A ‘failure to launch’

— Why young people are having less sex

By Hannah Fry

Vivian Rhodes figured she would eventually have sex.

She was raised in a Christian household in Washington state and thought sex before marriage would be the ultimate rebellion. But then college came and went — and no sex. Even flirting “felt unnatural,” she said.

In her early 20s, she watched someone she followed on Tumblr come out as asexual and realized that’s how she felt: She had yet to develop romantic feelings for anyone, and the physical act of sex just didn’t sound appealing.

“Some people assume this is about shaming other people, and it’s not,” said Rhodes, 28, who works as a certified nursing assistant in Los Angeles. “I’m glad people have fun with it and it works for them. But I think sex is kind of gross. It seems very messy, and it’s vulnerable in a way that I think would be very uncomfortable.”

For what researchers say is an array of reasons — including technology, heavy academic schedules and an overall slower-motion process of growing up — millennials and now Gen Zers are having less sex, with fewer partners, than their parents’ and grandparents’ generations did. The social isolation and transmission scares of the COVID-19 pandemic have no doubt played a role in the shift. But researchers say that’s not the whole story: The “no rush for sex” trend predates the pandemic, according to a solid body of research.

UCLA has been tracking behavioral trends for years through its annual California Health Interview Survey, the largest state health survey in the nation. It includes questions about sexual activity. In 2021, the survey found, the number of young Californians ages 18 to 30 who reported having no sexual partners in the prior year reached a decade high of 38%. In 2011, 22% of young people reported having no sexual partners during the prior year, and the percentage climbed fairly steadily as the decade progressed.

California adults ages 35 to 50 who participated in UCLA’s 2021 survey also registered an increase in abstinence from 2011 to 2021. But with the percentage of “no sex” respondents rising from 9% to 14% during that time frame, the increase was not as pronounced.

The broader trend of young adults forgoing sex holds true nationally.

The University of Chicago’s General Social Survey — which has been following shifts in Americans’ behavioral trends for decades — found that 3 in 10 Generation Z males, ages 18 to 25, surveyed in 2021 reported having gone without sex the prior year. One in four Gen Z women also reported having had no sex the prior year, according to Jean Twenge, a San Diego State University psychology professor who reviewed the data for her book “Generations.”

In an age where hook-ups might seem as unlimited as a right swipe on a dating app, it’s easy to assume that Gen Z “should be having the time of their lives sexually,” Twenge said.

But that’s not how it’s playing out. Twenge said the decline has been underway for roughly two decades.

She attributed the slowdown in sexual relations most significantly to what she calls the “slow-life factor.” Young people just aren’t growing up as fast as they once did. They’re delaying big milestones such as getting their driver’s licenses and going to college. And they’re living at home with their parents a lot longer.

“In times and places where people live longer and education takes longer, the whole developmental trajectory slows down,” she said. “And so for teens and young adults, one place that you’re going to notice that is in terms of dating and romantic relationships and sexuality.”

A slight majority of 18- to 30-year-olds — about 52% — reported having one sexual partner in 2021, a decrease from 2020, according to the UCLA survey. The proportion of young adults who reported having two or more sexual partners also declined, from 23% in 2011 to 10% in 2021.

Though sex was on the decline in the years leading into the pandemic, COVID-19 made dating trickier.

Many people tightened their social circles when the pandemic surged in 2020 and 2021. And young people’s reliance on cellphones and apps for their social interactions only intensified when in-person meet-ups posed a risk of serious illness.

In general, people coming of age in an era of dating apps say the notion of starting a relationship with someone they meet in person — say a chance encounter at a bar or dance club — seems like a piece of nostalgia. Even friendships are increasingly forged over texting and video chats.

“A lot of young people when you talk to them will say their best friends are people they’ve never met,” said Jessica Borelli, a professor of psychological science at UC Irvine. “Sometimes they live across the country or in other countries, and yet they have these very intimate relationships with them. … The in-person interface is not nearly as essential for the development of intimacy as it might be for older people.”

Ivanna Zuniga, 22, who recently graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in psychological sciences, said her peers have largely delayed sex and romance to focus on education and career. Zuniga, who is bisexual, has been with her partner for about four years. But their sex life is sporadic, she said, adding that they hadn’t been intimate in the month leading up to her graduation.

“I’ve been really preoccupied with my studies, and I’m always stressed because of all the things I have going on,” she said. “My libido is always shot, and I don’t really ever think about sex.”

The sexless phenomenon has made its way into pop culture. Gone are the days when meet-cutes in bars leading to one-night stands and sex at college parties were the cornerstone of coupling in films.

In “No Hard Feelings,” released this year, a 32-year-old woman is hired by “helicopter parents” to deflower their shy 19-year-old son. At a party, the woman frantically searching for her date busts open bedroom doors where she expects to find people feverishly tangled in sheets. Instead, she finds teens sitting side by side on a bed, fully clothed, scrolling their phones or playing virtual reality games. Bemused, she yells, “Doesn’t anyone f— anymore?”

While there are practical benefits to waiting to be in a physical relationship, including less risk of sexually transmitted diseases and unplanned pregnancy, Twenge argued that there are also downsides to young people eschewing sex and, more broadly, intimacy. Unhappiness and depression are at all-time highs among young adults, trend lines Twenge ties to the rise of smartphones and social media. And she noted with concern the steady decline in the birth rate.

“It creates the question of whether Social Security can survive,” Twenge said. “Will there be enough young workers to support older people in the system? Will there be enough young workers to take care of older people in nursing homes and in assisted-care facilities?”

Zuniga, who plans to pursue a doctorate in clinical psychology, can’t imagine pausing her education or career to have children, so safe sex is particularly important, she said. Others interviewed said “horror stories” involving friends who contracted herpes or other sexually transmitted infections had turned them off from casual sex.

“I prioritize my studies too much, and I can’t fathom the thought of having my identity as an academic fall secondary to being a mother,” Zuniga said. “Moving out of the income bracket that you’re born into is so hard to do, and a very secure way to do it is through education.”

For Rhodes, not having sex has taken a lot of the pressure off social interactions.

“It lets me relax,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t care about how I look or how I come off to other people. But I have a little extra help caring less about it, because I don’t have to worry about attracting specific kinds of people for specific things.”

And she pushes back against the notion that shying away from sex is some sort of societal problem that needs to be “fixed.” It might even be a sign that young people have more control of their bodies and desires, she said.

“Maybe you don’t have to have sex all the time,” Rhodes said. “Maybe if you’re doing other things in your life, and you’ve got other priorities, or you just don’t feel like it, that can be a good enough answer.”

Complete Article HERE!

The rise of voluntary celibacy

— ‘Most of the sex I’ve had, I wish I hadn’t bothered’

More and more people are choosing to go without sex. And, in many cases, they’ve never been happier

By

Caitlin didn’t set out to become celibate – at least not in the beginning. Three years ago, she was coming out of an abusive relationship and wasn’t ready to meet someone else. Then Covid happened, and the lockdowns made it impossible anyway. “I thought during that time I needed space to heal and reflect on what I’d been through,” she says. Towards the end of 2020, the 23-year-old artist started therapy. “I realised if I was going to be sexually active, I needed someone who would understand my past, and where I was coming from. I don’t want to be with someone unless I know it’s committed, and I’m not in a rush to find that.”

She had been on dating apps, but found it hard to meet men who wanted a relationship, rather than just sex. “I found they would stop talking to me if I made it known I wasn’t going to hook up with them on the first date. I found a lot of men would put on a bit of an act to appear as if they wanted a relationship, then as soon as you took sex off the table while getting to know them, they disappeared. It’s tricky when a lot of dating is around hook-up culture, which I’m not interested in.”

Caitlin’s celibacy, three years in now, became intentional. She hasn’t missed sex itself, she says, and certainly not casual sex, although sometimes, “seeing people in relationships and having healthy sex lives, can make me go: ‘Why don’t I have that?’” But it has had unintentional benefits. “It’s taught me more about what I enjoy in sex, which I wasn’t expecting. I thought it was going to put me at a disadvantage, but I feel a lot more confident in my own sexuality.” While sex with someone else is out, masturbation is still in, and she says her libido has increased. “I think because exploring different things without dealing with another person has allowed me to find what I enjoy.” It has also made her more relaxed about finding a relationship (or not). “I’ve got other things to focus on. It’s if someone fits into my life rather than me needing to make room for them.”

On TikTok, voluntary or intentional celibacy has become a trend – the #celibacy hashtag has had more than 195m views – with those who practise it claiming it has improved their focus, mental health and energy. In January, it was reported that there was a 90% increase in Google searches for celibacy that month.

“This coincides with a long‑term trend among people today, in general, having less sex with fewer partners,” says Dr Justin Lehmiller, a Kinsey Institute research fellow and host of the Sex and Psychology podcast. “Humans are increasingly less sexually active, with some forgoing sex altogether.” Study after study of sexual behaviour, in different countries, show this. The last National Survey of Sexual Attitudes and Lifestyles (Natsal) in Britain found that 16% of men and 22% of women aged 16 to 74 were sexually inactive, and for most of them, it wasn’t a problem. While the authors noted the documented wellbeing benefits of a satisfying sex life, of those who had previously had sexual experience, the majority were not dissatisfied with their situation (around a third of men, and a quarter of women reported they were dissatisfied, although age had an effect, with younger people more dissatisfied than older people). The Natsal data is more than 10 years old, though, and its authors noted in a 2019 paper on the sexually inactive how little is known about them.

The National Survey of Sexual Health and Behavior in the US found that between 2009 and 2018 there was a rise in adolescents reporting no sexual activity (partnered and alone), from 28.8% to 44.2% of young men and from 49.5% to 74% of young women. In one interview, the study’s authors raised several possible contributing factors, including gaming and social media taking time and precedence, more awareness of asexuality as an identity, a decline in alcohol use, an increase in “rough sex” practices such as choking that may be frightening or off-putting to many, and lower incomes.

Voluntary celibacy in the US, where Lehmiller is based, seems to have more links to religion than it does in the UK. Furthermore, he says, “in this #MeToo and post-Roe era [with the rollback of reproductive rights] we find ourselves in, the perceived risks associated with sex are higher, particularly for women. And, when you factor in the orgasm gap and the fact that women’s pleasure still isn’t on a par with men’s, some women are asking themselves whether sex is even worth it. If you see it as a high-risk, low-reward kind of thing, you might decide you’re better off without it.”

He suggests that celibacy, for some, may be part of “the growing trend towards delayed adulthood. Individuals might see sex and relationships as distractions, or as not having much point until they’ve found stability in other life circumstances.” The pressures of studying, establishing a career or saving for a home may take priority. While voluntary celibacy seems less popular among non‑religious heterosexual men, some have talked online about intentional celibacy providing more focus for their careers, with sex being a distraction.

For those who are dating, apps have changed the way many people find partners, but as Lehmiller points out, online dating is an arena “where there’s a lot of toxic behaviour, brutal rejection and feelings of intense competition for mates. It can make sex and relationships feel like a high-stress, high-stakes thing. Some people may find that taking a pause from that is good for their mental health.”

While celibacy is for many a positive personal choice, it can also be viewed as the result of, or a reaction against, a messed-up sexual culture, just as some of the second wave feminists chose political lesbianism decades ago. Last year, the “femcel”, or “female involuntary celibate”, went mainstream. “They feel the same sense of ‘humiliation and exclusion’ that ‘incels’ do,” as a piece in the Atlantic put it, “but they react to those feelings differently.”

Unlike the notorious misogynistic incels who blame women for not wanting to have sex with them, femcels posting in online groups tend to blame their celibacy on the soul-destroying sexual landscape and a society that, for all its hollow talk of “body positivity”, is still obsessed with looks and beauty conventions.

Louise Perry, author of The Case Against the Sexual Revolution, says that many young heterosexual women “now feel as if they have to run the gauntlet of hook-up culture if they want to have any kind of sexual relationship. I think a lot of them, quite fairly, would rather not have any sexual relationship at all.” The influence and availability of pornography, she adds, “has had a really destructive effect on sexual culture.” She says surveys show that “most women don’t get that much out of casual sex. The problem is, because our sexual culture is so oriented towards a more masculine style of sexuality, a lot of young women in particular don’t feel as if they are able to demand commitment from their partners. Increasing numbers are opting out of the sexual culture altogether.”

It’s naive, she says, to think you can simply choose to avoid pornography and casual sex if you’re sexually active, “because the nature of sex in general, and social relationships, is that they’re networked – you have sex with people who have sex with other people, who watch porn. Even if you choose not to do that, other people do it, and it changes the culture. I think that, particularly in young people, who are super-sensitive to what other people think about them, the default setting now is to have pornified, casual sex.” For some people, opting out might feel like their only option.


Not that voluntary celibacy has just been invented. Stephen gave up sex more than 20 years ago, when he had just turned 40. “I’d become disillusioned with the gay scene, and too much casual sex with strangers. While I was in my 20s it could be fun, but most of the time, when I had sex with someone I’d just met, I was always hoping it was going to be more than just the one night. I was hoping for a relationship.” The last time he had sex, he contracted syphilis, which was the final straw.

A year or so ago, now in his early 60s, Stephen thought he might make another attempt at a sex life. “I gave Grindr a go, and that was quite an eye-opener.” The dating scene had changed in his decades of celibacy, with apps making casual hook-ups even easier, and he says he was alarmed by the number of people who wanted to have sex while taking drugs. He went on three dates with different men. “We did a bit of touching and kissing, but when it came to going any further, each time I said: ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ Now I’ve put myself back on the shelf. Most of the sex I’ve ever had, I wish I hadn’t bothered. It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be and it just seems so much effort for something that’s over quickly. Looking back, it’s all very disappointing.”

He has missed intimacy, but companionship and affection have come from friends and his dogs. He is still open to being in a relationship, he says, and hasn’t lost his sex drive, but he thinks he is unlikely to meet someone now. “I’d need to have sex with someone I’ve known, even just for a few weeks, or a few days, instead of with someone whose name you can’t quite remember. An intimate but non-sexual relationship might be the best for me. It would be nice to lie in bed with someone, be an old married couple from the start.”

Celibacy, says Ammanda Major, head of clinical practice for Relate, “works when it works, and it doesn’t work when it doesn’t work. A lot of this comes down to: is this something that you feel is important to you, and you’re doing it for you? Or is it something that you feel is imposed on you, for reasons that might be very difficult? Like you’ve had a period without a partner, or you’ve gone through a period of ill health, whether mental or physical.” If it hasn’t been a positive choice, she says, it could “cause people to feel potentially unloved and uncared for”.

It can also raise problems, unsurprisingly, in relationships where one partner wants to follow a celibate lifestyle, but the other doesn’t. In that situation, you have to be willing to have a potentially difficult conversation about what it means for your relationship. Our society puts a lot of emphasis on sex, “but it’s not for everyone”, she says. “Celibacy can be a conscious decision, or it may be something that you just gently morph into and that also feels OK for you.” Major suggests asking yourself what celibacy brings to your life. “Are you cutting yourself off from sex, or are you cutting yourself off from intimacy? Are they the same for you? Can you be intimate while being celibate?”

It can certainly have benefits in a variety of situations, she says. “It’s not unusual for people after the breakup of a relationship, or periods of a lot of sexual activity, to take a step back and think: ‘I need to do some self-care, which involves taking myself out of this sexual arena at the moment. I will engage with it again at some point, but this is time to think about what I want to do next.’ Which may be to maintain celibacy, or it may be to engage with an intimate partner or several partners.”

Without her period of intentional celibacy a few years ago, after a breakup, Kelly Jenner believes she wouldn’t have changed her relationship patterns for the better. “I went for men who were very unavailable,” she says. “Now I’m in the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had – I’ve got clear boundaries, we have healthy conversations, whereas I never had that before I did intentional celibacy.” Now a breakup recovery coach, Jenner often recommends a period of celibacy to others. How long it lasts is less important, she thinks, than the intention; simply a sexless period between partners doesn’t necessarily come with the same benefits. “The intention changes your whole mindset around dating.”

For Hope Flynn, 31, head of content for iPlaySafe, a home-testing STI kit and app, her eight-month stretch of celibacy – she had been having sex about three times a week, so it was intentional rather than a mere dry spell – was about resetting her attitudes to sex. “I really enjoy sex, but I started to notice I was using it in the wrong way,” she says. She was going through a difficult time – she was trying to launch a business and had experienced a couple of bereavements – and would seek no-strings sex as a distraction and for comfort.

“It wasn’t really doing anything for me, other than making me feel as if I was making wrong decisions. I had to put the brakes on it for a few months, and focus on myself and making myself feel better.” It was sometimes difficult, she says. “It was lonely at times, and I felt like I was being my own fun police, but it was needed.”

Earlier this year, she had another period of abstention – this time from pornography and masturbation, because she felt that had got out of control. “I wanted to have a better relationship with porn, and use my own imagination a bit more.” Both sexual breaks helped her focus on other areas of her life by removing sex as a distraction, and it made her appreciate sex more when she started being intimate again. “When I was having sex so regularly, it just becomes something that you do, but it was nice to have that break and make it special again.”

Some names have been changed

Complete Article HERE!

Surviving purity culture

— How I healed a lifetime of sexual shame

By Linda Kay Klein

In the 1990s, a movement born out of the white, American, evangelical Christian church swept the globe: purity culture. They weren’t the first or only fundamentalist religion to sexually shame women & girls. But this time, the message was mainstream, almost cool: women and girls are either pure or impure, depending on their sexuality. Decades later, we’re just starting to grapple with the long-term effects of these teachings. In this deeply intimate talk, Linda Kay Klein shares how she recovered from purity culture’s toxic teaching — and how she helps others do the same.

Linda Kay Klein is the award-winning author of “Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement that Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free.” She is a purity culture recovery coach and the founder and president of Break Free Together, a nonprofit serving individuals recovering from gender- and sexuality-based religious trauma. She has an interdisciplinary Master’s degree in gender, sexuality, and religion from New York University and is a trained Our Whole Lives (OWL) sexuality education facilitator. This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community.

I Haven’t Had Sex In A Year

– And It’s Made Me Completely Rethink My Concept Of Pleasure

By Kayla Jacobs

I haven’t had sex in a year. Just over a year, to be precise. And when it’s been 365 days and counting, every single second matters.

When you’re in the prime of your life, you’re supposed to be having a lot of sex. Isn’t it the ultimate sign of desirability, power, and magnetism? Not having it, by the same token, means you’re… flawed, unattractive, hopeless. Late at night (well, actually, at all times of the day), I’ve tormented myself with these notions.

I derive much of my sense of pleasure from what I give as opposed to what I receive. Flying solo is epic, but, for me, sex doesn’t truly count unless it’s with another living, breathing human. Two months is a dry spell. Twelve months plus is akin to a crime. I’ve allowed feelings of shame to percolate – shame that I haven’t let someone else into my innermost sanctum, shame about being a woman in her childbearing years who does want children but isn’t doing the physical act that brings them forth.

In March, after seven years in the US, I returned to London, drawn back by Covid, wanting to be nearer my family. While the visceral, messy glory of being with another human played like a loop in my mind, I made a pact: I would start to savour the smallest of moments and triumph in that connection with myself whenever I damn well could. I took joy in the fleeting: a pastel-hued sunset, a fat red rose, winks from perfect strangers, greedily inhaling the earthy cologne of passers-by. These teeny tiny moments began to feel like the very largest of pleasures to me, the biggest fireworks in the sky.

I became adept at tracing every inch of my physical body, inviting her daily to cross self-imposed barriers. I raged against my femininity, too, turning away from my reflection so that I couldn’t remember what I’d lost sight of. I thought about decamping to the foothill of the Himalayas to lead a monastic and pandemic-free life while simultaneously imagining what it would be like if I were run over while wearing mismatched underwear, leaving an odorous trail of “Chaste” hanging in the air. Who would ever know?

Why haven’t I been intimate with someone? Besides the circumstantial, Covid made the mere thought of kissing anyone feel as scary as jumping out of a plane with no parachute. Then, I reconnected with an old flame on the other side of the world – he was recording an album in Nashville, and the serenading and seducing through the ether made me feel alive for a hot minute. Ultimately, creativity only took us so far, with audio messages, texting, and image-sharing morphing into a bad country ballad tied up in a synthetic rhinestone shirt.

Having experienced bouts of abstinence before – though I’ve never defined them as that – this time, I wanted to prioritise my pleasure viscerally, care for the things that felt broken, find a voice for the things untouched, unsaid and unseen within me. And so, I experimented with all manner of sex tech – beginning with a pelvic floor trainer (yes, yes, it’s a thing), moving on to unique pastel shapes that gave potent vibrations. I tried an amethyst yoni egg. I read “erotic” literature that ran the gamut from Anaïs Nin to Bram Stoker, DH Lawrence, and Lisa Taddeo, devouring fictional depictions of other people’s sexual adventures and missteps which comforted and sometimes turned me on.< I listened to Dipsea, described as “sexy audio stories that spark your imagination and get you in the mood”, and podcasts such as Melissa Wells’s Love Sex & Magic, Kim Anami’s Orgasmic Enlightenment, and a lot of The Adam Buxton Podcast (I find his voice and thoughts very sexy). I layered all manner of scented offerings on myself, trying to figure out what combination is dynamite to my nose while lighting candles and nearly burning my home down, all in an ode to my favourite sense: smell. I sang along to songs that felt for a few minutes like they belonged just to me: “Unfinished Sympathy” (Massive Attack), “I Want You” (Marvin Gaye), “Glory Box” (Portishead), “The Sweetest Taboo” (Sade).

And I gave myself plenty of orgasms. I fed my hungry skin with self-touch and attention, in a manner entirely separate from reimagining the weight of a man I might fancy the pants off enveloping me.

It’s been interesting watching in slow-motion as the wheels of the world have screeched to a standstill, and how I’ve wanted sex so much more, prioritised it in my head, ruminated on passion and the privilege of permission, especially in the face of fear and anxiety. The lack of physical intimacy has consumed me because it’s the ultimate barometer of what it means to be alive – in a world where we as women are often expected to put ourselves last, enforced isolation has cut to the heart of desire as a thing of uncommon beauty, to be upheld no matter what.

When I reached out to Dorottya Varga from Heroine Journal, an e-zine that amplifies the female perspective through a holistic lens, she congratulated me on not having had sex for a year, which made me smile and then made me feel proud. She said she was new to celibacy but was choosing not to have physical intimacy or be in a physical relationship for the time being because she believed that her desires are shaping her reality. “My desires most of my life have revolved around sex or men. I’m finding myself constantly chasing being in relationships, and I need a perspective shift,” she said. “I believe that sexual energy is creative energy, and if I am to focus all of that energy on me, I know I can build anything I want for myself, create an endless pot, give all that juice to me.”

Giving my fears and desires room to flourish has been challenging. At times, the shame and the pride mingle in a strange stew which sometimes I want to devour and other times completely repulses me. But, on reflection, thinking about my sex life as part of a daily self-care ritual – an inherently solitary pursuit – seems to me like the gateway to genuine connection. Isolation has become more than just feeling sad, lonely, or even the fantasy of a next encounter, but about imagining what it might be like to restart my sex life from a different perspective, the one where I embrace that noble ideal: intimacy with myself, even when I don’t feel like it.

Complete Article HERE!

Exactly what happens to your body when you don’t have sex for a long time

– or at all

by Paisley Gilmour

We often hear terms like ‘blue balls’ and ‘sexual frustration’ – but what are the real physical and mental effects of a dry spell?

In our sex-obsessed society, people who don’t have sex ever or for a very long time are often seen as abnormal or unusual.

For people who find pleasure and enjoyment in masturbating and having partnered sex, the idea that someone chooses not to or just doesn’t feel sexual attraction can be quite hard to understand. But many asexuals and people who are celibate are perfectly healthy despite not having sex for long periods (or ever, in some cases).

Yet still, people feel concerned about the effects – both mental and physical – of not having sex for a long time. We all often overhear people using terms like ‘blue balls’ and ‘sexual frustration’ – so what exactly are the effects of not having sex for a long time?

Asexuality and celibacy

Asexuals are people who do not feel or experience sexual attraction. Asexuality is a valid sexual orientation, and is not a choice despite being regularly confused with celibacy. Some asexual people do still masturbate and have sex. Asexuality is a spectrum and everyone experiences it differently.

Celibacy is when someone chooses not to have sex, for an extended period of time or forever. People choose to be celibate for a number of reasons, ranging from religious beliefs to simply wanting to focus more on other aspects of life.

Physical effects of not having sex for a long time

When someone does not have sex for a while, it is unlikely there will be a negative physical side effect, according to Dr Earim Chaudry, medical director at Manual. ‘A study showed that compared males and females who have not had sex in the last year against males and females who have not had sex for more than five years. Results showed that “sexless Americans reported very similar happiness levels as their sexually active counterparts”.’

However, Chaudry points out that there are physical benefits that are associated with sex. ‘Sex can make your body release hormones, like oxytocin and endorphins which are known as “happy hormones” which help with reducing your blood pressure and lowering stress levels.’

Stress and sexual frustration

‘Not having sex for a long time can result in sexual frustration and pent up emotions because the hormone changes that occur during sex and orgasm are not happening. This is more common in men but applicable for all genders,’ says Dr Shirin Lakhani, a cosmetic doctor and a recognised expert in the field of intimate health at Elite Aesthetics.

Research has shown that sexual intercourse is more effective at relieving stress than masturbation.

This can result in people of all and any genders feeling frustrated and experiencing dips in their mood. ‘Research has also shown that sexual intercourse is more effective at relieving stress than masturbation, so people who are not having sex may feel more stressed than usual,’ she adds. ‘This is because sex increases the levels of endorphins and the hormone oxytocin produced by the brain. Oxytocin can offset the effects of the stress-causing hormone cortisol.’

Arousal and orgasm

Lakhani says women and people with vaginas may experience changes in their bodies as a response to a decrease in sexual intercourse and orgasm. ‘Women who are less stimulated may experience a loss of lubrication, and it can also lead to problems getting aroused or reaching orgasm,’ she explains.

Circulation

Not having sex regularly can also negatively affect the circulation and blood vessels, according to Lakhani. ‘Studies have shown that having sex just twice a week halves a man’s chances of getting clogged arteries, compares to those who only do it less than once a month,’ she says.

‘A study showed that males who regularly ejaculate have shown a reduction in the risk of prostate cancer,’ says Chaudry.

Incontinence

For women and people with vulvas, Chaudry says ‘regular sex can strengthen the pelvic floor and in turn reduce likelihood of incontinence’.

Blue balls or epididymal hypertension

The term blue balls is actually an informal and colloquial term used to describe the condition epididymal hypertension (EH). ‘It affects people with male genitals and causes pain and aching of the testicles after having an erection without an orgasm,’ Lakhani explains. ‘It is often accompanied by a faint blue colour in the testicles, which is where it gets the nickname. It’s not serious but can cause pain and aching.’

Treatment for EH is by becoming unaroused and therefore moving blood flow to another area. Lakhani suggests exercising or taking a cold shower as well as listening to music or engaging in any activity that provides a distraction.

If you are easily stimulated you’re more likely to develop the condition, she adds, explaining that you don’t typically need to see a doctor unless it is regularly causing pain and impacting the enjoyment of your sex life.

Can women get blue balls?

‘Females and people with a vulva can experience a condition that is referred to colloquially as “blue vulva”,’ Lakhani says. The medical name for this condition is vasocongestion. In the same way as blue balls does, it occurs when the blood flow to the genitals increases with sexual arousal.

‘It can result in an aching feeling or a sensation of heaviness around the clitoris and vulva. It can be treated in a similar way to blue balls, with distraction techniques,’ she says.

Mental health effects of not having sex for a long time

‘Sex is a vital component of overall health. Not only does sex allow for human connection and intimacy, but it is important for a series of biological and psychological processes that contribute to our continuing wellbeing. Sexual frustration and the associated difficulties which arise can cause a great deal of distress and sadness,’ explains Daniel Sher, clinical psychologist and sex therapy expert at Between Us premature ejaculation clinic.

Depression and anxiety

Sher says the phenomenon of sexual frustration is an important one to consider from a psychological perspective, however he points out that research into this topic is sparse.

‘Animal studies have suggested that sexual frustration leads to a spike in cortisol levels. It is likely that the same is true for humans. Cortisol is a stress hormone and chronic activation of this chemical can lead to a series of psychiatric health problems. These include depression, anxiety, weight gain, elevated blood-sugar, insomnia and heart problems.’

He adds that for people who already experience low self-esteem, ‘sexual frustration can lead to severe feelings of shame and isolation. People in this situation frequently express a sense of being different, alone and unloveable.’

Low libido and sexual desire

A Between Us Clinic survey found women rated low libido as the most distressing sexual disorder in their male partner. Sher says this ‘likely speaks to the level of distress that can arise in a “sexless” relationship.’ He adds, ‘In fact, 29 per cent of the sample said that having a partner with low libido could lead them to end the relationship, which again demonstrates the psychological importance of having a healthy sexual relationship.’

Celibacy and mental health

Those who choose to be celibate are ‘likely to have alternate support structures in place in order to compensate for this,’ he says. ‘For example, someone who abstains for religious reasons is able to frame their experience of frustration in the context of their spiritual needs, which will make that experience of frustration more bearable.’

If someone is in involuntarily celibate, they may experience often experience shame, anger and disconnectedness. ‘They may feel embittered toward and shunned by mainstream culture. Within the online incel communities, for example, these sorts of feelings and experiences have inspired dangerous ideology that has led people (such as Eliot Roger, for example) to commit murder.’

If sexual frustration is causing you emotional distress

Sher says sexual frustration is easy to treat by ‘having massage or masturbating more frequently’. He adds, ‘It’s also important to remember that the psychological underpinning of sexual frustration is a sense of disconnection. Therefore, it’s a good idea to find alternate ways of connecting socially. Reach out to friends and family members. Volunteer with people or do some charity work. Alternatively, speak to a therapist in order to experience some of that much needed connection, while also exploring other proactive ways of coping.’

Complete Article HERE!

To end conversion therapy, we must understand what it actually means

By Travis Salway

On Monday, Calgary City Council voted, nearly unanimously, to pass a municipal ban of advertising around conversion therapy, which the city defined as “practice, treatment, or service designed to change, repress, or discourage a person’s sexual orientation, gender identity, or gender expression, or to repress or reduce non-heterosexual attraction or sexual behaviour.” In doing so, Calgary joined cities such as Vancouver, Edmonton and Fort McMurray, along with provinces including Ontario and, recently, Prince Edward Island, in passing legislation banning conversion therapies.

The discourse at the publicly-broadcast citizen debate before the council vote was polarizing, however, with hundreds of speakers passionately arguing on either side of the issue over two days. Those opposed to the ban argued that they do not want to see their fellow citizens subjected to torture – referencing electroshock and other physically severe forms of conversion therapy – but the proposed law unfairly criminalizes practitioners who are merely offering advice to people who are struggling with “unwanted” same-sex attraction or gender dysphoria.

Opponents of the ban claimed that these well-meaning conversations should not be conflated with “true forms” of conversion therapy. They defended this argument by noting that practitioners targeted by the ban do not try to “convert” anyone but, rather, aim to help people live cisgender, heterosexual lives that are compatible with religious doctrine.

This debate had a cardinal flaw: It didn’t centre on a single definition. As with many contentious social issues, language and meanings matter. By clarifying the intent of conversion therapy practices – their defining feature – we will be better prepared to evaluate legislative action at multiple levels of government, as efforts to end this practice continue.

Conversion therapy is a misnomer: Survivors of conversion therapy are not “converted”, and it is not therapeutic. All forms of conversion therapy – whether practiced in a licensed health care clinic, spiritual support group, pastor’s office or other setting – share a common premise, as described by Canadian legal scholar Florence Ashley: They begin with an assumption that some gender identities, gender expressions and sexual orientations are more desirable than others. More specifically, these practices seek to deny and suppress the identities of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer and two-spirit (LGBTQ2) people.

The practices themselves rely upon a variety of methods, including coaching, counseling, therapy, prayer and conversation. Individuals who undergo it are often left with feelings of self-doubt, anxiety and hopelessness, losing years of their lives that would otherwise be spent achieving a positive sense of self.

From national surveys conducted last year, we know that tens of thousands of LGBTQ2 Canadians have experienced conversion therapy. With the support of conversion-therapy survivors, I and other public-health researchers have been interviewing these Canadians. They frequently describe exactly the kind of “talk therapy” that opponents of the ban seek to protect, where a provider attempts to compel an individual to manage and resist expressions of gender or sexuality that differ from mainstream expectations. And these forms of conversion therapy induce psychological distress just as other more obviously traumatic forms of conversion therapy do.

To effectively prevent conversion therapy, legislative bans must adjust their definitions to clearly state that the defining feature of conversion therapy is not an attempt to “convert” or “change” intrinsic feelings of gender identity or expression or sexual orientation. Rather, the defining feature is the goal of avoiding acceptance and acknowledgement of LGBTQ2 lives as compatible with being healthy and happy. This healthy sense of self is something that all Canadians deserve, regardless of sexual orientation, gender identity or gender expression. That sense of self is what is fundamentally at stake in the debates over conversion therapy.

We must also acknowledge that no ban can eradicate all forms of conversion therapy. We need bans at all levels of government – municipal, provincial and federal – and for these legislative bans to share language, so they are all effectively complementary. And bans must be coupled with broader educational efforts.

In Canada, we must promote the affirmation of LGBTQ2 people, particularly to parents and caregivers who may otherwise consider conversion therapy for their children when they are struggling. Continuing legislative debates offer an opportunity for us as Canadians to clarify our position that LGBTQ2 people should be celebrated. Canadians who share these views should make their majority view known – particularly as our politicians continue to consider opportunities to safeguard the well-being of LGBTQ2 citizens.

Calgary’s new bylaw is just one example of an upsurge of proposed and enacted Canadian legislation to prevent conversion therapy. Bill C-8, an amendment to the federal Criminal Code, was tabled by federal government on March 9. While our country has gradually affirmed LGBTQ2 lives through legal and social changes in recent decades – including the addition of sexual orientation in 1995 and gender identity and expression in 2017, as statuses protected by the Charter of Rights and Freedoms – the public debate in Calgary served as a stark reminder: Stigma, fear and hatred of LGBTQ2 people are alive and well. The only way to resist these social biases is by speaking the same language.

Complete Article HERE!

How right-wing purity culture leaves women with lasting psychological damage and self-hate

By

The so-called “purity” culture in the Christian evangelical community has made millions for churches and Christian swag manufacturers. However, it’s been harming millions of teens across the country who made a vow of chastity before marriage.

Statistics reveal that 85 percent of men and 81 percent of women have sex prior to marriage, so the numbers aren’t looking good for the church. For those who made the pledge but fell short of the goal, damaging implications have followed, The Christian Post reported.

“Amid the rise of the #MeToo movement paired with reports of sex abuse within the Church, individuals whose lives were shaped by purity culture began to push back,” the report said. “They shared stories of how some of the more problematic aspects of the movement, though well-intentioned, caused them to have an unhealthy relationship with religion, relationships, and sex.”

Cait West revealed her upbringing in Christian patriarchy where women were to be submissive to male house-heads. Female children were not allowed to date unless it was a courtship seeking marriage. She recalled being “shamed for normal adolescent curiosity.” Any sexual thoughts meant she was basically fornicating.

“Dating was never an option,” she told The Christian Post in an interview. “I was never taught about sex or sexuality at all. I remember asking my parents, testing the waters, ‘What’s this about?’ And they brushed it aside. I was never allowed to explore or ask questions, so I never thought of myself as a sexual being because of that.”

She learned that women being sexual beings were bad. They weren’t allowed to be sexual. Everything was tied to shame. Even clothing had to be approved by her father, who would gauge the “modesty” of the outfit.

 

“My father would come to the store with me and judge everything I had on,” she said. “That overt male gaze judging my clothing throughout my adolescence and into my 20’s really shaped how I thought of myself because I never thought who I was from my perspective.”

That shame then turned to anxiety. It wasn’t until she left the faith at 25 that she began to explore the emotional damage that had been done. She called it “emotional, physical and spiritual trauma.”

“I felt very disconnected from my own body because I was never taught about the sexual part of me,” she said. “I didn’t want to think about my own body or explore my own sexuality because it was a dirty part of me I wasn’t allowed to explore. It made me feel weird about living in my own body, and I didn’t realize just how much I hated my own body until I left the movement.”

As a spouse, she now struggles to think of sex as something intimate for partners and not purely for procreation.

“I’ve had a lot of trouble with disassociation in sexually intimate moments because it’s too much for me to be present in my own body because it feels bad,” she explained. “For years, you’re told something is bad — and then suddenly you get married and you’re supposed to be OK with it. It was like I was trained not to have that part of me turned on or be aware of things.”

“I’ve been working through that process of figuring out what those toxic messages were and re-train myself to have agency,” she added.

Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement That Shamed a Generation of Women and How I Broke Free by Linda Kay Klein walks through the struggle with gender-based shame, fear and the emotional distress that can leave lasting damage to women. She began compiling stories from dozens of friends in the purity movement. All of the women experienced psychological problems related to sex and sexuality.

“My interviewees made different life choices, yet among their stories, I heard many of the same themes,” she shared. “I heard about sexual and gender-based shame, fear, anxiety, and experiences stemming from their shame that mimicked Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder, such as nightmares, panic attacks, and paranoia. Several of my interviewees told me their shame was also creating deep problems in their marriages, particularly in their marriage beds.”

She explained that as girls grow into women they’re still taught never to “inspire” sexual thoughts from men. It makes an easy transition to rape culture, which maintains that women are responsible for the actions of men raping or abusing them. In no other crime is the victim the responsible party. However, conservatives blame clothing or behavior of a victim for the actions of someone else.

“In other words, girls grew up with the message that not only did we need to be pure, but it was our responsibility to ensure that the whole community was pure. That’s a lot of pressure for a young girl!” exclaimed Klein.

But it’s the shame that leaves lasting damage to women who self-impose guilt. She noted the shame is a huge part of the purity movement.

“Shame isn’t bashfulness,” she said. “It is a feeling of our being unworthy, or being seen as unworthy in other people’s eyes, that causes us to disconnect from ourselves, from others, and—from what I’ve seen in my interviews—from God at times. It can lead to emotional isolation which can develop into dangerous levels of hopelessness, desperation, subsequent self-harm, and much more.”

Complete Article HERE!

How Evangelical Purity Culture Can Lead to a Lifetime of Sexual Shame

Former born-again Christian Linda Kay Klein combines personal reflections with years of research to trace the psychological effects of purity culture on women in her new memoir, “Pure.”

by Stephanie Dubick

For millions of girls growing up in evangelical Christianity, sexuality is a sin. Girls are sexual “stumbling blocks,” they’re told—a danger to the relationship between men and God.

Such is the way of the purity movement. Emerging out of white evangelicalism in the early 1990s, the conservative Christian movement—today promoted by both local churches and national organizations such as Focus on the Family and True Love Waits—emphasizes sexual purity and abstinence-only education. The cornerstone: If women remain virgins until the day they marry a man, they’re holy; if not, they’re damaged goods. To avoid the latter outcome, young adults are required to make promises—signified in the form of purity balls, rings, and pledges—to remain abstinent from puberty ’til “I do.”

After marriage, the metaphorical chastity belt unbuckles. But as writer Linda Kay Klein engrossingly details in her recently released book, Pure: Inside the Movement that Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free, the psychological effects don’t stop there; they can follow women into their adult lives, leading to mental and physical side effects similar to symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

In purity culture, both young men and women are taught that sex before marriage is wrong. But it’s teenage girls who end up most affected, Klein finds, because while boys are taught that their minds are a gateway to sin, women are taught that their bodies are. After years of being told that they’re responsible for not only their own purity, but the purity of the men and boys around them; and of associating sexual desire with depravity and shame, Klein writes, those feelings often haunt women’s relationships with their bodies for a lifetime.

Klein knows from personal experience. After realizing she couldn’t be the woman the church wanted her to be, she left the evangelical community in the early 2000s. It was at that point, when she began considering having sex, that the symptoms started. “It began when I took the possibility of having sex and put it on the table,” Klein tells Broadly. “From that point on, sometimes it was my boyfriend and I being sexual that would make me have these breakdowns where I was in tears, scratching myself until I bled and ending up on the corner of the bed crying.”

Klein knew immediately that the reactions were linked to her religious upbringing, but assumed it was specific to her. “I never wondered where it came from, I just wondered why it was manifesting that way,” she says. “It couldn’t be that everyone who was taught these things were having these experiences, because surely I would have heard about it.”

Eventually, though, Klein realized that she wasn’t nearly alone. In 2006, she began compiling dozens of testimonies from childhood friends involved in the purity movement and found that they were all experiencing similar feelings of fear, shame, and anxiety in relationship to sex. “Based on our nightmares, panic attacks, and paranoia, one might think that my childhood friends and I had been to war,” writes Klein. “And in fact, we had. We went to war with ourselves, our own bodies, and our own sexual natures, all under the strict commandment of the church.”

Today, Klein considers the phenomenon an epidemic. When she first realized the scope and severity of what she was researching, she decided to quit her job—at the age of 26—and dedicate herself to learning more about the effects of purity culture. She went on to earn an interdisciplinary Master’s degree from New York University, for which she wrote a thesis on white American evangelicalism’s messaging toward girls that involved interviewing hundreds of current and past evangelicals about the impact of the purity movement on their lives. Eventually, those seeds of research grew into Pure.

A 12-year labor of love, the resulting book is an eye-opening blend of memoir, journalism, and cultural commentary that masterfully illustrates how religion, shame, and trauma can inform one another. Citing medical studies, she lays out that evangelical adolescents are the least likely “to expect sex to be pleasurable, and among the most likely to expect that having sex will make them feel guilty.” And in comparison to boys, Klein observes, girls are 92 percent more likely to feel shame—especially girls who are highly religious. For many women, like Klein, that shame can manifest in physical symptoms.

Klein observes and cites an expert who found that many women who grow up in purity culture and eventually begin having sex report experiencing an involuntary physical tightening of the vagina—also known as vaginismus—that is linked to a fear of penetrative sex and makes intercourse extremely painful. This could also be considered a symptom of Religious Trauma Syndrome (RTS), a diagnosis developed by Dr. Marlene Winell, a psychologist in San Francisco and author of Leaving the Fold: A Guide for Former Fundamentalists and Others Leaving Their Religion. According to Winell, as quoted by Klein, RTS is a condition “experienced by people who are struggling with leaving an authoritarian, dogmatic religion and coping with the damage of indoctrination.” The symptoms resemble those of PTSD, anxiety disorders, borderline personality disorders, and can result in depression, sexual difficulty, and negative views about the self.

Perhaps more convincing than the medical research and professionals that Klein cites, though, is the wealth of testimonies she gathers from women. One woman she spoke to described having years of awkward, uncomfortable sex with her husband until she began to feel overcome by such extreme exhaustion, she had difficulty getting out of bed. Another shared that after her first sexual experience, her body began to shake uncontrollably. In one extreme account, a woman said that feelings of panic and guilt flooded her mind “like a cloud of locusts” after an early sexual encounter. Soon after, orange-sized welts broke out on her stomach, arms, back, and breasts and it became difficult to breathe. After jumping into the shower to find relief, welts the size of both of her palms formed on her vagina. “I would say it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” she told Klein. “I had no idea what was happening to me. My legs, my face, everything was bright red. It felt like I had absolutely no control over these horrific, nightmarish things that were happening to my body.” The woman was rushed to the emergency room, and though the doctors told her she went into anaphylactic shock, they couldn’t explain what caused it. While she knows something medical happened, she told Klein that’s she is certain something spiritual happened to her as well—the result of what happens “when you tempt Satan.”

Pure is a thorough and focused study on the effects of the purity movement’s rhetoric on women and girls, but Klein stresses that her findings aren’t relevant only to religious conservatives. Rather, they represent an extreme microcosm of a broader culture of gendered sexual shaming to which we should all be paying attention.

“The conclusion that I reached was that the evangelical culture is useful because it provides a mirror of what’s happening in other places in the culture,” Klein says. “You see what happens when you have high doses of this toxic messaging. But the reality is that this toxic messaging is everywhere and we’re all taking in unhealthy amounts of it.”

Complete Article HERE!

Doctors urged to advise patients about risks of abstinence-centric sex education

American Academy of Pediatricians’ new report is the clearest denouncement of the failures of not talking about STIs and pregnancy prevention

Across the US only 50% of high school students receive sex education that meets the recommendations of the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
Across the US only 50% of high school students receive sex education that meets the recommendations of the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

By

The country’s largest organization of pediatricians entered fraught political territory on Monday, with a call for doctors to use their time with patients to combat the potential health consequences of abstinence-centric sex education.

In a new report, the American Academy of Pediatricians (AAP) issued its clearest denunciation yet of sex education programs that fail to offer comprehensive information on topics such as sexually transmitted infections (STIs) and pregnancy prevention.

“This is the mothership telling pediatricians that talking about sex is part of your charge to keep children and adolescents safe,” said Dr Cora Breuner, a professor and pediatrician at Seattle Children’s research hospital and the report’s lead author.

“These guidelines give pediatricians in communities where people might say, ‘We don’t want you talking to our kids about this stuff,’ permission to say, ‘No, I can talk about this, I should talk about this, I need to talk about this.’”

The report is broadly a call for pediatricians to help fill in the gaps left by the country’s patchwork sex education programs. It urges pediatricians to teach not only contraception and the benefits of delaying sexual activity, but to cover topics such as sexual consent, sexual orientation and gender identity with school-aged children who may not receive any information in the classroom and involve their parents.

But the authors single out abstinence-heavy education, which sometimes excludes information about contraceptives, as a key concern for doctors looking to help adolescent patients avoid sexually transmitted infections and unintended pregnancy. As a result, it is likely to fuel an already contentious debate.

Groups that have advocated for sex education to emphasize abstinence instantly found fault with the new guidelines.

“A health organization like the AAP should not be affirming a behavior that can compromise the health of youth,” said Valerie Huber, the president of Ascend, a group that promotes abstinence-centric sex education and advocates for federal funding. The group was formerly known as the formerly the National Abstinence Education Association.

“They recommend ‘responsible sex’ for young adolescents. Exactly what is responsible sexual activity for adolescents? … The science is clear that teens are healthier when they avoid all sexual activity.”

Moreover, Huber said, programs that “normalize teen sex” are unpopular with many parents.

“Most communities do not support the type of sex education they recommend,” she said.

Still, others embraced the report as bringing the AAP’s recommendations more in line with the reality.

“This is a fantastic move,” said Chitra Panjabi, the president of the Sexuality Information and Education Council of the United States (SIECUS), a research group that supports comprehensive sex education. “It’s really important that our medical providers are standing up and saying, hey, the youth in our communities are coming to us because they’re not getting the information they need. And so we need to step in.”

The US does not enforce national standards for sex education and schools in many states are not required to teach it. Across the country, SIECUS estimates, only 50% of high school students receive sex education that meets the recommendations of the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The other half of students receive anything from an incomplete sex education, to education that emphasizes abstinence, to abstinence-only education, with a focus on delaying sex until heterosexual marriage.

In February, Barack Obama proposed a budget for 2017 that eliminated the $10m the department of health and human services spends on abstinence-only programs every year. But funding continues to flow to those programs from other sources. Title V, an abstinence-only program, allocates $75m a year to abstinence-only programs, money that states match by 75%.

In the last quarter-century, programs emphasizing abstinence as the optimal way to avoid pregnancy and STIs have received more than $2bn in funding from the federal government. Comprehensive sex education, by contrast, has no dedicated federal funding stream.

“It’s a political climate where people don’t want to talk about these issues,” said Breuner. “But it makes our job so much harder when we cannot coordinate our efforts with the schools. It takes time away from the other safety issues we need to be discussing. Don’t smoke weed. Don’t text and drive.”

Recently, two major surveys of existing research on sex education concluded that there was no evidence or inconclusive evidence to show that abstinence-centric programs succeeded in delaying sexual activity. One of the surveys found that comprehensive sex education was actually more effective than abstinence education at delaying sexual activity in teens. (Ascend points to select studies which show the opposite.)

A long-term study found that teens receiving abstinence-only programs were less likely to use contraceptives or be screened for STIs, although rates of infections were not elevated.

The studies helped compel the AAP to issue its first major guidance on sex education since 2001.

“It’s important for pediatricians to have the backing to say, ‘Look, I can’t support telling this stuff to children,’” Breuner said. “I have to deal with the aftermath, which is a 15-year-old who’s pregnant, or a 16-year-old who has a sexually transmitted infection he’s going to have for the rest of his life.”

Breuner said a number of her patients have suffered consequences from abstinence-only education. Many of them are pregnant teenagers and girls who, in the absence of accurate information, came to believe in common myths about pregnancy prevention.

“They’ll say, ‘I thought you couldn’t get pregnant when you were having your period,’ or, ‘I thought it took two or three years after you get your period to be able get pregnant.’ It’s heartbreaking, because I know with education, this could have been prevented.”

Complete Article HERE!

7 Things I Learned After A Year Of Celibacy

(Personally I wouldn’t use the term celibacy to describe sexual abstinence and HERE is why.)

 

The most important lessons I learned about sex were when I wasn’t having any.

By

1. I used to have a lot of sex.

I’m not shy about it. I was a woman with many casual sexual partners, and for a while it was really very fun. I revelled in it. Played up to the role. I was a good-time gal and wanted you to know it. I was in control of my sexuality and unafraid to explore it – and exploit it.

Then it stopped being fun. Somewhere along the way – the way being several years of drunken promiscuity with more men than I’ll admit to – my intentions got muddied. Tarnished. I was using sex as a weapon, a way to keep distance between me and every bloke I kicked out of my bed at 4am. Hats off to you if you can enjoy no-strings-attached sex, but me? I was playing a role, a sort of Samantha-Jones-meets-Russell-Brand playgirl, and I wasn’t happy. It took me a while to realise it, but once I did – once it hit me that I was lonely, and a bit of a phoney – the reality was devastating. So I closed my legs. For a year I didn’t date. For 12 months I asked myself who I was, what I wanted, and how I could bridge the gap between those two things.

2. It’s lonelier to be in bed beside a stranger than it is to be in bed alone.

02

The turning point for me was being in bed with a balding Australian who wouldn’t speak to me on nights out with mutual friends and yet, somehow, I’d always take home. One lazy morning I leaned over to him and said, “Make me come…” His answer was to check his watch, and get up to go shower. He might’ve known the sound of my orgasm and the taste of my kiss, but I couldn’t find the words to tell him how humiliating his treatment of me – our treatment of each other, to be fair – was, because there was absolutely no intimacy. Once I was celibate, I saw that the sex had been a pseudo-surrender: I could pretend to be revealing parts of myself, but really was using my body to ensure I’d never have to. It’s the most isolating thing I could’ve done. No wonder I felt lonely.

3. Nobody can love you until you love yourself.

It’s almost embarrassing to write that, hackneyed phrase as it is, and yet it’s the truest thing I know. I reckon on some level I was after somebody to prove my own worth to me. My high school sweetheart of almost a decade had dumped me to marry my best mate, and that affected, so deeply, how I thought of myself. I think I was looking for parts of myself in every man who I seduced. I revealed my most unkind, mean version as if to see who would challenge me and love me anyway. Some men tried, and I couldn’t respect them for it. I didn’t trust anyone who wanted to be with me, because what poor judgment did that demonstrate? I could never date a man actually interested in such a broken half-woman. It’s because I didn’t like myself that I couldn’t believe anybody else did. Nobody can love you until you do.

4. Good sex is sex with somebody you actually like.

01

In my most promiscuous years, the sex I was having was terrible. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but once I declared my year-long vow of celibacy I allowed myself to have the kind of fantasies I’d previously denied. I let my mind wander as to what it would be like to be kissed – every last inch of me. To have a man take his time, to be explored deeply, widely, to be looked in the eye. Sex with somebody you like as expression of intimacy, and not as a substitute for it, is just about as hot as it gets. Sex acting out what you think you should do based on some bad porn you’ve googled? Not so much. Sex with a man who claims not to “know you well enough” to go down on you? Even worse.

5. A sexless life isn’t a loveless life.

As soon as I stopped making sex my focus for a night out, or for parties or work events or any other time I left the goddamn house, the love in my life increased exponentially. It was inversely proportional. When I wasn’t trying to sleep with men, men were suddenly more interested in me. In what I had to say. I was very honest about my year of celibacy, and it fascinated them. I had so many conversations about the pressures they felt to “perform” a certain way in the bedroom, about how much they, too, wanted real connection, a partner. It was enlightening. We’re largely sold this idea of men as single-minded fuckboys, shagging around and not wanting to be bothered by commitment, that it’s us girls who pressure them into marriage and babies, and it shouldn’t have been so shocking to me that actually they wanted to be as seen and as valued as I did. They want families and community, too. Plus, boys make really good mates when you’re not trying to shag them. A revelation.

6. It’s not actually as hard you you’d think to go without.

The most commonly asked question I get about a year of celibacy is “But didn’t you go insane?” Look, I’ll be upfront: I wanked furiously. Of course I did. And I missed the weight of a man’s body on top of me. But the longer I went without sex the easier it became, and the more I was determined that when I did start engaging again it would have to mean something. It’s a bit like doing dry January – there’s an end point, and when you reach it it’s not worth your first drink being a warm chardonnay in a plastic cup. Oh no. On 1 February you spend all day dreaming about an ice-cold pint served in a frosted glass, beads of condensation dripping down the glass as you lift it to your mouth and let the bubbles dance on your tongue. And so with the first lay after a dry spell.

7. I will never be ashamed of my history.

My story is one about sex and the body – it’s one about feelings and the heart. Nobody else gets to decide what my history is. I got hurt, like a bajillion other people have been, and I had to figure out my shit, like a bajillion other people have. That’s not sickening and unworthy. That’s human.

Some men I’ve dated don’t get it – but I’d do it all again, unapologetically. I continue to date again, in hope. Unapologetically. I will meet a million different men at a million different events, and with some of them I will think, OK, let’s see if there is something here. I will go out with them and drink with them and laugh with them and wonder about them. Sometimes, I’ll go home with them too. If it feels right. I play fast and easy with my feelings because the alternative – shutting off my feelings entirely, as I had done – is just too damned depressing. It’s par for the course that some men won’t understand that. That some won’t understand that I’m proud of what I did to become who I am. Not that I shagged around, but that I got down in the trenches with every last damned hang-up I have, and shone a light on the fuckers until I wasn’t scared any more.

I did the work. I did the work, and I will never not reveal what that work looked like. I’m still learning, but I have learned enough to understand that you have to own what you’re ashamed of or else it owns you. My one won’t be deterred by the dirt under my fingernails. My one will thank me for it. My one will understand. The blokes who don’t understand, who don’t get what it took, they
aren’t my one. The ones who don’t understand are another lesson learned, all
in the name of what will be.

Complete Article HERE!

Celibacy vs. Abstinence…There Is A Difference

Name: Richard
Gender: male
Age: 26
Location: Duluth MN
I’ve been practicing periods of celibacy and the way that I practice celibacy is by not ejaculating. I’ll still have fornication with my girlfriend and things like that but without ejaculation. My question is that I notice that when I end a period of celibacy by finally ejaculating that my energy level is extraordinarily low afterwards. Are there supplements I can take to counteract the sleepy feeling I have after I ejaculate? Basically I would like to have the same focus day to day as when I am practicing celibacy but while I have a sexually active life. Any thoughts or answers would be great.

Before I get to your question. Richard, let’s work on some of your vocabulary, shall we? The sexual practice you describe is not a type of celibacy. Celibacy has a very specific meaning. It is the state of being unmarried. Curiously enough you actually happen to be celibate.  Not because you’re practicing ejaculation control, but because you’re not married (you have a GF). For the sake of clarity, the only thing we ought to be able to say for sure when someone identifies him/herself as celibate is that he/she is not married. Period!tantric-sex-is-so-much-more2

You’re not really being sexually abstinent either, which is a concept that is often confused with celibacy. Sexual abstinence is refraining from any kind of sexual activity with others or alone.

Ya know why it’s important to differentiate between the two? I’ll tell ya. There are a lot of people who are celibate (i.e. not married), but who are being sexual, by themselves or with others (like you for example). There are also lots of people who are married (i.e. not celibate), but who are refraining from being sexual with themselves or others for any number of reasons. And, of course, there are celibates who are also sexually abstinent.  Ya see, if we are careless with our vocabulary when describing ourselves, we aren’t able to clearly share with one another who we are, what we are doing, or what we want to do. Get it? Got it? Good!

I’m also gonna go way out on a limb here and guess that you’re a Catholic or a fundamentalist Christian, or was raised as one. Who else would use the term “fornicate” when talking about having sex with his GF?

tantraWhile technically you are correct, in “church-speak” unmarried partners who fuck are fornicating. This is opposed to adultery, which is a when a married person fucks someone other than his or her husband or wife. The term fornicate has a very pejorative connotation. It’s a word religious people use to describe sinful behavior. Is fucking your girlfriend sinful, Richard? If it is, stop fucking her right away! If it isn’t, then don’t refer to your sexual relations with her as fornication. If you can’t bring yourself to use the term “fuck” to talk about what you two do together, there are plenty of other less negative euphemisms. For example, intercourse, or even coitus works. Just not fornication!

Now, on to the very interesting sexual practice you describe in your message. If it isn’t a “type” of celibacy, what is it? I think you maybe talking about a tantric sex practice. You have sex — solo as well as partnered sex — but you avoid ejaculating, right? You don’t really go on to say why you do this other than you seem to believe you conserve energy this way. Tantric practitioners talk about this practice in similar terms — preserving one energy or chi. And that’s what leads me to think what you’re doing is a form of tantra.

Tantric sex is very interesting, if for no other reason it distinguishes between orgasm and ejaculation. Although they often happen at the same time, men are capable of having orgasms without ejaculating. Perhaps, you’re already discovered this. Ejaculatory control, which is what I think you are doing, is what makes it possible for Tantric lovers to harness and extend the energy of orgasm. By refraining from, or holding off on an ejaculation, men can become multi-orgasmic. Some men achieve this by a practice known as edging or controlling the wave of orgasmic energy without ejaculating.tantric-sex

Further, you ask if there are any drugs that can help you regain your strength, or chi after you finally ejaculate. Rather than seek a pharmaceutical solution, why not delve deeper into tantra for the answers you seek. You are already more than half way there. You might want to look into chi power training too. Because, if I’m not mistaken, that’s what you’re actually talking about.

Good luck

What Happens To Men Who Stay Abstinent Until Marriage?

by Sarah Diefendorf

Russell Wilson and his girlfriend Ciara
Seattle Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson and his girlfriend Ciara arrive at a White House State Dinner in April.

Seattle Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson and his girlfriend, the singer Ciara, recently announced plans to remain sexually abstinent until marriage.

It was a vow that came as a surprise to many. After all, sexual purity is a commitment that is historically expected of, associated with – even demanded of – women. However, sexual abstinence is not something assumed of men, especially men like Russell Wilson.

Wilson, an accomplished, attractive athlete, embodies contemporary ideals of masculinity, which include style, wealth and, yes, sexual prowess.

So how does a man like Russell Wilson navigate a commitment to abstinence while upholding ideals of masculinity? Wilson’s status as an athlete and heartthrob is likely giving him what sociologist CJ Pascoe calls “jock insurance.” In other words, due to his celebrity status, he can make traditionally nonmasculine choices without having his masculinity questioned.

But what does it mean for a man who isn’t in the limelight, who makes a similar type of commitment to abstinence? And what does it mean for the women they date, and might eventually marry?

I’ve been researching men who pledge sexual abstinence since 2008, work that comes out of a larger scholarly interest in masculinities, religion and sex education.

While men make this commitment with the good intentions for a fulfilling marriage and sex life, my research indicates that the beliefs about sexuality and gender that come hand in hand with these pledges of abstinence do not necessarily make for an easy transition to a married sexual life.

Who’s Pledging “Purity?”

Comedian Joy Behar recently joked that abstinence is what you do after you’ve been married for a long time. Here, Behar makes two assumptions. One is that sexual activity declines both with age and the time spent in a relationship. This is true.

The second is that abstinence is not something you do before marriage. For the most part, this is true as well: by age 21, 85% of men and 81% of women in the United States have engaged in sexual intercourse.

purity ringIf we compare these numbers to the average age of first marriage in the United States – 27 for women, and 29 for men – we get the picture: most people are having sex before marriage.

Still, some in the United States are making “virginity pledges,” and commit to abstinence until marriage. Most of the data that exist on this practice show that those who make the pledges will do so in high school, often by either signing a pledge card or donning a purity ring.

Research on this population tells us a few things: that those who pledge are more likely to be young women, and that – regardless of gender – an abstinence pledge delays the onset of sexual activity by only 18 months. Furthermore, taking a virginity pledge will often encourage other types of sexual behavior.

Virgins In Guyland

But little is known about men who pledge and navigate this commitment to abstinence.

I was curious about how men maintain pledges in light of these statistics, and also balance them with expectations about masculinity. So in 2008, I began researching a support group of 15 men at an Evangelical church in the Southwest. All members were white, in their early to mid-20’s, single or casually dating – and supporting each other in their decisions to remain abstinent until marriage.

The group, called The River, met once a week, where, sitting on couches, eating pizza or talking about video games, they’d eventually gravitate toward the topic that brought them all together in the first place: sex.

On the surface, it would seem impossible for these men to participate in what sociologist Michael Kimmel calls “Guyland” – a developmental and social stage driven by a “guy code” that demands, among other things, sexual conquest and detached intimacy.

Rather, the men of The River approach sex as something sacred, a gift from God meant to be enjoyed in the confines of the marriage bed. At the same time, these men struggle with what they describe as the “beastly elements” – or temptations – of sexuality. And it is precisely because of these so-called beastly elements that these men find each other in the same space every week.

The men of The River grappled with pornography use, masturbation, lust and same-sex desire, all of which can potentially derail these men from their pledge.

It raises an interesting dilemma: to these men, sex is both sacred and beastly. Yet the way they navigate this seeming contradiction actually allows them to exert their masculinity in line with the demands of Guyland.

Group members had an elaborate network of accountability partners to help them resist temptations. For example, one had an accountability partner who viewed his weekly online browsing history to make sure he wasn’t looking at pornography. Another accountability partner texted him each night to make sure that he and his girlfriend were “behaving.”

While these behaviors may seem unusual, they work in ways that allow men to actually assert their masculinity. Through what sociologist Amy Wilkins calls “collective performances of temptation,” these men are able to discuss just how difficult it is to refrain from the beastly urges; in this way, they reinforce the norm that they are highly sexual men, even in the absence of sexual activity.

The River, as a support group, works largely in the same way. These men are able to confirm their sexual desires in a homosocial space – similar to Kimmel’s research in Guyland – from which Kimmel notes that the “actual experience of sex pales in comparison to the experience of talking about sex.”

A ‘Sacred Gift’ – With Mixed Returns

The men of The River believed that the time and work required to maintain these pledges would pay off in the form of a happy and healthy marriage.

Ciara, in discussing her commitment to abstinence with Russell Wilson, similarly added that she believes such a promise is important for creating a foundation of love and friendship. She stated that, “if we have that [base] that strong, we can conquer anything with our love.”

So what happened once after the men of The River got married? In 2011, I followed up with them.

All but one had gotten married. But while the transition to married life brought promises of enjoying their “sacred gift from God,” this gift was fraught.

Respondents reported that they still struggled with the beastly elements of sexuality. They also had the added concern of extramarital affairs. Furthermore – and perhaps most importantly – men no longer had the support to work through these temptations.

There were two reasons behind this development.

First, respondents had been told, since they were young, that women were nonsexual. At the same time, these men had also been taught that their wives would be available for their pleasure.

It’s a double standard that’s in line with longstanding cultural ideals of the relationship between femininity and purity. But it’s a contradiction that leaves men unwilling to open up to the very women they’re having sex with.

These married men and women were not talking to each other about sex. Rather than freely discussing sex or temptation with their wives (as they had done with their accountability partners), the men simply tried to suppress temptation by imagining the devastation any sexual deviations might cause their wives.

after marriage
After marriage, the men felt left to their own devices.

Second, these men could no longer reach out to their support networks due to their own ideals of masculinity. They had been promised a sacred gift: a sexually active, happy marriage. Yet many weren’t fully satisfied, as evidenced by the continued tension between the sacred and beastly. However, to open up about these continued struggles would be to admit failure as masculine, Christian man.

In the end, the research indicates that a pledge of sexual abstinence works to uphold an ideal of masculinity that disadvantages both men and women.

After 25 years of being told that sex is something dangerous that needs to be controlled, the transition to married (and sexual) life is difficult, at best, while leaving men without the support they need. Women, meanwhile, are often left out of the conversation entirely.

So when we urge abstinence in place of healthy conversations about sex and sexuality, we may be undermining the relationships that are the driving goal of these commitments in the first place.

Complete Article HERE!

Touched for the very first time, Part 2

Look for Part 1 of this two part series HERE.

Let’s pick up where we left off last week, on the perils young people face as they navigate the expectations of virginity and sex, and begin to consider their first forays into partnered sex.

Teenagers face enormous peer pressure when it comes to sex, yet there’s precious little education afforded them in terms of the fundamentals of human sexuality. This dearth of clear, unambiguous information on how our bodies work is just the first way we let down our children. There’s almost nothing available to teens to emotionally prepare them for partnered sex.

Mariana is 17. She writes:

I lost my virginity yesterday, but I did not bleed. Why is this?

Hold on there, missy! That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say about your first time at bat? Is there anyone else out there who is as perplexed by this as I am?

Maybe I’m reading way too much into this. Maybe it is, after all, par for the course. For some young women, the externals of first-time partnered sex are the more important then the act itself. Maybe that’s because less than 5 percent of women have an orgasm the first time they have sex.

It’s clear that we do put more emphasis on the outward signs of virginity, which, in turn trumps everything else?

I guess, Mariana, I would have liked to know if congratulations are order? Was your first time enjoyable? Are you happy it happened? It’s so amazing to me that you didn’t mention any thing about your first intercourse other than that fact that you didn’t bleed. Maybe that’s your way of saying it wasn’t so special.

Sorry about the diversion there, Mariana, as you may know, the hymen is a mucous membrane that is part of the vulva, the external part of a woman’s genitals. It is located outside the vagina, which is the internal part of a woman’s genitals. Not all women have a noticeable hymen. You may or may not have had one to begin with. However, you are right in thinking that most women do. Simply put, having a hymen and/or having it rupture during one’s first coital experience is not necessarily a good indicator of virginity.

Many girls and teens tear or otherwise dilate their hymen while participating in sports like bicycling, horseback riding or gymnastics. This can also happen while inserting tampons, or while masturbating. A girl may not even know she’s done this, since there may be little or no blood or pain involved when it actually happens. The tissues of the vulva are generally very thin and delicate prior to puberty. Again, the presence or absence of a hymen (or its bleeding) in no way indicates whether or not a woman is a virgin.

Some hymens are elastic enough to permit a penis (or similar object) to enter without tearing, or they tear only partially, and there is NO bleeding at all. As I hope you know, when you are adequately aroused, your vagina will lubricate itself and become more flexible. For many women, it will stretch without discomfort. It’s even possible for a woman to have sex for years without “tearing” her hymen.

Tia, age 19, has a very unusual concern.

I have a problem. I’m still a virgin, but my bf thinks I’m not. It’s really my fault he thinks this, cuz I told him I was all experienced and everything. We’ve been going together for about eight months already, and I really want my first time to be with him, but how am I going to act all experienced when I don’t know what I’m doing.
HELP ME PLEASE!!!

That sure enough is a pickle you got yourself into, darlin’. You’ve got some “splainin’ to do, Lucy!”

Curiously enough, I’m more likely to hear from young women who are not virgins, but want to know how they can fool a new partner into thinking they are. I guess we can chalk up all this deception and confusion to the powerful associations every culture imposes on technical virginity.

And like most things sexual, there is a huge double standard between the cultural and personal implications of virginity for men and women. The cultural expectations regarding virginity are also tied to age as well as gender. For example, our society expects its 16-year-old girls to be virgins. To be otherwise at that tender age would be a scandal in most communities. But a 35-year-old woman who is still a virgin is considered an old maid—or worse, a (gasp) lesbian.

Of course, things are a bit more fluid when it comes to boys. On one hand, a 16-year-old boy who is not a virgin may raise eyebrows in some communities. But many others in those same communities would praise him for being a “stud.” On the other hand, a 35-year-old man who is still a virgin is not only the butt of jokes—or worse, a “queer”—but he’s also more of a disgrace to his gender than an old maid is to hers. Funny how that works, huh?

I hasten to add that there is a lot to argue with in terms of these arbitrary cultural norms, and I encourage ya’ll to argue away. God knows I do! And just because they’re there, and considered “norms” where you are, that doesn’t mean you have to buy into them. God knows I don’t! So make up your own mind.

But back to you, Tia. I’d love to know why you felt the need to deceive your boyfriend in the first place. Do the people you hang with prize sexual experience over sexual innocence for a woman of 19? And what are the expectations of your peer group regarding a 19-year-old guy? I’ll bet the expectation is that he be sexually experienced—right?

Well, you can see why a lot of people—and not just you—find this whole thing just too damned complicated. And rather than adding to the confusion or the deception, I encourage you to come clean with your boyfriend about the status, as it were, of your cherry.

Here’s why I think this is the best policy. First, if the boyfriend is sexually experienced, it will be very difficult for you to hide the fact that you are not. Besides, like you said in your message to me: “I really want my first time to be with him.” Tell him that! No man is gonna turn that down…ever. In fact, that may be the most sexually charged and treasured sentence in any language.

Begin the big talk with your boyfriend like this: “Baby, I got something real special to tell you. You know how I’ve been saying that I’ve been with other guys and everything? Well that was just my way of keeping all the other guys from pestering me for my junk. Baby, the truth is I haven’t had sex before now. And the best part of this is I’ve decided that I really want my first time to be with you. My cherry belongs to you, baby”

Clearing the air like this will also allow you to relax when the moment finally happens. And relaxation is the key to enjoying yourself. And you should enjoy yourself, because no one can do that for you.

Good luck!

Touched for the very first time…

Virginity is a very touchy issue in just about every culture. Curiously enough, it’s almost always exclusively about female virginity. This woeful double standard gives rise to emotional conflicts for both genders. But again, it is young women and girls who bear the brunt of it.

Let’s begin with Katelyn who’s 18 years old:

My boyfriend and I have been together for over a year. We’ve just started talking about having sex even though we both took a virginity pledge through our church. We love each other very much and plan on getting married in a couple of years. If we are practically engaged do you think having sex now would be like breaking our promise?

I’m pretty sure that the creators of all those “abstinence only” and “virginity pledge” programs out there like to think they’re keeping kids like you safe from the unforeseen consequences of sex. I’d probably have less of a problem with them if they didn’t have at their base some pretty rank scare tactics.

Scaring people away from sex is a time-honored means of controlling people.

If you have sex, you well surely get a disease!

If you have sex, you will surely get pregnant!

If you have sex, you will be breaking the commandments and you’ll go to hell!

If you have sex, you will be a slut and no one will want to marry you!

And my all-time favorite: If he gets the milk for free, why would he buy the cow?

These sex-negative messages only frighten, intimidate and instill guilt. They certainly don’t teach people how to behave knowledgeably and responsibly. And they do absolutely nothing to prepare even those who wind up honoring their pledge of abstinence for the inevitable sex life they’ll have later in life. And that to my mind is criminal. Young people have a natural, healthy curiosity about their bodies and the bodies of others. Stifling this natural curiosity with veiled threats and fear-mongering does very little good—and a whole lot of harm.

But before I respond to your question, I have a question for you. I hope you’re not actually thinking I might help you rationalize away your impending behavior—Oh sure honey, if you’re gonna marry the lug anyway, why not give it up now?—because I won’t go there. Have the courage to make up your own mind. If you’re old enough to be considering sex, you’re old enough to take responsibility for your actions.

If you abstain from sex out of fear or religious duress, then where’s the virtue in that? It’s just as bad as having sex because you fear losing your boyfriend. Neither option suggests to me that you are behaving knowledgeably and responsibly.

Of course, it’s always easier to decide on a course of action when one has all the information. And that’s where I can be of some assistance. I’m not gonna tell you what you oughtta do, but I can offer you some timely information about human sexuality that you apparently aren’t getting from your family, church or your community.

There are many sexual alternatives to full-on fucking. And if you want to remain a virgin, at least technically speaking, you might want to explore these options.

Are you both masturbating? If not, then that’s a good place to begin. You should both be familiar with your own pleasure zones and sexual response cycle before you launch into partnered sex of any kind. I believe that the best sex is mutual sex, where the partners knowingly and without reservation gift themselves to one another. And I don’t see how that’s possible unless you are well-acquainted with the gift…your own body.

I can guarantee that your boyfriend won’t know how to pleasure you, especially if he’s still discovering the pleasures of his own body. And you’d be a very remarkable young woman if you understood the mysteries of male sexuality. So if you’re both unversed in the joys of human sexuality, why not discover them together? Mutual masturbation—as well as oral sex—will help you appreciate the particulars and uniqueness of each of your sexual response cycles. And just think how far ahead you’ll be when you guys actually decide it’s time for full-on fucking. You’ll already know how your bodies work.

Even so, the two of you should be familiar with several different means of birth control—and practicing at least two methods. This is a precaution because, in the heat of the moment, you may decide to escalate things to include vaginal penetration. And if you do, you’ll be prepared. Always have water-based lubricants on hand, even for masturbation. These lubricants work very well with latex condoms. Oil lubricants, like petroleum jelly, baby oil or cooking oil, can cause latex condoms to break. So stay away from them.

I realize that procuring all this stuff is gonna be a challenge for young folks like you. But don’t just blow them off just because they’re not readily available to you. This is a big part of being knowledgeable and responsible about your sexuality. If you’re not prepared to go the distance in terms of preparation, you’re not ready to have sex.

Young men and boys have their share of trepidation about impending partnered sex. Here’s 18-year-old Tabor.

I feel kinda silly asking a complete stranger this, but here goes. I’m a pretty normal 18 year old. I’ve had a few girlfriends over the years, nothing really serious, though. Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of this one girl; she’s 20, a junior at my school. I really like her and we’re discussing taking our friendship to the next level, but there’s a problem. I’m a virgin. My girlfriend is way more experienced than me and that makes me a little nervous too. She wants me to decide when the time is right. My question is how will I know when I’m ready for sex?

I have a question for you, Tabor, and I hope it doesn’t sound flippant. When do you know it’s time to eat, or sleep? I know many of us eat even when we’re not hungry and sometimes we don’t sleep even when we’re tired. That aside, I suggest that the same bodily signals that alert you to hunger and exhaustion will let you know when it’s time for sex. You’ll want to have sex when you feel the desire to be sexual. I’m not trying to be evasive; I’m trying to get you to listen to your body, because that’s how you’ll know. To be perfectly frank, that’s how all of us know it’s time for sex. We get a hankerin’ for some pleasure and we pursue that till we’re satisfied. Sometimes that’s solo sex and sometimes it’s partnered sex.

If I were to advise you further I’d want to know how much sex you’ve already had with your GF. Has there been any sex play at all? Probably some, right? Otherwise how would you know you like her well enough to consider taking things to the next level?

Penis/vagina intercourse, or as I like to call it, “fucking,” can bring more intimacy and more pleasure than other forms of sex, but it’s not the be-all end-all either. Fucking also carries far more responsibility, particularly for fertile young puppies like you and your honey.

Is it safe to assume that you are well-versed in the complexities of the human reproductive system? I hope so. Not everyone is, of course, even some otherwise smart people. If you’re not clear on the whole concept, there’s no time like the present to do a little boning up, so to speak. Being responsible about sex is as important as being sexual. And being informed about health risks and contraception is the beginning of taking responsibility for your sexual activity.

Remember what I said earlier—that you’ll want to have sex when your body says so? Well, if you take the time to prepare now, you’ll not need to interrupt the moment when your body tells you I’m ready! You should discuss birth control with your girlfriend in advance of any foolin’ around. You should have condoms and lube available. Don’t expect that you’ll have your wits about you when your dick is hard. Remember, you’re not the one who’ll get pregnant if ya’ll screw up. I’ll bet your sweetheart will be impressed with your forethought, too.

Remember, even if your girlfriend is on the pill or has a diaphragm; condoms are a must. One in every ten sexually active teens carries one or more STDs or as we call them nowadays, STIs (sexually transmitted infections). You can consider dropping the condoms only when you’re in an exclusive relationship.

Good luck!