How much do you know about sex? Oh, I’m sure you know the mechanics of it. It’s a rare girl who goes through any school—public, private, home, whatever—who doesn’t learn about how it’s done some time around puberty. Even in our supposedly “backwards” region of the nation, nobody goes to the marriage bed ignorant of what’s about to happen. I’m not talking about mechanics anyway; not yet. I mean, how much do you know about sex? You know that it’s what makes babies, I’m sure. You know that it’s a lot of fun.

You’ve probably figured out by now that it causes a lot of trouble too. Most schools don’t tell you this much, and may a foul curse fall upon them for this neglect, but presumably your parents did tell you about the STDs, of certain situations that might lead to rape, and about the failings of birth control. Your father probably told you something about what boys are like, and your mother probably warned you about what happens if you give away your dearest treasure too soon and too cheaply. (Ever wonder how she knew about that? Actually, she probably only learned it second-hand. She’s right about all that in any case.)

Well, you’re a good Christian girl. I presume you’ve learned all your “thou shalt nots” from the appropriate sources. What about what you are supposed to do? Do you know anything about that? Let’s say we’re married. Let’s say we’re safely past the ceremony and the first time, which was probably more painful for you than some of your skankier friends at school told you it was going to be. It was also pretty awkward for me, I’m sure. Hey, what did you expect? It was my first time too. Did your friends tell you no one could possibly go as long as I have without having sex with someone? Well, they lied. Sure, I’ve kissed a few girls a few times—even groped one a bit more than I really should have. I’ve also made good use of my hand over the years to keep my urges at bay. Would you even want to hear the details of that? Didn’t think so; let’s skip it.

Anyway, I knew there’d be blood and pain the first time. I knew everything the books could teach me; Heaven knows, I’ve read a lot of books. Books about love and sex are just as helpful for the actual event as books about skydiving are. I’m sure I did remember to lay a cloth under us to catch the blood, at least. That’s the way of good marriages, sweetheart: along with the pleasure has to come a little pain sometimes. That necessary bit of pain was your first lesson in what that vow about taking each other “for better or for worse” meant in the broadness of its interpretation.

So, as I say, we’re past all that now. As for our honeymoon, we’re having it at our house, which your parents and mine so very generously provided to us as a wedding gift. That didn’t leave them (or us) anything to splurge on a cruise to the Bahamas, but take my word for it when I tell you that kind of vacation is seriously overrated anyway. Besides, did I mention this is a very nice house? It’s a bit small, perhaps; or “cozy” to use the realtor’s euphemism, but trust me, it’s perfectly good for a pair of newlyweds such as ourselves. It should even be able to sustain our offspring. Heck, I spent most of my childhood in a house no bigger than this one.

However that may be, maybe I should also point out the best thing we can do to honor your parents and mine and thank them for such a generous gift is to make good use of it. That’s what we’re going to do, right? Therefore, we’re having our honeymoon at our house. That definitely beats having it in the back seat of my car, though if you ever care to risk the cramped space and general lack of privacy the windows afford us just to find out what it was like for some of your less chaste young friends and their boyfriends back in school, I’ll be glad to try this kinky little experiment of yours out with you; all you have to do is ask. Right now, we’ve got the whole house to ourselves, though, and particularly the master bedroom, darling. Let’s use them.

I’m waiting for you there, my love, waiting on the bed with one of your romance novels. I’m not reading it, not really, anyway; I’m just browsing, really, seeing whether it’s just a kissing book or whether it’s about a bedroom pirate and what he does with his one-eyed trouser snake. Well, there’s no mention of marbled steps and canopied beds and heaving breasts, honey, but I can’t help noticing there’s this one passage where it mentions the guy “felt her bucking under him as they both tried to thrust as hard as possible into each other, as if by doing so they might truly meld into one body.” I guess you’re not so innocent as you are chaste, eh, sweetie? Watching these authors try to pack as much flowery language as they can into describing the act without really describing it is pretty amusing, though. Maybe these books do something for you, but they don’t do much for me. In any event, I’m in no hurry and neither are you; all my clothes are on and they’re staying on until you get here.

At last you arrive. Quietly reshelving the book, I roll up off the bed just in time to greet you as you walk in the door. You’re a bit apprehensive, remembering what happened last time, even knowing it’s not going to hurt that way this time. Well, hey, you’re only human! Perhaps you’ve had a day or two to heal. It’s not as if there’s been any pressure on you from me for a repeat performance. I’m still kind of embarrassed myself, to tell the truth, that I knew so much and yet so little at the same time. Still, we each have our animal urges; we know what we want.

You’re wearing your stylish, but rather plain blouse and skirt. I’m wearing a plain buttoned shirt and casual slacks. We don’t have to say much; you and I both know why we’re here. You and I reach out to each other and my arms wrap around your shoulders while yours curl up around my back. As I lean down to kiss you, I recall immediately the amusing fact that I’m a whole head—and neck—taller than you. Tallness always did run in my family, and shortness in yours, darling. You reached your adult height at 14. The guys used to rib me about your supposedly being young enough to be my daughter. Do you know I actually calculated the day you were conceived back from the day you were born just to prove them wrong? Actually, according to my calculations, I could have been your father—if I’d gotten up to something really naughty when I was twelve-and-a-half! They were wrong about your being half my age too, which you haven’t been since you were thirteen, and never will be again. Ah, my beloved, you are no child, young as you look! Heck, but for knowing my real age, they never would have made such a silly guess; I looked young enough to be in your church youth group.

We kiss, and kiss, and kiss, just short nips around each other’s nose and lips at first, then pecks on the mouth, then full, deep goldfish gulps. I’ve never understood what the big deal is about tongues, but I’ll admit it’s quite pleasurable when one of my great gulps sucks a bit of your tongue between our teeth and on to my tongue and they squirm together like oysters in a love embrace. As you run the palms of your hands back and forth over the back of my shirt, I run mine up and down the back of your blouse. The fabric’s rather slick—polyester, perhaps? No matter. I stop only briefly just to get enough leverage to push my shoes off my feet. You never miss a stroke as you kick off your slippers; we’ll make a pro out of you yet, little girl!

We stroke and kiss, kiss and stroke. We haven’t even shed our socks yet, and already I feel a certain part of my anatomy rising to attention. The back, so I’m told, is one of the least sensitive parts of the human body, but no one can tell my awakened little friend that; feel free to massage my back any time, baby. From the strength of your kisses—your mouth eagerly arising to meet mine, your lips pulling at mine as if competing with them in a passionate tug of war—I can feel that something has awakened in you as well. Your chest pressing into mine—well, it’s not as if your breasts are “heaving” as they proverbially would be in a trashy romance novel, but you are pressing me hard, my love. I can feel two little points in particular pressing against my ribs, and the pleasant warmth arising between us in our embrace has now grown so much in its intensity that it’s starting to get a bit uncomfortable.

I can’t know, my dear, quite how this feels for you—would that I could—but you must really be in the mood, because I can feel you quivering through the clothing.