Love, Sex and Islam
The first time I had sex was also my first time on a horse. It was Joyce’s idea. She was still infatuated with my brother and knew that he loved to go riding on the Tk'emlups Indian reserve across the river, less than a mile from downtown Kamloops, British Columbia.
Girls like Joyce were not usually attracted to guys like me. Like most attractive, outgoing young women, she preferred the strong, physical type with the pleasant personality who knew how to dance—that was not me. My brother’s interest in Joyce had waned as his interest in another young lady blossomed, and he was looking for a way to let her down gently. He suggested to Joyce that she might want to date me. For Joyce, that was a no-brainer. If dating the brother meant being close to the man she was still in love with, that was a price she was willing to pay.
The riding instructor reminded me as we left the corral, that if I ever wanted to enjoy sitting again, I must ride with my legs, letting my bum go up and down in rhythm with the motion of my horse's back.
About a mile into our slow trot in the direction of Mount Peter and Paul, Joyce, an accomplished rider just like my Lucette, decided she had had enough of this slow, single-file canter and peeled off at a gallop heading towards the river, waving at me to follow. Once I had my ride pointed in the right direction, it understood. All I could do was hang on.
I was gaining on Joyce as we approached a bend in the Thompson River when her charging horse stopped suddenly, and a pair of fly-ing hooves narrowly missed knocking out my mount's front teeth. An attempted sucker punch if there ever was one! The now insulted and angry beast beneath me was not about to let it go. It, too, stopped, swivelled 180 degrees, and before we knew it, both horses were knocking hooves. Joyce quickly regained control of her mount and, to my surprise, I managed to do the same with my rambunctious stallion.
About a mile into our slow trot in the direction of Mount Peter and Paul, the aboriginal leader of our little posse had galloped back to-ward me. "What’s the problem?" he shouted.
"My horse won’t go where I want him to go," I shouted back.
He came close enough to grab the bridle, and twisted my horse's head until its nose almost touched the tip of one of my boots. "You have to show your horse where you want him to go," he explained. "You have to show him who is the boss," and he galloped back to the head of the line.
That lesson was undoubtedly the reason I managed to regain control of my charger. With our rides under control, we made our way back to the stables. Back in the car, Joyce was not ready to go home just yet. She suggested I drive to a secluded place on the reserve where we could talk and watch, unobserved, others riding by.
Maybe she was still under the influence of the adrenaline rush, or maybe it was my unexpected competence as a cowboy, but Joyce was in the mood. I was lying on my back, propping myself up on my elbows. Joyce sat next to me, facing me, when one hand grabbed the top of my pants and held them taut; another reached for the zipper, slowly pulling it down before feeling for the opening of my boxers.
This being our first date, and never having had sex, she caught me completely by surprise, which made drawing it out a simple operation for a woman who obviously knew what she was doing. Once she had it in hand and showed it the clear light of day, it quickly stood erect, firm and proud like never before.
Joyce wasted no time, and I might have done the same had I known I was about to hit a home run my first time at bat. She got up, undid her belt and unbuttoned her jeans before pushing them down, along with her panties, to the tops of her knees. Then she turned around. Before I knew it, I was looking at something I had only ever seen in a Penthouse spread slowly descending towards, dare I say it, my manhood. I could make out, among a camouflage of pubic hair, the outline of a twinkling aperture. Unless one of us did something, she was going to miss it altogether.
Before she had a chance to intervene, I made like I knew what I was doing and nudged it forward. The strands of hair near her entrance parted and, BINGO! For the first time, I felt the tip, as Joyce continued her descent, make its way into what scholars of the faith refer to as a woman’s “forward passage,” easily sliding between her outer lips. Then came the sensation of the smaller inner guardians of the holy of holies reluctantly giving way, allowing the full length to slowly disappear into what was, until then, the great unknown.
Having taken it all in, she paused and leaned forward, giving me even more of an eyeful. I couldn’t believe that was me inside there, and what a wonderful “there” it was. Her back arched as she raised her rear, until only the tip of a glistening shaft was still inside, then she brought it back down, and raised it up again, and away we went. Then it happened. I thought it would all remain inside her, way up there. Little did I know!
While all this was happening, her hip motion sped up just as a couple of riders appeared on the horizon. Then she came to a grinding halt, not caring that pubic hairs might get caught in the open zipper. In Muhammad’s day, and like many young women continue to do today, wives epilated or shaved their pubic area—not to avoid hazards such as open zippers, which did not yet exist, but to please their husbands with a pubic area that resembled that of a pre-pubescent girl (personally, like most men of my generation, I find that pubic hair adds to a woman’s appeal).
Narrated Jabir bin Abdullah:
While we were returning from a Ghazwa (Holy Battle) with the Prophet, I started driving my camel fast, as it was a lazy camel. A rider came behind me and pricked my camel with a spear he had with him, and then my camel started running as fast as the best camel you may see. Behold! The rider was the Prophet himself.
He said, "What makes you in such a hurry?"
I replied, "I am newly married."
He said, "Did you marry a virgin or a matron?"
I replied, "A matron."
He said, "Why didn't you marry a young girl so that you may play with her and she with you?"
When we were about to enter (Medina), the Prophet said, "Wait so that you may enter (Medina) at night so that the lady of unkempt hair may comb her hair and the one whose husband has been absent may shave her pubic region."
After catching her breath, and with no snagged pubic hair to hold her down, Joyce stood up and bent over to pull up her jeans and panties. Without taking my eyes off her as she struggled to fit her saddle-tempered buttocks inside a pair of tight jeans, I reached down and zipped myself up. Everything felt at bit moist and sticky, but I didn’t give it a second thought.
This was all new to me, including the fact that much of what is expelled—especially with the recipient on top, and gravity being what it is—leaks out, mixed with what Muhammad may have mistaken for a woman’s ejaculate (actually fluid that is sometimes expelled from the urethra during sex). Whatever he was referring to, God’s spokesperson claimed that if this discharge occurred before her husband’s, the child conceived would look like its mother.
Narrated Um Salama:
Um-Sulaim came to Allah's Apostle and said, "Verily, Al-lah is not shy of (telling you) the truth. Is it necessary for a woman to take a bath after she has a wet dream (nocturnal sexual discharge?)"
The Prophet replied, "Yes, if she notices a discharge."
Um Salama, then covered her face and asked, "O Allah's Apostle! Does a woman get a discharge?"
He replied, "Yes, let your right hand be in dust (an Arabic expression you say to a person when you contradict his statement meaning ‘you will not achieve goodness’), and that is why the son resembles his mother."
This statement about a woman’s ejaculate having an impact on their child‘s complexion is surprising since, in the Koran, a woman is only a warm place where the man deposits his sperm. From the entire male ejaculate—not from a single flagellate whose existence was unknown at the time—Allah creates a male or a female. The woman has nothing to do with it. This may explain why Allah and His spokesman consider her monthly discharge of blood and other materials an impurity unrelated to her role in procreation.
75:36 Does man think that he shall be left unattended?
75:37 Was he not a drop of sperm released?
75:38 Then, he was a leech; then He created and fashioned (him);
75:39 Making of him a couple, male and female.
Um Salama, wife number six, was thirty years old when she accepted an offer of marriage from God’s spokesman after her first husband succumbed to battle wounds. Muhammad’s statement about what causes a son to resemble his mother brought a smile to the face of a mature woman who may have known better.
Narrated Abu Salama:
Um Salama said, "O Allah's Apostle! Allah does not refrain from saying the truth! Is it obligatory for a woman to take a bath after she gets nocturnal discharge?"
He said, "Yes, if she notices the water (i.e. discharge)."
Um Salama smiled and said, "Does a woman get dis-charge?"
Allah's Apostle said, "Then why does a child resemble (its mother)?"
If Joyce noticed anything, she didn’t mention it, and if she did, she probably assumed I had seen it and would take care of it when I got the chance.
I don’t remember a single word said between us during or after the blessed event. Maybe it was because no words were spoken; at least, no words worthy of commitment to long-term memory. I know I didn’t want to betray that it was my first time, so maybe I kept my mouth shut. As for Joyce, what could she say? When she picked up the pace toward the end, it obviously had nothing to do with what was happening with me; rather, it was the sight of the man she was obviously thinking about when having sex with me as he rode into view.
In those days, most sports cars had separate seats for the driver and front passenger. My car was not a sports car; it had a bench seat (one seat from door to door, not unlike the back seat of most vehicles). When we drove into the Tk'emlups Indian reserve, she was sitting by the door; when we drove out, she was sitting next to me. The Universe had shifted, and in a good direction.
I dropped her off at her place, then went home. A younger, more experienced sister was there with her friends when I walked in. Alice pointed to my pants and shouted out with unrestrained amusement: “Shot spots, Bernie just had sex!”
I looked down. What a mess! I never told Joyce she was my first, nor did I tell my sister that her exclamation marked a rite of passage.