An Open Letter to the Creators of Bridgerton, AKA, Pornography My Repressed Catholic Guilt Permits
Dear Creative Team of Bridgerton,
“I burn for you.”
It is as though you trolled my Facebook timeline, tapped my phones, read my dreams, and figured out exactly what I have been longing for. And as you already know from my viewing statistics, S1E5 time stamp 49:30–58:00 is exactly what I have been longing for. I’m not necessarily proud of it. I only know, “it is you I cannot sacrifice.”
As a former Catholic school girl, a feminist, and a married woman of more than 12 years, my sexual awakening has been a long and circuitous journey. True story: I literally raised my hand in class to ask my seventh grade religion-and-sex ed teacher for the definition of masturbation (spoiler: her answer was vague on the instructions, clear on the sin).
What I mean to say, is that the way you colorfully depict the damage done to women when we cling to propriety and veil sexuality in metaphors like “as natural as the rain that soaks the fields” — it resonated. Deeply. Almost as deeply as Simon resonated Daphne on their wedding night. And on a picnic blanket. And on the mausoleum porch. And on the desk…
Pardon me. Where was I?
You tackled issues important to my progressive ideals — issues like gender roles, racial barriers, and classism. Yes, you did it predictably, keeping it as light and easy to consume as Queen Charlotte’s crumpets, but the euphoria over seeing better racial representation in Regency-era fare made it that much easier to digest the idea that in a time lacking advanced medical care somehow the majority of the population was still homogeneously thin, symmetrically-featured, and blemish-free.
“Flawless, my dear.”
I did not masturbate growing up. I mean, I tried, but it was like Honors Physics — I didn’t see the point, I got tired, I never finished. I generally avoided porn. My inner feminist struggled to reconcile my arousal with rumors of the industry’s less-than-reputable labor practices, and my inner literature enthusiast could not overlook contrived plot lines to write my own climax. So I did not really orgasm until I was 28 years old…and seven months pregnant…and even then I thought that said orgasm was my water breaking.
“Do you want me to stop?”
I have a lot of deeply repressed Catholic guilt, a sizable knowledge gap about my own body, and a G spot that cheats at Marco Polo. After years of searching, I finally have a carefully curated playlist of mood music, laboriously tested directional phrases to guide my husband, and two not-too-intimidating personal massage toys. Yet, even with all these elements present, there are still nights when I am as dry as a sawdust sandwich and my orgasms disappear like they’re all just hanging out somewhere with Jimmy Hoffa.
“My thoughts of you never end.”
You managed to cut away my leading strings, rip off my corset, and uncover my very own heaving bosoms. To write a story that is a giant cheese fondue melting pot of Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and Gossip Girl is one thing, but to write that story and provide sixteen minutes and forty-two seconds of the most tantalizing softcore porn is something entirely apart. I thank you. My husband thanks you.
Just because my libido is not raging, does not make it any less worthy of encouragement. I am tired of pretending. And I cannot continue acting as if I do not love a healthy mix of sophisticated emotional drama and cathartic coochie-licking on a grand staircase.
“I am yours. I have always been yours.”
Yours truly,
Kate Mock Elliott
Kate Mock Elliott is a wordsmith, grammar fiend, theatre artist, and musician based out of Cincinnati, OH. She has been published by Points In Case, The Belladonna Comedy, and has a critically-acclaimed one woman show called seXmas Cards because why wouldn’t you talk about sex in your Christmas cards when you have a lot of Catholic guilt to process? Find her on Twitter @katemockelliott
