Once upon a time… American culture was not so coarse.  True intimacy was measured by what was held quietly between two adults, behind closed doors or in a darkened forest, where the light illuminated the most lovely blessings of all.  Nathaniel Hawthorne captured the purity of real love, and la douleur exquise – the exquisite pain – that accompanies it. 
 
Often times, men make decisions on behalf of their wife, or partner, they believe protect us.  They take action to be careful, without truly considering what effect it may have on a woman’s heart.  Assumptions are made, references to past lovemaking experiences that give them an edge – they seek to give guidance, play ‘teacher.’  In their ardor to fulfill their own needs, to be the gallant and moral knight, all the while believing they know best how to fulfill her needs – they occasionally forget such a woman has profound sense of self-awareness. She knows what pleases her, and how to share the most intimate places in herself with her Beloved.  When he values his quantity, his experiences, every moment of his carnal knowledge over hers, or her lack of carnal knowledge – he sometimes is clumsy in respecting her very real needs. 
 
As society has degraded the value of real intimacy, when some men find themselves captivating the heart of a most beloved, and less-worn woman, they often place her under the bell jar.  All under the guise of experience.  All of the direction is stifling. Telling a woman who has waited for the right reasons, for the right man, for adulthood – before she explored her sexuality, that her passion must wait… it requires a tenderness, an eloquence, and a patience. 
 
A woman who brings a certain innocence to her partnership, or marriage, never wants to feel like she is playing the role of Hester Prynne.  Why should her womanhood, her true self be extinguished? 
 
From The Scarlet Letter:
“All the world had frowned on her, — for seven long years it had frowned upon this lonely woman, –and still she bore it all, nor ever once turned away her firm, sad eyes.  Heaven, likewise, had frowned upon her, and she had not died.  But the frown of this pale, weak, sinful, and sorrow-stricken man was what Hester could not bear, and live!”
She had married a cruel man, and he did not love her – instead he wanted to possess her.  His hate left a mark.  Years later, Prynne and her only love, Reverend Dimmesdale, were bound by intimacy.  Prynne revered him… because in one moment, where she was totally free, as he was – and equally so – in love, she found something ordained – as described in an exchange with Dimmesdale, who begins:
“May God forgive us both! We are not, Hester, the worst sinners in the world.  There is one worse than the polluted priest! That old man’s revenge has been blacker than my sin.  He has violated, in cold blood, the sanctity of a human heart.  Thou and I, Hester, never did so!”
 
“Never, never!” whispered she.  “What we did had a consecration of its own. We felt it so! We said so to each other!  Hast thou forgotten?”
 A woman wishes little more than to be remembered not only for her good deeds, her bright and kind children, but by her Beloved – she wishes to be remembered for their intimacy… that singular achievement where two souls unite in common, ordained purpose lending a lasting sweetness and enduring ardor.
 
The coarseness of society is about choice.  We should surrender only to our beloved, and never to the common, pedestrian trash.  Reminding a woman of experience removes mystery, no woman wants to know how her man touched another.  Ever.  Anyone can be a receptacle. 
Ordained love means we never have to be.
 
—Media Lizzy