Unlearning What My Parents Taught Me About Sex

We inherit everything from our parents — including damaging beliefs about our sexuality

Photo by **Trinity Kubassek** from **Pexels**

The things my parents taught me about sex explain a whole lot about why I have had the kinds of relationships I’ve had.

Don’t get me wrong. They meant well. I know that. They are good, loving people who did their best. What they gave to me were the lessons they learned.

But so much of what I learned was so incredibly damaging to my body, my heart, and even my soul. It led me into dangerous situations and destructive relationships. It cloaked me in shame so heavy, I could literally sometimes barely move.

These are the lessons I’m still trying to unlearn. These are the mantras I’m repeating backwards now, like a spell, to unwind their hold on me. These are the restraining fingers I’m trying to pry loose, the silencing hand over my mouth that I’m trying to peel away.

These are the things I cannot afford to pass on.

Be a lady

My mother grew up in the 50’s and the values of that era are deeply embedded within her. She always admonished me to be a lady or be more ladylike. “Delicate,” was a word she sometimes used, or “proper.”

This was no easy feat for me. Even as a child, I felt large, clumsy, messy, curious, and sensual. I couldn’t be delicate if I tried. I spoke in ways that I realized some people found crass and when I was older, I loved to tell bawdy jokes with the appropriate crowd.

All this fussing about being a lady had me really mixed up when I was around men. I knew I was supposed to be demure, agreeable, sit with my legs crossed, and never burp out loud.

Over time, I felt like I had to achieve a certain level of femininity in order to be attractive to a man. And god help me, I had no idea how to do that. To this day, I don’t feel feminine enough (whatever “enough” means).

I also felt like I had to be quiet and let a man lead. My mom tended to dislike outspoken women and always said there were other ways a lady could make a point.

For years, it never occurred to me that I could speak up for myself in a relationship. I didn’t think it was even a possibility to express anger or dissatisfaction.

And worst of all, I’d always felt that proper ladies don’t express sexual desire or pleasure. That was a mind-fuck of all mind-fucks and one I’ve been trying to dismantle my entire adult life.

Don’t be a lady, I tell myself now. Fuck being a lady.

Just let it all out.

You don’t own your body

My dad used to warn me again and again to shy away from revealing clothing or provocative words. “Don’t tease a man into thinking you want sex. If he gets that message from you and you don’t actually want to sleep with him, there’s nothing you can do at that point. You have to accept the consequences of your actions.”

The hardest thing for me to swallow when he told me this was that he spoke in a way that didn’t feel like he was looking out for me, but rather that he was trying to prevent me from hurting the men in my life who might feel slighted by perceived sexual advances that didn’t go anywhere. It was like he was defending his fellow men, not trying to protect his daughter.

The message that I received from this was that my body was not my own. If a man perceived that I wanted sex from the way I had dressed or spoken, then I was his for the taking.

I knew even as a teenager that different people interpreted things very differently — one friend’s mother, for instance, might find her daughter’s skirt too short, while another’s didn’t think anything of it — which made me incredibly anxious around men. How could I tell if something I was doing was going to be interpreted as a come on?

I started to blame myself for everything. When I was 19 and went on a blind date with young man some friends had set me up with and he stuck his hand in my crotch five minutes into the movie, I didn’t chastise him, move his hand away, or get up and leave like I wanted to. Instead, I squeezed my legs closer together, scolding myself for wearing such tight jeans on a first date. I had asked for what happened and I deserved the punishment of having to put up with his endlessly groping hands until the movie ended and I could run to my car.

In my twenties, when I went home with a man and we were making out passionately on his couch, I let him take off my shirt, even though I didn’t want to go any further than kissing. I was the one who had stuck my tongue in his mouth and who was making it obvious how much I was enjoying myself, so if he wanted to become more intimate, I assumed I didn’t have the right to stop him at that point.

This is still a difficult lesson to unlearn. It’s still unfathomable to me that I could have said, at any point in my life: “I don’t want to do this.” “I changed my mind.” “I’m not ready for this.” “Please don’t touch me there.” “I don’t like that.” “I don’t want that.”

Though I know my dad was passing along the patriarchal lessons he learned as a young man, it breaks my heart that he taught me this. It breaks my heart that he — and god knows how many other fathers of his generation — couldn’t recognize his own daughter’s sovereignty.

Rape is just part of life

My dad’s whole philosophy about social mores around men and women extended into an even more disturbing arena — the idea that rape was just part of life when it came to certain circumstances.

He spoke of it with such a casualness that it gave me chills. I remember watching Trial by Jury with him, in which a mild-mannered suburban mom played by Joanne Whalley gets raped by a mobster during a trial in which she is a juror. I remember my dad shaking his head and saying, “That’s just the way it goes in the world of the mob or gangs. Rape is just part of the culture.”

He didn’t say, “That’s wrong,” or “It’s so upsetting to see something like that,” or “Do you want to talk about this? I know rape must be a scary subject for you, as a young woman.” He just said it was to be expected.

Rape was such a prominent plot device in books and movies back then. I saw it everywhere. I knew from the news that it was happening every day in real life, too. Between that and my dad’s seemingly casual response to it, I became convinced that rape was inevitable. I literally believed that I wouldn’t make it to 30 without getting raped.

I used to keep a knife on my bedside table, just in case, and a baseball bat behind the front door. I remember being 23 and hearing a knock on my apartment door. I thought it was a friend who had planned to have dinner with me, and instead found myself facing my slightly skeevy neighbor, a man in his 30s who always flirted with me.

At that moment, my heart sank. I was convinced that was it. That was the moment I was going to get raped and there was nothing I could do about it.

Then he handed me an envelope the postman had accidentally put in his mailbox and left.

I felt bad that I had assumed the worst of him, but the fact was, I saw danger everywhere. I believed my body did not belong to me — I was just a piece of meat who would eventually be grabbed and consumed by whatever man was hungry for a meal.

For years, I carried that fear with me. Sometimes, my knees literally shook.

Your body is shameful

I ended up with DD breasts by the time I was 12. I never went through the graceful swan transition that my sister displayed, with her long legs and tastefully-sized breasts. I was a full-on Marilyn Monroe-style pinup girl from the very first blush of puberty.

I could tell I had a come-fuck-me body because every time I found myself in a store, on a sidewalk, or even at school, grown men openly goggled at me, sometimes even throwing me a smacking kiss of their lips.

It was mortifying. I was 12.

My parents noticed this, too, and seemed to think that covering me up would protect me more than calling out the jerks who were panting at me.

I remember sitting at a restaurant one morning when I was 16, having breakfast. The neck of my t-shirt had gaped open a bit and when the waiter came in, right there in front of my entire family, he paused to take a good, long look at my cleavage.

Did anyone say, “Fuck off, pervert” or “I want to talk to your supervisor”?

Nope. Instead, my mother yelled across the table, “Yael, for god’s sake, please cover your breasts!”

I about died. Honestly, if I could have gotten away with sliding under the table and never coming out again, I would have.

And here’s the thing: It’s hard to not show cleavage when you have DD breasts. To this day, when I look down and see that the way my arms are crossed is exposing more of the girls than I intended, I feel ashamed, as if I’ve done something wrong.

My body, though, is not inherently dirty or shameful. It’s not at fault when men behave badly. I have to remind myself of this daily.

We all learned harmful lessons from our parents, especially around sexuality. In some ways, I think it could’ve been worse. My parents weren’t overtly religious, so we were never taught shame around premarital sex. Virginity was not prized in our household. We weren’t taught that God thought our sexuality was sinful.

I’m grateful for that.

And for the rest, I hold on to my compassion for my parents, for what they lived and learned and how it damaged them, too. And I am committed to unraveling myself from these patriarchal beliefs that have caused me so much pain.

It’s time for all of us — together — to move past this.