The Virginity Project

Something else for the weekend..

I am always on the lookout for an unusual angle, a fresh perspective, someone who can shed new light on this most unique of experiences. When a friend offered me the chance to interview a professional teacher of Tantra, I jumped at the chance. I didn’t only jump, I drove. Several hundred miles to Land’s End, and to the home of a rare creature indeed. Sixty, foxy and about as comfortable in her skin as a human being can get, Diana was as illuminating on the subject of sex and virginity as I had hoped she would be. She lives an unconventional life and has taken an unconventional route to get there but as she speaks, you find yourself thinking, as did the lady seated next to Meg Ryan in the infamous scene from the film, ‘When Harry met Sally’, ‘I’ll have whatever she’s having please’….

As it turns out, I am.

I am spending this weekend on a Tantric retreat, courtesy of Diana. This time I will be travelling in the other direction, up north, and to what, I have absolutely no idea. My reluctance to read the course notes probably has more to do with denial than the ‘busyness’ that has kept me occupied all week. Suffice it to say, if I never speak of this weekend again, you will know that I spent it examining my nether regions, in a stone circle whilst chanting Kumbiya.

What were once vices are now habits...

Last week, Billy and Chloe, particularly Chloe, were agonizing over their respective virginities/virgini?

Could there be such a thing as a plural virginity?

Anyway. They were.

And I began to think about all the stress and the anxiety and how ginormous a wedge this had driven between two people and what most of us take for granted in life – a loving, (hopefully), sexual relationship between two human beings. Virginity loss has a lot to answer for really, because after all, what is it?

If we go with the traditional definition then it is one teeny incidence of penetrative sex.

So that’s it then is it? And then it’s all over? Dammed to hell for evermore because of an experience that is frankly likely to take up less then ten minutes of your life. Well, at least the first time anyway.

Virginity.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. It’s an eleven-letter word but its impact cannot be overstated. Wars have been fought over it, lives lost – and begun. Marriages made and ended. Is it a sensible proposition for its existence to be so very tenuous and dependent on just one, quite possibly, innocent instance of penetrative sex?

As you may have guessed, I am not weighed down by religion. I like church but I don’t have to go, so mostly I don’t. Some people do, so for them, here is John, my religious correspondent, as he shall now come to be known, with his definition of virginity loss. Take notes, Chloe, this is what you could get away with if you did decide to go down that path and not feel cast asunder afterwards:

‘This email contains a certain amount of gore, but that doesn't bother me, I now realize, because I was brought up in a medical household, my Dad is a retired GP and Mum is a pharmacist. Nonetheless, I think it's important for Chloe to be aware of these things.

My definition of the loss of virginity is the traditional definition of the union of a penis and vagina with probable ejaculation by the male. This brings me to another important point. My wife and I have used condoms for nearly 20 years and don't bear any guilt about it. The Catholic hierarchy's view about contraception as distinct from abortion demonstrates that they are living in cloud cuckoo land. I would certainly encourage Chloe to use a condom with someone from both a sexual health point of view and also preventing conception.

If she was to accept my definition of the loss of virginity, she still has a lot of freedom to retain her virginity and develop satisfying sexual relationships with men, (and women for that matter), that involve removing clothing, allowing hands and fingers to explore all parts of someone's body including hers, (masturbation is natural and not evil), kissing, cuddling and usage of her and her partners tongue etc etc. My wife and I engaged in this type of activity for two years before we got married.’

So basically everything then.

Chloe, most of what my religious correspondent refers to above is way more intimate and sexually satisfying than most people’s first experience of penetrative sex. If you can get any or all of the above down pat, then the rest will be a walk in the park. Or on it. Or next to it. Or behind the bike shed.

Wherever and whenever you like.

Any major dude will tell you...

Brinnnnnng, Brinnnnnnnnng, Briiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnng!!!!!!

Deep down in the dark recesses of my mind, one synapse has segued into another. The message has been passed on that. Somewhere. In. the. Distance. A. Phone. Is. Ringing.

It is 8.50am on a Saturday morning. I have neither the strength nor the inclination to hot foot it across the bedroom, quite less down the stairs and across the hall to answer the dog and bone. Who has the temerity to ring the home phone these days anyway? I turn over and go back to sleep. Time seems to pass.

Jing Jing Jing Jing Jing Jee Jing Jee Jing Jing Jing Jing Jee JING JING JING

Does this neatly illustrate the obnoxious ring tone of my un-turned-off-from-last night mobile that is now bleating next to my bed?

Jing Jing Jing Jing Jee Jing Jee Jing Jing Jing Jing. It goes on.

For anyone that read last week’s technological f**k up post, you might remember that I am a hideous lightweight of the highest order. Three pints of lager in a smoky bar on a Friday night and we are looking at a crummy Saturday morning. It’s pathetic. I know.

I feel highly inarticulate at the best of times first thing, but right now I am hanging by a thread.

Jing Jing Jing Jing Jee Jing Jee Jing Jing JING JING JING!!

I have no idea why. Call it intuition, call it stupidity but I pick up the phone and answer it.

‘Good morning, this is Father Michael Macdonald from St Andrew’s Church in Paddington’.

Now I really have to stop and think. Although several thoughts are going through my head at once, one of which is, could this be the Michael Macdonald, you know, of seventies super-group, The Doobie Brothers, the man who also sang on one of my favourite records of all time, Steely Dan’s Aja……?

Or is it that I am getting married, and I have forgotten about it and this is the vicar calling to make the arrangements?

Or does this just neatly encapsulate the extent of my relationship to the chuch? Not that I have a problem with religion. I find it fascinating; it’s just that church-going is not a part of my daily, or even my yearly life.

‘I am returning your message of yesterday’, he continues, ‘you mentioned something about a project that you are working on’?

Another synapse crackles into life. Ah haaaaaa. Now this is beginning to make sense. I did call a vicar yesterday. I did indeed. I called a vicar because I wanted to see if he knew anyone who had waited to have sex for the very first time until they got married. Which led me to chuch. Of course.

Which all made perfect sense to me yesterday when I made the call and now on this bleak Saturday morning, my head stuck in fourth gear somewhere out near the mental equivalent of Byfleet, it makes no sense at all. Why did I do that? Why did I set myself up to have to ask a vicar if any of his congregation want to talk to me about how they lost their virginity?

At times like this I question what I am doing.

But only fleetingly, because I also want to grab the opportunity to tell this person what it is that I am trying to achieve. That I am trying to build a picture of life in Britain today, as told through the stories of our virginity loss, because our stories reflect who we are, culturally, historically, socially. That everybody has a different perspective to offer, each as important as the next and that by contributing, he is adding to the picture, a picture that ultimately, people of all ages will benefit from. Because these stories run the gamut. They are funny, they are sad, they are erotic, they are prosaic, they are unbelievable, they are important. They are the everyday. They are happening every day and they are us. They are a fundamental part of the human experience.

I leap from the bed to close my bedroom door. I don’t want anyone to hear me flail as I attempt to communicate this.

Remarkably though, I somehow ease my way into my patter. I move into the flow that must communicate something, because time and again, people surprise me and say, yes, ok, I will talk to you.

Father Michael, or longhaired dude from the seventies as I now like to think of him, pauses as I finish.

‘Ah, yes. I see now why you couldn’t quite fit the purpose of your call into your message.’

Long pause.

‘That sounds interesting. Sure, yes. I will ask around my congregation and see if we can’t find you someone to talk to.’

Rock on Father.

No sex please, we're British..

Off down to horn-tooting Edgware road and The City Circle’s Friday night talk, tonight entitled, ‘It takes two to Tawhid: Finding the right partner. I want to score the holy grail of interviews - a muslim virginity loss story. I have never seen the hall as ram-jam packed to the rafters as it was tonight. We spend an awful lot of time these days focussing on the differences between ourselves and our Muslim brothers and sisters, but in the end, are we all not just looking for the same things – love, peace and harmony? This lot certainly are. The anticipation in the room is tangible but I’m onto a loser with this one because, technically speaking, if all of these people are so keen to get married, then all of them are yet to have a ‘first time’.

I admit defeat. I do, however, take my chances with the director of The City Circle, a helpful man who sets me the challenge of a lifetime when I explain my predicament. Yes, he could put a post on the City Circle notice board requesting participants for my research. BUT, it would help my cause if I could do this without mentioning the word ‘virginity’. This should keep me busy for days.

One story is eluding me..

I am searching for a Muslim story. I have at least graduated from standing in Farringdon Post Office, looking at the head-scarved ladies behind the counter and wondering how much longer I would remain a customer if I were to ask one of them to tell me their story, to attending the City Circle in Edgware Road. The City Circle is a fabulous organization. www.thecitycircle.com. I attend their talks regularly. For nine months now. Contrary to my normal gung ho attitude to story collecting, I have not yet plucked up the courage to ask a single person to talk to me. Who knows how tonight’s trip could pan out? Watch this space.