The Good Girl''s Guide to Great Sex

What if the best sex of your life didn’t come from breaking rules, but from embracing them? In The Good Girl’s Guide to Great Sex, author Sheila Wray Gregoire challenges the long-standing cultural myth that wild, rule-breaking “bad girls” have more fun in bed. Drawing on research, Christian teaching, and hundreds of real women's stories, she shows that when sex is rooted in commitment, faith, and emotional intimacy, it’s not just moral — it’s deeply satisfying and wildly freeing.

Gregoire’s central claim is both provocative and reassuring: great sex is not about technique; it’s about connection. This connection — physical, emotional, and spiritual — flourishes best within healthy, faithful marriages because that’s how it was designed to work. Rather than treating sex as something dirty or purely physical, she argues that God made it holy, passionate, and fun. The ‘good girl’ who learns to embrace this truth can experience pleasure and intimacy far beyond society’s imitators.

Breaking the Bad-Girl Myth

From the book’s first chapter, Gregoire takes aim at pop culture’s obsession with sex as conquest. Movies, music, and magazines proclaim that freedom lies in casual hookups and experimentation. But research tells another story: the women who report the most fulfilling sex lives aren’t young singles at the clubs; they’re married women in long-term, loving relationships. Studies from the Family Research Council and confirmed by Gregoire’s own surveys of over 1,000 women reveal that the happiest women in the bedroom are the ones who see sex as an act of trust and union, not a performance.

For Gregoire, this isn’t about moral superiority; it’s about design. She writes, “Sex was never meant to be cheap — it was meant to be priceless.” By linking spiritual commitment to sexual satisfaction, she redefines purity not as denial, but as preparation for passion that grows over time.

Faith, Freedom, and the Marriage Bed

A central theme of the book is that faith does not restrict sexuality — it liberates it. The Christian ethic of mutual love and respect replaces the transactional view of sex with something infinitely richer: a covenant of giving. Gregoire presents sex as something God designed to reflect divine intimacy itself — a joyful, vulnerable act that says, “I belong completely to you.”

This theology of the body echoes what writers like Gary Thomas (Sacred Marriage) and Tim Gardner (Sacred Sex) have also written: a marriage grounded in spiritual connection naturally leads to better physical intimacy, not less of it. By reclaiming sex as a sacred celebration — rather than something shameful or animalistic — Gregoire restores dignity and delight to the act itself.

A Three-Dimensional View of Sex

Throughout the book, Gregoire organizes her insights around three dimensions of sexual discovery: the physical (fireworks), the spiritual (bliss), and the relational (laughter). The first invites us to explore anatomy, desire, and pleasure without guilt. The second explores how sex becomes a mirror of divine connection — a way to know and to be known. The third emphasizes friendship and humor as essential ingredients to keep passion alive over years.

Taken together, these layers dismantle the idea that “good Christians don’t talk about sex.” Instead, Gregoire invites readers into candid, funny, and occasionally awkward conversations that are refreshingly honest. Her tone is maternal and mischievous at once, urging women to laugh at their insecurities, honor their bodies, and throw away shame. “There’s nothing more spiritual,” she writes, “than a couple laughing in bed.”

Why This Matters Today

In a world saturated by sexual imagery yet starved for real intimacy, The Good Girl’s Guide to Great Sex offers a desperately needed reframing. For young brides-to-be anxious about their wedding night, Gregoire is the reassuring older sister who says, “Relax — this is supposed to be fun.” For wives stuck in “fizzle instead of sizzle,” she gives practical ways to build emotional warmth, physical confidence, and communication. And for women carrying guilt or trauma, she extends an invitation to healing and rediscovery, rooted in divine grace rather than performance.

Ultimately, Gregoire’s message resonates because it offers what both secular and religious cultures often fail to deliver: a vision of sex that is both holy and hot. Being a ‘good girl’ doesn’t mean being repressed — it means claiming passion as something sacred, creative, and meant to flourish. By the book’s end, readers see that God’s design for intimacy isn’t prudish or outdated — it’s revolutionary.

Sheila Wray Gregoire begins by dismantling two contradictory yet equally destructive myths: that women are either sexual temptresses or chaste angels. Both, she says, reduce complex human beings to caricatures. The real problem lies in our misunderstanding of desire itself — we treat it either as sin or as self-expression, when in fact it can be sacred.

Purity as Preparation, Not Denial

For many Christian women, the word “purity” carries baggage. It connotes shame, control, and fear of one’s body. Gregoire argues that biblical purity, properly understood, is not the repression of desire but its cultivation for the right context — much like nurturing a flame until it’s ready to light a hearth. “Being a good girl,” she writes, “is not about following rules; it’s about belonging to God.”

She emphasizes that purity is about ownership — whose you are — more than about history. Even women with painful or promiscuous pasts can reclaim goodness because of grace. God sees them not through their mistakes but through Christ’s redemption. This liberating message reframes sexual healing as a spiritual restoration rather than moral repair.

Desire as Divine Design

Gregoire’s boldest claim is that “you were created for sex.” That sentence, she admits, startles many readers — yet it’s profoundly biblical. Desire was built into humanity long before sin entered the story. When channeled through love and commitment, appetite becomes a mirror of divine creativity. Citing Genesis 2:24, she notes that the phrase “one flesh” never meant merely physical contact; it describes emotional, spiritual, and psychological union.

The challenge for modern women is to re-educate their minds. We’ve inherited centuries of mixed messages — from prudish silence to pornographic noise. Neither promotes real joy. Gregoire’s solution is an integrated view of sexuality that honors both holiness and pleasure, demolishing the false dichotomy between “pure” and “passionate.”

Healing from Shame and Comparison

Many of Gregoire’s readers, like the fictionalized women she quotes throughout, carry wounds from sexual pasts or feelings of inadequacy. “I thought I was too late to be a good girl,” one says. To this, Gregoire replies that good girls are not defined by virginity but by grace. She encourages confession, self-compassion, and reframing one’s body as “a temple of joy, not guilt.”

She also challenges body-shaming ideals. Modern culture equates great sex with perfect bodies, leaving most women feeling invisible. Her humorous counterexample is Queen Victoria — hardly a runway model, but historically famous for her passionate marriage. “It’s not your curves that make you sexy,” she insists. “It’s your connection.”

(For comparison, Christian author Christopher West offers a similar argument in his interpretation of John Paul II’s Theology of the Body, asserting that sanctified desire reflects divine longing rather than dirty impulse.)

Freedom from the “Bad Girl” Lie

In the end, Gregoire’s chapter on purity doesn’t shame readers for their past; it celebrates the freedom to live differently now. True chastity, she says, is not fear of sex — it’s reverence for it. The world tells you to act like an animal, chasing biological impulses. Faith tells you to act like an image bearer — capable of passion deeper than instinct. When you embrace that distinction, you begin to see purity not as a cage, but as an invitation to something wilder and holier than you imagined.

“Show up naked and bring food.” That humorous line from Gregoire’s marriage conferences perfectly captures her point about men’s simplicity — and women’s misunderstanding of it. In the second major theme of the book, she explains how men and women approach sex differently, not because one is holier or shallower, but because they were wired that way for mutual balance.

Men: Desire as Need

For men, Gregoire writes, desire is physical first. Testosterone drives frequent arousal; if release doesn’t happen, the body eventually takes matters into its own hands (through nocturnal emissions). It’s not moral failure — it’s biology. Yet behind the biology lies vulnerability: “When a man feels desired, he feels affirmed. When he’s rejected, he feels worthless.”

In her research, many husbands admitted that refusal felt like personal rejection, even if their wives meant it differently. As one man lamented, “She’s the only one who can say yes — and she keeps saying no.” For them, sex is more than pleasure; it’s emotional assurance that they are still chosen, still loved.

Women: Connection as Prerequisite

For women, arousal isn’t automatic; it begins in the mind. Safety, affection, and emotional intimacy must precede physical readiness. That’s why, Gregoire jokes, “men are microwaves and women are slow cookers.” Both reach the same warmth eventually — but on vastly different schedules. Understanding this isn’t about lowering expectations but learning timing and patience.

She offers practical advice for both sides: wives can prepare their minds by “clearing daily clutter” and prioritizing closeness; husbands can nurture desire through affection and help, not pressure. The goal isn’t to erase differences but to let each gender’s strengths complete the other — desire calling out connection, and connection awakening desire.

Mutual Giving, Not Obligation

Gregoire criticizes Christian teachings that reduce a wife’s role to duty. Quoting 1 Corinthians 7, she notes that both spouses owe each other love, not performance: “The wife’s body is not her own, but neither is the husband’s.” True intimacy requires agency and willingness on both sides. “You aren’t a receptacle,” she says gently. “You are a partner.”

She calls couples to transform sex from a marital chore into a shared adventure. By reframing dignity and desire as interdependent, she reconciles centuries of conflict between “he wants too much” and “she gives too little.”

In essence, Gregoire positions these gendered differences not as battlegrounds but as bridges — God’s way of teaching us empathy, restraint, and generosity in the most intimate classroom imaginable.

Gregoire never shies away from candid detail, and her chapters on physical intimacy are refreshingly direct. But rather than veering into sensationalism, she keeps the focus on curiosity, learning, and laughter. Her premise: because sex is sacred, it deserves to be understood. Ignorance, not desire, is what often kills pleasure.

Anatomy, Arousal, and Comfort

Through approachable explanations of male and female anatomy, she offers what she calls “the health-class talk we should have gotten at church.” She demystifies how arousal works, from blood flow to lubrication, and encourages couples to experiment slowly, communicating through laughter rather than fear. The tone is pragmatic yet compassionate: new brides, she reminds readers, are allowed to be awkward.

She also emphasizes emotional safety: tension, pain, or shame often block pleasure. Relaxation, patience, and humor are holy acts. Her own early marriage experience — plagued by fear after past betrayals — became her testimony that physical healing often follows emotional trust.

From Exploration to Celebration

Gregoire’s candidness about foreplay, orgasm, and technique earns her readers’ trust without trivializing the subject. “Learning to make love is not the same as learning to have sex,” she insists. The former involves experimenting together as partners; the latter treats sex as performance. She encourages couples to see each attempt not as success or failure, but as a new layer of discovery.

Practical examples — like taking a “Saturday morning in bed” challenge or using humor when something goes wrong — help couples remove pressure. Even serious issues like vaginismus or low libido are addressed with empathy and professional insight, proving that holiness and medical realism can coexist.

From Shame to Confidence

Sexual ignorance, Gregoire says, often masquerades as modesty. “The church has been so afraid of dirty talk that we’ve ended up with dirty minds.” Education — understanding how bodies fit and respond — restores wonder. Women who learn to see themselves as sexual beings made by God begin to reclaim agency. “You aren’t depraved,” she reassures readers. “You’re divine by design.”

By normalizing humor and forgiveness in the process, Gregoire turns the painful topic of wedding-night anxiety into an invitation: your best sex life is a lifelong apprenticeship, not a test you must pass on day one.

In one of the book’s most moving sections, Gregoire recounts a night of unimaginable grief — the death of her infant son. In the early hours, she and her husband clung to each other, weeping and eventually making love through tears. “It wasn’t physical arousal,” she writes. “It was the need to be one.” The story anchors her deeper argument: sex is not only about pleasure; it’s about presence.

Beyond the Body

Sexual union, she explains, mirrors divine intimacy: two becoming one just as spirit joins with Spirit. When you make love, you are saying physically what your vows said verbally — I belong to you entirely. That’s why dissociation, fantasy, or guilt can hollow out sex even when the body responds. God designed desire to be deeply relational.

Gregoire details how past trauma or pornography can cause disconnection — the mind “checking out” to avoid vulnerability. She outlines three healing steps: experiencing grace (seeing yourself as new in Christ), retraining your body (through gradual, safe touch), and learning presence (focusing attention on sensations and your partner rather than fantasies).

When Pornography Enters Marriage

Gregoire addresses this epidemic with both firmness and hope. Porn rewires the brain to crave novelty and distance, she explains, eroding intimacy. Yet she also shares stories of couples who broke free through accountability, counseling, prayer, and slow rebuilding of trust. Recovery, she cautions, is not about performing “hotter” sex to compete — it’s about reclaiming connection. “You can’t out-seduce pixels,” she quips. “You can outlove them.”

Presence as the Ultimate Pleasure

When couples practice staying mentally and emotionally present during intimacy — through eye contact, speaking love, and prayer — the result is powerful: sex becomes worship. This isn’t metaphorical piety; it’s embodied gratitude. “When we climax,” Gregoire says simply, “we’re tasting God’s joy in creation.” By linking erotic energy with divine celebration, she reclaims holiness as sensuality redeemed.

What emerges is a portrait of marriage where sex sanctifies daily life — not by being perfect, but by being honest, healing, and tenderly human.

Can sex be both pure and passionate? Gregoire insists that holiness and heat are not opposites but dance partners. The closer we draw to God, the freer we become to enjoy each other completely. “God didn’t blush when He made your body,” she writes. “He smiled.”

Passion as Spiritual Metaphor

Drawing from the Song of Songs and John Donne’s sacred poetry, Gregoire connects erotic longing with the soul’s yearning for God. Just as faith involves surrender, so does lovemaking — giving oneself up to trust, to rhythm, to another’s initiative. “He must increase, I must decrease,” she quotes, turning the verse into an image of union both mystical and corporeal.

This fusion defies both prudishness and objectification. When sex is mutual surrender rather than conquest, it becomes worship — an embodied reflection of divine joy. “God isn’t a prude,” she jokes. “He invented moaning.”

Navigating Boundaries

Gregoire recognizes that couples wonder about what’s “okay.” She offers a simple ethical grid: is it loving, mutual, and free from shame or coercion? Acts that degrade or imitate pornography, she warns, risk replacing communion with consumption. Yet she affirms creative freedom — lingerie, variety, even playful games — when grounded in respect. “In marriage,” she writes, “almost anything goes — as long as both hearts stay present.”

Holiness as Wholeness

Her message reclaims purity not as denial but as integration. To be holy is to be whole — body, mind, and spirit aligned in love. That’s why couples who pray together often report greater passion: spiritual intimacy amplifies physical desire. What the world splits apart — lust versus love, spirit versus flesh — the Creator joins together. Gregoire’s conclusion: “Heaven isn’t embarrassed by your bedroom; it cheers for it.”

In later chapters, Gregoire turns from theology to everyday life. The secret to lifelong passion, she argues, isn’t technique — it’s friendship. Couples who play together stay together. Laughter dissolves shame; shared fun feeds trust. “If you can’t laugh naked,” she quips, “you’re taking life too seriously.”

Play and Partnership

Gregoire recounts small rituals with her husband Keith — from Chinese fortune-cookie jokes to snowball fights — as metaphors for emotional intimacy. Friendship, she says, is foreplay for the soul. When partners enjoy each other outside the bedroom, desire flows in naturally. Whether watching movies half-dressed or dancing in the kitchen, humor becomes glue.

She also reminds readers that exhaustion, parenthood, and resentment are libido’s biggest enemies. Self-care and laughter are not luxuries; they are oxygen tanks for marriage. Her practical exercises — from compiling “acts of kindness” lists to setting tech-free time — align with research from John Gottman’s relational studies showing that happy couples nurture 5 positive interactions for every negative one.

Respecting Rhythms of Life

When children arrive, priorities shift. Yet Gregoire warns against letting babies or busyness displace the marriage. “Kids need parents who like each other.” She suggests protecting bedroom space, scheduling connection (without guilt), and remembering that sexless seasons are temporary — friendship isn’t. “Your husband was here before the kids and will be after,” she reminds readers. “Keep choosing him.”

The Sex-Friendship Circle

Gregoire summarizes an often-overlooked truth: sex and friendship fuel each other in a continuous loop. Emotional intimacy leads to better physical intimacy, and physical intimacy produces emotional warmth. “It’s a circle,” she says, “and someone has to start it.” Whether through laughter, affection, or initiation, one small act can reignite both connection and passion. For Gregoire, this is the heart of lasting love: not grand gestures, but daily playfulness grounded in mutual grace.

Gregoire ends the book with a feast — literally. She tells of dining at a luxurious resort where each course arrived slowly, awakening rather than quenching appetite. That meal became her metaphor for holy desire. “Sex shouldn’t be a drive-through,” she says. “It should be fine dining.”

From Duty to Delight

Too often, couples treat sex as obligation — a physical need to be met, usually his. Gregoire flips that thinking: sex is a shared celebration meant to whet, not exhaust, desire. Quickies and passionless routines resemble greasy diners; slowing down to savor each other builds anticipation like a gourmet meal. Unlike lust, which aims to consume, love seeks to nourish.

Her “recipe” for lasting intimacy blends practical and spiritual ingredients: a welcoming bedroom (free of laundry piles), prayer before lovemaking, generous compliments, and creative play. Just as a chef prepares setting and seasoning, couples prepare mood and mindset — choosing curiosity over complacency.

Reclaiming Appetite

At its best, Gregoire says, marital passion parallels faith itself: both are hungers without end. You don’t eat once and stop needing food; you don’t make love once and stop needing touch. Healthy desire is cyclical — it grows as it’s fed. She urges women to stop apologizing for wanting sex and instead see longing as spiritual vitality. “When you hunger for your husband,” she writes, “you’re mirroring the way God hungers for union with His people.”

Her conclusion is part theology, part invitation: a marriage rich in humor, forgiveness, and frequent lovemaking becomes a living witness to divine joy. The last call to readers is simple and tender: “Go grab your husband — and have some fun.”