In defence of Abstinence

FEATURE | ISSUE ELEVEN | MAHIMAHI / SEX Written by Anonymous

Illustrated by Tashi Donnelly (she/her) | @tashi_rd | Editor-in-Chief

Abstinence is a good thing. 

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WAIT … wait … hear me out! 

Abstinence is a good thing if you’re doing it for yourself. 

In the same way sex is a good, nay, a great thing if you’re doing it because you truly want to. 

For me, primary school sex-ed was one of those Kiwi experiences that you assume is universal until you casually reference learning about wet-dreams in the back of a white van from a hand-puppet giraffe to someone from another country and are confronted with just how weird that actually is. 

However, I’ll cede that despite the unconventional mouthpiece (or is that hand-piece?) of Harold the Giraffe, the content itself was fairly encompassing. By the age of fifteen, I felt I knew everything I needed to know about sex. 

And on a physical level, sure, I knew the basics – the ins-and-outs, if you will. 

But, in a crazy reversal of most sex-ed-failings-related-complaints, what I wish I’d learnt more about was abstinence. 

Now that’s not to say I wish I’d learnt about abstinence in lieu of sex ed. I think it’s pretty well established that this trade serves nobody. Instead, I wish I’d learnt about what wanting to have sex felt like, but also what not wanting to have it felt like. I wish I’d learnt to seek consent – not just in a partner, but in myself. 

It’s all very well to ask a partner: do you want to have sex? To check that their body language, physical cues and the power balance at hand are in line with a consensual interaction. 

Sometimes it’s much harder to ask yourself, why am I doing this? And do I really want to? 

Across ages 16 through 19, I developed the notion that sex was an all-or-nothing pursuit: there was no testing the waters; you were either sitting dry on the shore, or taking the plunge, full head-under. 

That is, pretty obviously, an unhealthy mentality. It’s certainly one I wouldn’t advise to friends, but it’s also one I didn’t consciously observe in myself until as late as November 11th last year. 

No, November 11th’s being Remembrance Day didn’t inspire revelations in me about the way I was treating sex; rather, it was the day a relationship of mine ended because of sex. 

Through no fault of my partner, I had been holding off from “the deed” for months. Not my typical approach to a fledgling relationship at all, but due to my all-or-nothing mentality, something so minor as hand-holding or physical proximity would have me shy away or lash out in order to avoid what I saw as inevitable: sex. 

On November 11th, I had the simple realisation that all these symptoms weren’t problems with the relationship as such; rather, they added up to the fact that I actually just did not want to have sex. And that was OK. 

(I should note it is completely possible to be in a relationship without sex, and all grace to the person; they were willing to try to work through this.) The relationship ended when I realised the ‘issues’ were nothing to do with others and their ability to seek consent – I was never going to be able to give it until I knew what enthusiastic consent from myself felt like. 

On November 11th I didn’t ‘swear off’ sex as such. Rather, I told myself the next time I had it would be when I really, actually, wholeheartedly wanted to. 

As such, I’ve been abstinent for 10 months. 

And to clarify (and maybe a little to flex), that’s not for any shortage of opportunity. 

Choosing to abstain – not for God, nor for social expectations, but for myself – has made me wholly happier than any participation for the gratification of others ever did. 

And this is the kind of abstinence I think we should be building into sex ed curriculum.

Preserving yourself, not for marriage, but for yourself. Preserving your peace. 

We learn all about what external pressures constitute assault: power imbalance, physical duress, incapacitation. There’s a whole range of easily identifiable factors. But to learn about what your own body is telling you? Is,  to me,  just as valuable. When are you putting yourself under duress? And why? Will having sex right now help you,

your relationship? Or inadvertently hurt these things? Are you actually traumatising yourself? 

I’m legitimately asking, because if I’m honest these are things I still haven’t unwound at my wizened old age of 24. Maybe I still wouldn’t know these things if I'd learnt about trying to identify my own consent in school, but I can’t help but suspect that having the jump on asking before doing would certainly have helped.

I’m not waiting for prince (or princess) charming, nor marriage; I’m waiting for myself. Most important to me is that whatever situation sees me ready to have sex – be that one-night stand, be that long-term relationship – I’m

asking myself first and, in turn, enthusiastically affirming. 

(Also important to me… that it’s with someone I consider a smoking hot babe).