At 19, I fell spectacularly in love for the first time.

Until then, I never understood why they call it "falling," but fall it was — headlong, headfirst, head-over-heels, in-over-my-head. right down deep into love at first sight

Luke had a swimmer's build — all broad shoulders and long legs. His skater's cargo pants hugged a pert ass that mocked gravity. His grey-green eyes were classically puppy-dog and his prominent nose was Tom Cruise crooked. It made him self-conscious, but I thought it magnificent. He was soft-spoken and goofy and full of self-doubt.

We met at a Christian college of all places. Neither one of us had previously had sex — or anything remotely approximating it. We felt bound by the rules of our beliefs, as well as those articulated by the school, and yet, and yet —

Well, every time we escaped to Luke's powder-blue car, it was a slowly escalating sex-capade. We'd drive the backcountry roads listening to Tribe Called Quest in search of somewhere safe and private to park.

Often lit only by a persistent prairie moon, our lingering French kisses turned into inquiring hands in search of unseen places. Bodies pressed too long together became a slow grind towards satisfaction. Tongues travelled, lips lingered.

Zippers unzipped with sheepish fingers.

All we wanted was each other — but we both believed that this was forbidden.

Because, you know, Good Girls don't want to have sex. (Oh yes I did.)

It was four long months of everything but before we could no longer stop ourselves. We lived many hundreds of miles apart and the school semester was over. I was staying at his parents' motel; they'd given me a separate room but most nights I slept in his suite, a large apartment complete with a kitchenette, living room, and two bedrooms.

Teenagers in love, we were deathly afraid of getting pregnant, that socially unforgivable fate which had befallen both Luke's parents and his oldest brother.

But because we weren't supposed to be having sex at all, we never had condoms on hand ahead of time, either. Too much temptation, we agreed, as though it would be the condom's fault if we 'slipped up'.

Looking back at my naivete now it all sounds so laughable. Oh to go back, buy some proper contraceptives, and abandon all misgivings. To embrace unabashedly my passion and all the pleasures that came with it.

That particular morning I'd slept in my room for once, so he came to wake me with kisses. I remember how thin our pyjamas were, almost intangible between our bodies so young and hungry for each other. Tender kisses quickly grew frantic, the flimsy fabric too much of a barrier.

One by one, all the clothing came off. Soft cotton tops casually slid up, warm flannel bottoms wiggled down. Now there was nothing between us but love. The skin of our bellies and thighs sliding, our melodies blending, our movement synchronized — this delirious dance felt like our own invention.

Twenty years later and I can still remember how hard he felt in my hand and how wet I was. Gaze locked, we asked each other what next? with eyes full of anguished longing. Equal parts anticipation and trepidation.

'Just the tip,' we whispered hoarsely in agreement.

Mmmmmoremoremore I purred — he fit me so perfectly. The rounded head of his cock nestled into the bowl between my labia. He felt so good. This felt so right. How could this be wrong?

Then we'd stop — just before — and hold each other and shake. We shouldn't we shouldn't we shouldn't.

Everything (but one little made-up thing) screaming Yes This Now Please!

We circled our mutual desire, our mutual fear. Until we didn't. A little more, a little more, inch by exquisite and agonizingly slow inch I pulled him in deeper until I swallowed him up.

Two pieces of this puzzle together at last. He was rooted inside of me; his arms held me tight. We lay still, skin-to-skin, and shivered in tandem. It was an earthquake — if only the size of us.

'I'm going to come.' His voice shook and he pulled out just in time.

Soon after, we noticed his cock was covered in blood.

Naively, I cried, 'My period!' Because this still wasn't quite sex. Was it?

It was easier for me to believe I'd started to menstruate than he'd just broken my hymen. To be honest, it didn't even cross my mind. Even though I'd just had sex for the first time, my brain was trying to make sense of the situation so that I wouldn't have broken the rules.

These foolish, arbitrary, imaginary rules.

I now know they call this cognitive dissonance. When our beliefs and our behaviours do not line up, our brains have a way of wiggling through the cracks.

Cognitive dissonance causes feelings of unease and tension, and people attempt to relieve this discomfort in different ways. Examples include "explaining things away" or rejecting new information that conflicts with their existing beliefs.

To be a Good Girl, I needed to believe we haven't really had sex. But we had. We'd had plenty of oral sex before then. He'd come in my hand, on my stomach, in my mouth, between my breasts. He'd licked me and fingered me till I came. I loved to grind my clit against his cock and orgasmed easily this way.

And now I'd 'fully' fucked him. (But not quite, right? Right?) Because good girls don't do that before marriage. Good girls wait. Good girls make sure that boys wait too.

I remember six months or so later having dinner with two best friends from high school. We'd all grown up in the same small, religious town. Debbie was already married and Mark had recently come out as gay.

As we drank bellinis, the stories grew more outrageous, the laughter, belly-deep. I felt like I needed to confess. Glancing up abashedly from over the rim of my glass, I mustered my courage and finally blurted, 'I have something I need to tell you!'

They urged me to share, but it was harder to put into words than I thought it would be. The shame was palpable — like the bite of an apple caught in my throat — even though I didn't expect either of them to judge me.

'I — I had sex,' I finally stuttered.

They howled with laughter. 'Is that all?' Mark said carelessly. 'I thought you were going to tell us you were bisexual.'

(Note to my 19-year-old-self: when your gay friend suspects you're into women too, stop and think more. It'll save you a decade of confusion.)

The casual way they'd taken my pronouncement showed me just how silly the whole thing had been. How I'd felt cautious, fearful, and fretful over nothing.

Over the time we were together, Luke and I tried so hard not to have sex. We still didn't buy condoms ahead of time — though sometimes he'd run out late at night and pick up a small box. There was so much love and desire but confusion and guilt were always mixed in too.

What would it have been like without the guilt? I can't help but wonder.

So indoctrinated, so enculturated, I couldn't own and savour my own sexuality, my own sexual knowledge and experience.

Although a large part of my internal conflict came from Christianity, I've watched, read, and heard countless stories from girls and women facing a similar struggle within any patriarchal culture.

As women, we're still expected to be the gatekeepers of sexual morality. We're told to police our own bodies and lock up our virginity until 'just the right man' comes along.

Don't give it away, we're told. But what if we want to take it?

Telling my stories, claiming my sexuality, is my way of writing out of the box these beliefs put me into. It's an ongoing effort to own the truths of my body — this blood was not a period — its mysteries and its madness.

For me, sex writing is about moving past what I'm 'supposed to be' into who I am and what I want.

It's being raw and real about myself as a thoroughly sexual human who enjoys connecting intimately with others. In writing, I free myself of other people's rules and the shame that comes from them.

And maybe I'll help write someone else a little freer too.

Danielle Loewen loves mixing the passionate with the poetic. You can read more of her work here.