Hello Passion... (Goodbye Purity?): Embracing Sexuality After Divorce

They told us growing up that we needed to abstain and save our bodies for our husbands. 

They told us to dress modestly so that we don't cause the brothers to stumble. 

They tried their hardest to shield us from all demonstrations of sensuality and sexuality by controlling what we watched and what we listened to. 

And when our imaginations took hold, despite the lack of stimulus, we were told to shut those thoughts out and endure them as if it were some kind of pain, hanging on to the promise that the bed of marriage would be undefiled. 

Their intentions were pure, But their methods were misguided. Instead of preparing us to be sensual butterflies, crawling out of the cocoons of chastity under covenants, some of us became wallflowers too afraid to bloom. Refusing to share our nectar and grow a garden for fear that we were too sweet or not sweet enough. 

Contrary to popular belief, I was a wallflower. 

No. 

I was a fruitful vine stuffed in an aesthetically Christian vase, and labeled a flower. 

And you can start a fruitful vine in a vase, but in order to benefit from its highest potential, you must eventually set it outside in a proper garden bed and let it do as it pleases while giving it proper care. 

When I was married, I thought at my core, I was asexual. That I essentially neither wanted nor needed sex. And because I married at 22, and didn't have (consensual) sex before marriage,

there was no time or way for me to discover a sensuality outside of my marriage. 

The weird thing is, I was always a sensual being. Even apart from my trauma. And it’s taken much work for me to recognize that. But I remember the neighbors would call me a Bama because I insisted on running up and down the block without shoes. The feel of the grass and concrete and mud between my toes was exhilarating and comforting. Or the way I’d keep my nose against a candle for what felt like hours because breathing regular oxygen simply wasn’t enough. Particular scents made me feel free in a world that is anything but that for a Black girl. I’d play with fire like a toy, lighting every candle I could find in my home in a circle all around, watching the flames dance like I wish I could. I burned my hair off once. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel and see and hear and taste all that life had to offer. 

I was 8 years old when my mother bought me my first thong underwear. The instruction was simple: “I bought these for you because I want you to know what it feels like to wear things for your own self. It’s no one’s business what you have on beneath your clothes. Your body is for you.” And I believed her. I didn’t ask for those underwear. Didn’t make a habit of wearing them either. Still don’t. But when I do, it is a constant reminder that my body is for me. That I don’t have to  be ashamed of it, or disconnected from it. That I honor myself by doing what makes my body feel safe and free.

But by the time I got married, I was afraid. And deeply hurt. And severely jaded. Sexual trauma that I was convinced was self-induced made me fear the magic that my body holds. So I acted as if it didn’t exist. And soon, I believed I’d lost it. I reached the point that so many of us wait for. I was a flower waiting to bud before a gardener who had no idea how to nurture me so that I would open up. And I had no idea how to bloom on my own. 

And I know countless women who unfortunately share my story. Who found themselves in traditional Christian marriages questioning their sexuality because of trauma. Spiritual trauma from purity culture. Society’s rules and social mores around Black bodies. Husbands who bought into the lies just as much as we did, perpetuating our insecurities through shame, guilt, and withholding care. 

I was there. And now I’m not. I am divorced, and awakened to the version of me life tried to crush. The smell of amber makes me feel calm and seductive. I feel most beautiful in deep greens and browns. The sound of the bass coming through my car speakers as I drive down Lake Shore Drive makes me feel alive, no matter what the genre. Stretching after a good workout makes me feel– well– sexy. 

So what of my sensuality when I have no husband and don't intend to? What do I do with my sexuality when it is not meant to be shared? 

I wish I had the answers. I don’t. But like hunger and thirst, I know it is not to be ignored or hidden. 

Does that mean I am advocating for sex outside of marriage? Of course not. Because sensuality and sexuality is more than my choice to participate in sexual acts. It is a place in my mind and body I get to visit to experience deep joy and satisfaction. 

Sensuality is not a sin. It is a gift.

I am a vine now. Planted in the garden of this world. And I spend much time tending to my care–  plucking up weeds from the root, pouring into myself, giving every part of my body and mind its time in the sun. And the fruit has been sweet. The joy I have has been worth the work. And I believe regardless of your relationship status, your relationship with your body is your priority. Your pleasure is for you first. Water yourself, beloved.