I never questioned my sexuality as a teenager. To be honest, I didn’t know my heterosexuality could be questioned. Being gay was a choice influenced by Satan, and my choice, as a God-fearing young woman, was to be attracted to men.
As I moved through the currents of teen-hood and into adulthood, I wondered whether this would remain true were I raised in a gender-neutral household, where assumptions about sex and gender were not upheld. While my liberal-Christian parents did not allow their faith to impose a sexual orientation at the dinner table, it was certainly imposed by the cultural and religious norms stitched into the fabric of my public school and local church.
When I first left the church and started meeting men outside the rows of pews or the walls of a Christian conference, I was overwhelmed by the possibilities of unbridled romance. My question, when gawking at a handsome man from afar, was no longer “I wonder if he’s a Christian” but “I wonder if he’s kind and emotionally aware and has a thirst for life?”.
I’ve been a secular dater for three years now. I’ve been in relationships, both open and exclusive, and had a number of casual flings, all of which have helped me build a stronger sense of what a healthy relationship looks like. As a result, I’ve also grown comfortable with sex, and no longer feel a pervasive sense of guilt when a man touches the softness of my skin in a moment of intimacy. I can’t tell you how empowering this is, as a young woman, who once held so much shame about her body and its power to “cause men to stumble”. I am thankful for those who held safe spaces while I grappled with my guilt, and empowered me to continue my path of self discovery.
The other day, I was walking down King Street in Newtown. It was a moonlit night and the air was crisp, the streetlights stark against the black sky. I strolled past men on dates with men, sharing pizzas and bottles of red wine. I saw women kissing in alleyways, one arm against the wall, two bodies pressed together. As I made my way to the restaurant where I was meeting a Tinder date (the liberation of online dating as a former Christian, wow!), I reflected on the many Christian brothers and sisters (most of which exist in the digital peripherals of my life) who oppose this reciprocal, consensual union between two people of the same gender. How could I, in my former days, have been so uncomfortable by such affection? How could I, in my former days, have thought that it was better for these people to stay at home, live with the “thorn in their side”, and live a proud and celibate life? It hurts to know how many were harmed by the narratives that I once supported and preached as a young girl.
Last night, I sat in my room and thought about sexual contact with a woman. I wanted to explore the areas I felt uncomfortable with. Is my discomfort the result of learned ideas about sex and sexuality? Is my discomfort simply a lack of attraction to women? How was I to know the difference?
I had just had an honest conversation with a gay friend of mine, who questioned why I hadn’t explored women in the same way I had explored men. In my ignorance, I thought you were either explicitly attracted to the same sex or you weren’t. I didn’t understand what a spectrum looked like. I didn’t know that I could live my sexual self in motion on that spectrum.
I think it would take considerable work for me to feel comfortable becoming physically intimate with a woman. Largely because I was taught for so long that it was wrong, and that I would be socially outcast as a result of it, and maybe even suffer in hell for all of eternity because of it. I think it is these narratives that are dominating, and have ultimately prevented my sexual self from considering women. However, the ability to sit in my room and reflect on this reality without shame was akin to the joy I felt when my male dating pool became an ocean.
I have the freedom to think.
I have the freedom to feel.
Maybe one day, I’ll give myself the freedom to act if I desire to.
I have not experienced and have no understanding of the pain and trauma our LGBT+ friends have gone through, and I will never claim to. My heart breaks for the traumas that the LGBT+ community have experienced at the hands of conservative religion and, for those reading, I both apologise on behalf of the religion that I once held as truth, and stand as an ally, with my arms outstretched.
This article was kindly edited by our sensitivity reader Paolo Arimado.
Also published on Medium.
