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sexuality - Kim Petersen

Who Wants A Virgin Anyway?

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“A houri is a beautiful young woman with a transparent body. The marrow of her bones is visible like the interior lines of pearls and rubies. She looks like red wine in a white glass. She is of white color, and free from the routine physical disabilities of an ordinary woman such as menstruation, menopause, urinal and offal discharge, child bearing and the related pollution. A houri is a girl of tender age, having large breasts which are round and not inclined to dangle. Houris dwell in palaces of splendid surroundings.”

— Al-Tirmidhi

For some men bedding a virgin is an attractive prospect. Or so we are led to believe. Throughout Islamic mythology and Middle Eastern lore, the houris are full-breasted, dark-eyed nymphs untouched by man who will accompany the faithful in Jannah — the realm of the highest layer of heaven.

The Qur’an’s heavenly vision focuses on luxury, leisure and sensual pleasures. In Islam, the idea of an afterlife filled with an abundance of polygynous sex with virginally pure partners refers to an aspect of paradise. Since we are sexual beings, God’s provisions include everything believers need to be perfectly happy. For believing males this includes the very best sex possible.

Aside from all things made from heavenly misogynist delights, this line of thinking reflects across modern Muslamic practices today where virginity is defined as a piece of anatomy. An intact hymen is essential for a woman who wishes to be accepted into marriage. She also is expected to remain monogamous. Men, on the other hand, can engage in sex before marriage and are permitted to take up to four wives.

Besides the double standards blatantly displayed with the above-mentioned scenario, I have difficulty believing the polygynous lifestyle can be all that beneficial when it comes to forming and nurturing deep connection within a relationship. After all, isn’t the whole purpose of a relationship based upon forging intimate bonds and complete fusion with another?

What would a man do with four wives anyhow? How would he meet and satisfy each of their emotional needs? Women are naturally emotional creatures. We thrive on deep emotional connection. We need to feel understood, seen and held by our partners. I am uncertain how my husband would cope should he have to contend with even twice the woman I am, let alone four of me.

But hey, if the wives all start out tender-aged virgins, then the male in question may have a lot less to navigate in the emotional-need department. Virgins may be considered submissive and easily domesticated. I can see how that works.

The idea of “breaking in” virgin females obviously fairs high on the priority scale in some cultures.

In the Kanjarbhat ethnic group of India, newlywed brides are expected to submit themselves to a humiliating ritual — “The White Bedsheet Test.”

Yes, it is as demeaning as it sounds.

The bridegroom will take his bride along with a white bed sheet into a room while elders sit beyond the threshold awaiting the outcome — the moment for him to reappear and state whether or not the “product” was good.

If his bride doesn’t bleed, she can be subjected to beatings and communal humiliation.

Considering where I’m about to take this post, it is important to point out that I am not intending to make light of such degrading practices against women. On the contrary, the opposite is true. Gender inequality practices continue to take place around world and are in need of major adjustment. The fight for women’s rights is far from over.

I was a virgin once. Yes, it is true. Like most of us, the moment my cherry was popped are among the moments forever burned in my memory — the low lighting in the room; the taste of his mouth; the way he held me close when he eased himself inside of me … the sweet burning pain. And yes, there was blood; and then, I was no longer a virgin.

I was eager and curious to explore sex. There was no stopping us once I was introduced to my boyfriend’s super-hard counterpart. Yet, as much as we screwed like bunnies facing the end of the world, sexual experience was a quality I had to cultivate.

Intercourse is not an instant pass into womanhood (or manhood for that matter). It takes many years of sifting and sorting through life — voyaging the diverse and often challenging experiences the journey dishes up before we fully realize adulthood.

Our sense of self develops and matures as we move through life to eventually arrive at a destination where we begin to own who we are and feel comfortable with that person — our sexuality plays a strong part in that evolution.

Women in particular battle an ingrained set of ideals on what it means to be sexually active. These are posited in a variety of ways at the onset — we are taught to be submissive in the bedroom through films, music clips, and pornography. We are shown images of desirable women which causes countless hours of internal pain deliberating over our imperfections. We are subjected to being objectified, catcalled and judged by our appearance.

More often than not, the virgin female is unfamiliar with her intimate body and sexual desires. She lacks confidence in expressing that part of herself. She doesn’t know what turns her on or how to ask her partner to do that thing she likes — she’s still figuring that out along with her voice while he’s intent on burning a hole through her panties every time she is near.

Of course, boys don’t get off easy in the sexual experience sector. But they do seem to have a handle on what they want from the encounter. Their primal instincts rage for release — they just want to fuck. As long as our breasts are out for some not-so-gentle sucking and our legs are wide open, business is on. If we’re lucky, we may score a little foreplay in the form of rough finger action before the main event.

Which inevitably ends with a trace dissatisfaction for us. Bury it with a sweet smile, babe. Tell him how hard you came and how much he pleases you. That’s what we do, right? At least in the early years.

Women’s bodies are made for love. We are curvy and sensual creatures with secretive places and seductive parts. Lips. Hips. Breasts. Delicate parts designed to give and receive pleasure that blossom when touched in just the right way. Seldom do those qualities come into full appreciation during the years when boys are looking to ramp up their hump-o-meter.

Fast forward to a mature man with sexual experience who has patience and stamina, and has learned to be an unselfish lover and I’ll show you a man made of all things heaven.

The afterlife briefly described above is that of traditional Islamic beliefs and held by the vast majority of Muslims worldwide. So, what about the reward for the female believers when they reach paradise?

Apparently, the Qur’an seems to have little interest in it — women are not promised multiple virginal partners to frolic and fuck in the life thereafter. In fact, this idea would be considered offensive.

Perhaps it is just as well. I am certain women the world over would much rather have one soulful and well-seasoned man loving and appreciating her “offal discharge and related pollution” than an endless supply of inexperienced shags.

Bring on heaven.

Originally Published by Fearless She Wrote via Medium

Love on a Train

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Lovers whisper secrets only they two can hear.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a deep, passionate relationship than something that feels more like friendship? Life is too short to live a single moment without passion — especially in your relationship.”

– Tony Robbins

The Ancient Greeks called it Ludus — the feeling of infatuation in the early days of romance. Ah, those sweet moments when your stomach flutters at the sight of new love and every second spent apart feels like internal torture. Falling in love is one of life’s greatest pleasures. After all, it is love that forms the basis of our humanity and influences our lives from the moment we are born. But hands down, the best part of those first stages in a relationship has to be the lust that accompanies our every waking hour.

Like most of us, those curious Ancient Greeks were smitten by love. Their fascination in the devotion department motivated them enough to spend time studying love in all its forms. The Greek God of fertility proved to be the inspiration behind what the Ancient Greeks called Eros — the realm of love encompassing desire, fire and passion.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

Long days filled with intense yearning between bouts of time spent ensnared in erotic flashes of the night before — daydreams of the moments when a thin layer of sweat was all that separated you and your lover. You know what I’m talking about it. Those sensually shaded days where you exist in a constant state of arousal. He is all you can think about; all you want to think about.

The moments when the need to release sexual energy becomes your driving thought are the same moments you are certain you’ve stepped straight out of a scene from Basic Instinct. Minus the ice pick.

Wait — keep the ice pick. You might need it.

Burn, baby, burn.

That statement can be considered somewhat tame when my second husband swept into my life to change everything I thought I knew about passion. Late nights involving lips and tongues, black lace, delicious fingers … rock hard parts between hot wet places.

Lovers whisper secrets only they two can hear. Bodies entangle to become a river; hips move faster than a runaway train. Nothing is forbidden. Long held fantasies become your reality.

The sexual tension between us was intoxicating. Seldom could we refrain from keeping our hands to ourselves when out in public. We used to fuck everywhere — the dark corners in a club; the lady’s bathroom; shopfront doorways; shady parks and front seats of cars. We even did it on the neighbor’s front porch late one night.

Whaaat? I hear you cry. She was the neighbor from hell. This was fun payback.

When you are in the throes of a hedonistic realm where the pursuit of sexual pleasure becomes your primary focus, nothing is taboo. Nothing is off limits. Love doesn’t know limits or boundaries. Love only knows expression.

From the moment Risky Business erupted onto my screen, I wanted to have sex on a train. You remember the scene — hot passionate kisses; locked eyes while having sensual sex in a dimly lit and empty carriage on a fast-moving train.

Exciting. Steamy. Carnal.

Anyone want to take a train ride? After that scene, I am certain trains across the world knew more than just the average commuter. Perhaps this was the driving force behind the exercise to install security cameras on every carriage. Who needs to watch choreographed porn when you can get real-life action on late night train rides?


It was on. The evening arrived and one of the most erotic acts I have ever experienced preceded the train-sex, becoming part of a long-winded evening of foreplay. We were out in a crowded bar listening to a band and enjoying a few drinks. Knee-high boots worn with sheer pantyhose beneath a short skirt doesn’t make for easy access when in public.

He locked his eyes on mine and slipped his hand between my thighs, lightly rubbing me with the back of his fingers before he pulled away and brought his fingers beneath his nose, inhaling. Body heat. Groan. My hormones went into overdrive watching that simple act play out. I blushed beneath the immediate rush of arousal. Someone flag a train; I was in need. Desperate need.

The carriage wasn’t as nearly as dark or as empty as the Risky Business train scene, but business went ahead regardless. How could it not after the above-mentioned prologue?

It was bright; starkly bright and it didn’t take long to figure out we had to maneuver our way around the pantyhose tucked in a high pair of leathers.

He got creative; slipping my panties and hose down until they bunched at the top of my boots before dropping to his knees and crawling up between my legs. He was essentially ensnared between boots, hose and thighs with no way out but onward. Some might call that a pussy-trap. He might have been inclined to agree. Either way, he was hard and I was ready, and he proceeded forth while the train sped west and a few folks lingered in the back of the carriage pretending not to notice.

Risky Business eat your heart out. Somewhat. Because we didn’t manage to reach that slowed-down climatic filming achieved in the movie. I didn’t feel like Rebecca De Mornay — despite the security cameras rolling overhead and particularly when it was over and I came back up for air, spotting cheesy grins flashing from the back of the carriage.


The Ancient Greeks didn’t necessarily think that Eros was always a good thing. They believed this kind of love to be dangerous and likely to burn out quickly unless supported with one of the less superficial loves. I cannot help but agree. Eventually those heated, first stage relationship days tend to ebb into a different vibration — committed love.

Something like what the Ancient Greeks dubbed Pragma. A hallmark of healthy, long-term relationships. Pragma is about giving love — patience, tolerance and compromise — essential elements for a successful long-term relationship.

Still, I believe that passion is a super important component to any relationship. It is that initial burn of lust and desire that serves to fuel the love and begins to form the groundwork of the connection. Passion becomes the foundation upon which intimacy and deep love are born and nurtured, and love is the motivating law of life.

U.S Andersen expresses this perfectly when he said: “The universe dances and sings and buds and blooms and builds. All of life clings to one another, serves one another in a great common purpose. Love pervades all, love is behind all, love is the great goal. Sex is life expressing love!”

Even love on a train. Especially love on a train.

Also published by P.S. I Love You on Medium