Who Taught Me That Sex Was A Dirty Word? – Karen Ann Loeper

The word sex, 

somehow less palatable than making love.

Was it the boys I hung out with beyond the playground,

my mother’s sensitive sensibilities,

my father’s cheap dime store paperbacks,

my brother’s Penthouse,

the Catholic Church?

Nowhere in my world, a half a century ago,

was sex sacred. 



My girlfriend’s ex screaming, across the parking lot,

into the night,

“You fucking dyke!”.

One lesbian to another. 

Words meant to shame.

Far from the sacred. 

Wrapped in lesbian-phobia.

Words meant to wound, and cloaked in darkness.



Stained and smeared,

I felt myself immerging out of the dirt,

shaking loose the clinging soil,

liberated, 

to touch and be touched.



Yes, sometimes I still cringe,

feel the blood flush my cheeks,

am at a loss 

when I hear certain words uttered together.

What connotations appear in descriptors…

luscious, longing, smooth and moist, wet and dripping.

Anatomy of love making or raw sex? 

Life giving or life taking? 

Who wrestles with the results?

Intentions versus thoughtless actions. 

What to some are dirty words,

others, rising from the ashes, find freeing, sensual, and sacred.

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I am a traveler, writer, and photographer. Since retiring from being a clinical social worker and a surgical nurse, I travel as often as possible, and think deeply about life and human kind. My observations from the road become my poems and short stories.

Image from Aaron Burden on Unsplash