclined to get up in the morning if not for some deeply-ingrained irrational hope that some savior, perhaps under the guise of a cleverly formulated stimulus package designed amid a powerful resurgence of cultural humanism, might descend and forgive the bulk of them. I feel the Holy Spirit all the time, at the deli and the movies and sometimes even looking at pictures of children that light up when they call their parents' iPhones.

You never hit "ignore" on your kid. That feels like a sin. And adultery—not redefined Clintonesquely to include premarital sex, but full-on cheating— feels like a sin. Merely flirting with cheating generally feels bad enough to deter wusses like me, and maybe that is why I haven't married, but anyway, the point of this is that the older I get the more confounded I am that so many Americans strive so hard to ask our kids—who are, to be sure, the byproducts of our screwing but we hopefully weren't thinking of them at the time—to take sex seriously as a sin.

I grew up the eldest child in a very conservative Catholic family (whose conservatism has basically been all but decimated by time and events and exposure to the Simpsons, thank Jesus or this week would be painful). Growing up, I thought premarital sex was sinful. But I had spent a few formative years during the first Bush administration in China, a society that had declared an entirely different battery of activities to be sinful: reading, expressing opinions, owning stuff—especially if it in any way acknowledged the past—failing to renounce one's parents if they happened to be bourgeois counterrevolutionary running dogs, etc. etc. Even at 12, it occurred to me that (protected) sex, if one could find a place to have some, might be the one uncorrupted joy experienced in the lifetimes of most of the dreary-faced adults I saw (bicycling, very mirthlessly, to work each day) on the street. I remember feeling so awful for them. I remember feeling terribly sinful that I could not, or didn't want to, give anyone "half" of what I had, as Jesus would have, not that there was any real practical way of doing that, which, by the way, is a big reason communism didn't work out.

But anyway, the point is that I never felt remotely that sinful about sex. I think most of the guilt that we feel about sex has to do with confusion we've created by dubbing it a "sin." Of the various reasons I've felt guilty about honest, unadulterated sex—does he think I am his girlfriend now? why did I watch that porn?—it always seems to go back to fundamental dishonesty. Elevating sex to sin, that is to say, was the original sin.

*Ha ha, boner joke optional here.

(And P.S., any future kids of mine who might ever stumble across this blog post or anything else I've ever written on the subject, there are a LOT of conditions, footnotes, and appendices to all this and by the way, I was nearly 19 when I lost my virginity, and as far as I'm concerned, you can wait that long, too.)