Every Young Man's Battle: Stategies for Victory in the Real World of Sexual Temptation: The Every Man Series (2 page)

The same could happen to you in the area of sexuality. This is an area you want to fully integrate with your Christian walk. When you do, you’ll have a much healthier outlook regarding relationships with the opposite sex, premarital sex, and even what your marital relationship will be like in bed.

I have a friend whose son turned twelve a couple of years ago. He’s a great dad, and he has a great kid. When the boy turned twelve, it’s as if the spigot labeled Hormones was turned wide open. Stuff was happening inside his body, but he didn’t understand why he was experiencing certain feelings. All he knew was that he had some urges that were difficult to control. The young boy then did a very courageous thing. He approached his father and said, “Dad, I just feel like taking off my clothes and standing in front of a girl naked.”

That was an honest expression of feelings and an accurate description of what it felt like to be a twelve-year-old boy. The fact that he could comfortably talk with his father about his feelings indicated that he wanted some answers to what was happening to him. All of us would benefit from a similar attitude.

In fact,
attitude
is everything when it comes to winning the battle for sexual integrity. If there’s a single Bible verse that captures God’s standard for sexual purity, this is it: “But among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity” (Ephesians 5:3).

For teens and young adults, this is a scary verse that prompts more questions. What does a “hint” mean? How far can I go with a girl when we’re alone? How far can I go with myself when I’m alone? Is masturbation okay?

These are great questions, and we’ll answer them straight up. That’s why you’re going to find
Every Young Man’s Battle
to be the most honest and forthright resource on teen and young adult sexuality out there.

Ready to get started? So are we. We’re going to begin by letting Fred tell you his story and, as we say in Texas, it’s a humdinger.

PART I

Growing up amid
the Iowan cornfields, I made football my god. The sport dominated everything
about me, and I happily played and practiced year-round. I even liked
two-a-days in hot, muggy August. Football was such a big part of my life that I
let the noble sport dictate what I did off the field. After the games, I never
joined my teammates at Lake McBride for the kegger parties. Drinking beer, I
believed, would weaken my focus and soften my drive. As for girlfriends, I
viewed them as high-maintenance commitments that would distract me from my
goal—becoming an all-state quarterback.

Like any red-blooded
football player, however, I had more than a passing interest in sex. I’d
been hooked on
Playboy
centerfolds ever since I found a stack of the
magazines beneath my dad’s bed when I was in first grade. I also
discovered copies of
From Sex to Sexty,
a publication filled with
naughty jokes and sexy comic strips.

When Dad divorced Mom, he moved to
his bachelor pad, where he hung a giant velvet nude in his living room. I
couldn’t help but glance at this mural-like painting whenever we played
cards during my Sunday afternoon visits. On other occasions, Dad gave me a list
of chores whenever I dropped by to see him. Once, while emptying the trash can
in his bedroom, I came across a nude photo of his mistress. All this caused
sexual feelings to churn deep inside me.

Hollywood movies filled me
with lustful curiosity and burning passion. In one film, Diana Ross poured a
bucket of ice on her boss’s belly just as he orgasmed, which seemed to
intensify the experience. My mouth dropped open.
What’s up with this?
I pondered such scenes in my mind for days upon days. On those rare
occasions that I went out on a date during the off-season, these deep churnings
often stirred and bubbled over. Too often, I’d push a girl’s
boundaries while I tried to get a hand under her bra.

Still, my passion
for football kept my sexual yearnings in check. I performed well on the
gridiron and was named “Athlete of the Year” at Thomas Jefferson
High School—a 4-A powerhouse in Cedar Rapids. I received full-ride
scholarship offers from the Air Force Academy and Yale University.

I
had bigger dreams, however—PAC-10 football, even if it meant trying out
for the team as a walk-on. I wouldn’t settle for anything less. Soon I
stood before my locker at Stanford University, staring in awe at the familiar
white helmet with the red
S
and the name Stoeker taped across the
front. Strapping on my helmet and chin strap, I proudly raced onto the field in
my attempt to win a spot on the team. Before long everyone in the country would
know my name when I tossed long rainbow passes into the end zone. I was living
my dream.

In one afternoon, that dream shattered into a thousand
pieces. I was one of eight quarterbacks warming up that day. From the corner of
my eye, I saw Turk Shonert, a blue-chip recruit from Southern California,
throwing thirty-five-yard bullets! Three other quarterbacks zipped the ball
through the air as if it were on a string. These QBs were so good that all four
would later start at Stanford
and
play in the NFL.

I, along
with Corky Bradford, an all-state quarterback from Wyoming, and my dormmate at
Wilbur Hall, stared in disbelief. There was no way either of us had the skill
level to compete with these blue-chippers. When my football
dream
s
died that afternoon, I turned my attention
to…women. Pictures of naked women.

As I settled into normal
college life without sports or dreams, my churning sexuality broke through
every dike, and I was soon awash in pornography. I actually memorized the date
when my favorite soft-core magazine,
Gallery,
arrived at the local
drugstore. I’d be standing at the front door at opening time, even if I
had to skip class to do it. I loved the “Girls Next Door” section
in
Gallery,
which featured pictures of nude girls taken by their
boyfriends and submitted to the magazine for publication.

While I waded
into porn waters up to my neckline, I somehow kept sexual intercourse on some
higher moral dry ground. From where I stood, making love was something
special
for when you were married. I still felt that way after I
returned to Iowa following my freshman year. I got a summer job on a roofing
crew to make some quick, big cash, and I began dating an old friend named
Melissa, entering a relationship that quickly mushroomed into a heavy love
affair. When I wasn’t pounding nails on someone’s roof, Melissa and
I spent endless hours together. Just before I got set to return to Stanford for
my sophomore year, we decided to spend a secluded weekend together at
Dad’s property on Shield’s Lake in southern Minnesota.

Beneath a bright, full moon on a crystal-clear night, we lay down to sleep
with a cool breeze blowing gently over us. The setting was romantic, and I was
getting more excited by the minute. I quietly reached for Melissa, and she knew
exactly where I was headed. Melissa looked up at me with a deep sadness in her
big brown eyes, the moonlight framing her innocent face. “You know that
I’m saving myself for marriage—hopefully ours,” she said.
“If you push forward with this, I want you to know that I won’t
stop you. But I will never be able to respect you as much as I do right now,
and that would make me very sad for a very long time.”

Laying her
virginity on the line, she had delivered the ultimate pop quiz. How would I
answer? Who did I love most—her or me? My head spun. My desire and
passion pounded away as I gazed into that sweet face glowing softly at me. We
became silent for a long time. Finally, I smiled. Snuggling in next to her, I
dozed off to sleep, passing her test with flying colors. Little did I know that
it was the last test I’d pass for many years.

When I left Melissa
behind on my drive back to Stanford University, a deep loneliness settled in.
Far from home and with few Christian underpinnings, I wandered aimlessly
through my days, feeling sorry for myself. Then one day during an intramural
football game, my eyes caught sight of a female referee. She looked like a
grown-up version of my childhood sweetheart, Melody Knight, who had moved to
Canada when we were in the third grade.

I was in love! Since there was
nothing holding us back, it wasn’t too long before we were in bed making
love. I justified it because I was having sex with the girl I
knew
I
would marry. It seemed like such a small step away from my values. Sadly, the
flame of our relationship burned out as quickly as it began, but sadder still:
This small step led to many more steps down the hill.

The next time I
made love, it was with a girl I
thought
I would marry. The time after
that, it was with a good friend that I thought I could love and
maybe
marry. Then came the pleasant coed I barely knew who simply wanted to
experience sex before she left college.

Within twelve short months,
I’d gone from being able to say no in a secluded camper on a moonlit
night to being able to say yes in any bed on any night. Just one year out of
college in California, I found myself with four “steady”
girlfriends simultaneously. I was sleeping with three of them and was
essentially engaged to marry two of them. None knew of the others.

Why
do I share all this?

First, so you’ll know that I understand the
fiery draw of premarital sex. I know where you’re living. Second, if
you’re already sleeping around but know that you shouldn’t, I bring
you hope. As you’ll soon see, God changed my whole mind-set about having
sex before marriage.

Even as I bounced from bed to bed during my single days, I
didn’t notice anything wrong with my life. Oh, sure, I attended church
sporadically, and from time to time the pastor’s words penetrated my
heart. But who was he? Besides, I loved my girlfriends. No one was getting
hurt, I reasoned.

But my stepmother noticed something was wrong. My
dad had eventually remarried, and when I visited back home in Iowa, she
occasionally dragged me across the river to the Moline Gospel Temple in Moline,
Illinois. The gospel was preached in that church, but to me the whole scene was
ludicrous. I often laughed cynically, just thinking of the people there.

After graduating from Stanford University with an honors degree in
sociology, I took a job in the San Francisco area as an investment adviser. One
day in May, I stayed late at the office. Everyone else had gone home, leaving
me alone with some troubling thoughts. I swiveled my chair around and propped
up my feet on the credenza to gaze into a typically grand California sunset. As
the sun dipped beneath the horizon, God somehow interrupted the scene with the
horrible revelation of what I had become.

This
was a different experience for me. Oh, I knew who God was and had even prayed
on occasion that I wanted Him closer in my life, but nevertheless I’d be
right back in bed the following evening with the French graduate
student—or one of the others. I never really meant those prayers. Then
again, my word never meant much back then, and I knew it.

My friends
understood this as well. Corky, one of my buddies, had coined a slang term for
this character flaw of mine. To “Fred-out” was to promise to be
somewhere and then not show up, and this colorful phrase became part of the
vocabulary in my circle of friends. After those earlier prayers, I’d
simply “Fred-out” on God.

But not this time.

I
don’t know how He did it on that evening in my San Francisco office, but
God showed me how hopelessly ugly I’d become through my sin. Tears of
sorrow and despair streamed down my face. Where once I was blind, now I could
see. Instantly, I saw my deep, deep need for a Savior. Because of the Moline
Gospel Temple, I knew who to call upon. My prayer that day flowed from the
simplicity of a certain heart: “Lord, I’m ready to work with You if
You’re ready to work with me.”

I stood up and walked out of
the office, not yet fully realizing what I’d just done. But God knew. In
the first two weeks, it seemed as if the heavens moved everything in my life,
and in no time I had a new job back in Iowa and a new life ahead of me. And I
left the girlfriends behind!

But it wasn’t the new life
ahead
of me that would transform me…it was a new life
in
me. Though I still didn’t know it for sure, an event on my
trip home to Iowa revealed that God had moved in. I stopped in Steamboat
Springs, Colorado, to visit a couple of Stanford buddies. The father of one
owned a ranch just outside Steamboat, so I was looking forward to grabbing a
few days of relaxation and Rocky Mountain high as I passed through.

When I arrived, I needed to make a pit stop, so I headed straight for the
bathroom. When I opened the door, I found the walls papered with
Playboy
centerfolds, and I was instantly repulsed.

I stood
there shocked.

Shocked by the centerfolds? No, I was shocked by my
revulsion.
Where in the world did this reaction come from?
I wondered.
After all, we’re talking Fred Stoeker, the guy who’d memorized the
dates when porn magazines hit the local drugstore. The one who skipped class to
lust over the pages. The one who
lived
for centerfolds, saving them
for last like some sweet dessert. I’d never been repulsed by a centerfold
in my life.