The Virginity Project

The Virginity Fallacy

What a bind. A chimera, a smokescreen, a ridiculous concept, in fact virginity is. In times gone by, when women didn’t work and men were landowners, it served a purpose. Property got passed from generation to generation and one way of ensuring it went to a legitimate heir and not the offspring of a non-marital liaison was to regulate the sexual activity of one’s offspring. Specifically, the sexual activity of daughters, being as they are the ones that bear children.

The virginity of women served a tangible purpose. In some cultures it may remain so. The argument is more complicated than that. I’m simplifying the facts to the barest bones but you could also say lets be honest. Placing value on female virginity has morphed into a very convenient and highly effective way of controlling women. Mostly to protect the insecurity of men.

Some cultures have navigated the education and advancement of women with relative elegance. There is an understanding that as well as allowing women to become citizens of equality that it also benefits society at large. More working women = a healthier economy. A healthier economy equals better education for more people and so the cycle goes. Some cultures refuse to attempt the change. And some sectors of society that should know better, cough, the American ‘right’, still appear at times to find the empowerment of women discombobulating. 

Some might say its not my business to cast aspersions on the cultural practices of other countries but sitting outside a beach bar on a Greek island, feet wriggling in the sand, catching autumnal rays before returning to my life in London. A life where I get to do what I want to do and not what someone else deems in my ‘best interests’, the so called importance of female virginity seems tedious and selfish at best, despicable and dangerous at worst. It’s enough to make a girl want to change the name of her blog. The Virginity Project may yet become The Virginity Fallacy.

As if to illustrate the point, here is Kat who generously decided to share her story and in doing so, she showcases the hypocrisy of female virginity with heart breaking precision. She is Indonesian.

‘I have read The Virginity Project since a year ago and had been contemplating a lot of finally losing my virginity. I think this Project is very useful for us to share what we feel for this moment. Okay, here is my story:

I lost my virginity just six days ago at 31 years old.  I don't know if I should be proud or embarrassed about it. I was born and raised as a Moslem (sic). However, I am really grateful that my parents is very supportive. One of the greatest things that they have given to me is freedom to create my own path and gave me opportunity to learn from my mistakes and be responsible with its consequences. This allows me to respect my personal values and make me to be a strong and independent woman.

However, sex is something that has never been openly discussed in the family. Therefore, in my lack of knowledge, I self-educated about sex. My first time encounter the word sex and porn and knew what are they really mean is when I am 9 years old. It was one of my classmates, a boy, that always talk about it non stop in front of us. 

It was my senior time in high school I became aware of virginity. At that time I was busy dating boys, the good ones and the bad ones. But sex is excluded from my dating game as I found most of the boys I dated is pretty conservative about virginity and most of them really plan to take me seriously and therefore wait for the time to finally marry me, to marry a virgin. 

This also opens my eyes that Indonesian people are mostly conservative and hypocrite. As known the biggest Moslem country, we adopt this "virgin until married" culture. People will always interfere your personal life. There is no tolerance of living together without marriage license and you are considered as slut if you have sex before marriage. 

However, the practice of prostitution, infidelity, affairs and sexual harassment are there. I can say that it is very uncomfortable to be a woman. Added to that, most Indonesian man are pretty hypocrite when it comes to virginity. Many of them already have sex with other woman yet insist they want virgin woman, exclusively. While he himself is not exclusively for her.  

I grew up committed to stay virgin until marriage. There's a time where I am proud of my virginity. And there's a time that I found myself embarrassed to admit it. Especially during my college years in Australia. There were too many times, I was in the situation where I consider to have sex with my dates. But I always have to find a way to get over that thought.

There came a time where I started to think about my virginity. It was when my ex-boyfriend, who want to keep me virgin until he marry me has his way to cheat and impregnate another woman. Life goes on and I manage to move on. 

I finally met my now boyfriend that I deeply in love with. He is very warm, has a kind heart and we share the same weird humor. We've been in relationship for almost 2 years. We do intercourse but not penetration. I don't mind doing my first time with him, but we decided to wait. 

Somehow, later I found out my boyfriend cheat on me to satisfy his sexual need with other woman. The distance (I live in other town) and also the virginity make me unable to satisfy his sexual needs.  I am so devastated, deeply hurt and feel dead inside. Never will I let my commitment with my virginity ruin my relationship again. 

Moving on, I tried to understand and forgive him. I tried hard to pick up pieces of my broken heart and stay in the relationship as I love him so much. Then I realize that my virginity may cost me my relationship and that it means nothing to me anymore. Therefore, I am 31 years old and lost my virginity six days ago to my boyfriend. Yes, my boyfriend but not my husband. 

My experience of losing my virginity is unpleasant. I lost my virginity in the same day my boyfriend confessed that he slept with other woman. We decided to do it when I was in grieving of his infidelity. There was no romantic setting. There was no glow of cherry popping. All I feel is hurt both in my heart and my vagina when he enter me.

Then things getting worst when I don't bleed in my first time even though it hurts like hell, which left us both confused. And then he starts to look at me with that look of ‘are you lying to me about your virginity’. It hits me so hard.

I just get off from the bed as soon as he finished. I wash my face and grab my clothes and then I decided to walk outside to catch the fresh air before I got suffocate by the bitterness of everything that happened that day. I came back an hour later and run to his arms for shelter.

Still confused, I asked my friends and they said that it is normal not to bleed at the first time considering I'm active in sports and that I'm very clumsy and there were many times I have injured myself. 

After all this, I feel happy now. I don’t regret losing my virginity before marriage. And I don’t regret just doing it now and not long ago. I think there's no such right time when you should lose your virginity. There's no right time to say when you are really ready or not. Sometimes it is very spontaneous and out of plan. 

 

I am happy now that sex also makes my relationship better, we are now more emotionally attached to each other.’

Masculinity 2.0

Years ago, my car mechanic, a man I’ve had many interesting conversations with sitting under the arches of his Latimer Road ‘shop’ asked me ‘but Kate, does a man even lose virginity?’

Probably not in the same way a woman does. There aren’t physical ramifications for men (don’t get me started on the ‘cultural’ ones) but one thing I do know is that men spend a lot of time thinking about it. Not so much in the ‘I’m desperate for that to happen’ way.  That’s a given. I’m talking about the multitude of anxieties and questions that go through a man’s mind as he teeters on the brink of sexual communion for the first time. I may never have known this until I decided to write a book and a blog about it. I definitely didn’t think men would queue around a virtual block to enlighten me about their insecurities, heartbreaks and desires. I was so wrong.

Men have been some of my greatest, most forthcoming interviewees and if I’d ever stopped to think about it, why wouldn’t they be? Women have all sorts of opportunities to share their inner worlds. I have been encouraged to express how I feel my entire life. It doesn’t mean I do it but that’s not the point. The option is there and I’ve never been asked to quash my emotions in favour of ‘being a man’. I have not been told to man up when I am under duress.

I am as angry as the next woman about gender inequality. I’m angry on behalf of my mum who didn’t get to do half the things in her life that I’ve got to do in mine (although she has given it a bloody good bash). I am cheesed off about the mingy playground I played in at school whilst the boys got a big yard because ‘boys need to let off steam’. I’m still irritated by the way that some men were happy to intimidate me out of taking to the pool table as a teenager because it was deemed male territory. Play by all means, their faces said, but we are going to stand here and smirk at your attempts to connect the cue to the ball (until the day I played a lucky shot at a traditional smoky boozer and wiped the table out in one go. My smirking opponent, a stranger who had clearly thought he was going to show me the error of my ways threw his cue to the floor and flew out of the door muttering expletives).

All of this stands, but its important to say that for me at least, it is not at the cost of my empathy for men. In my mind, these two sets of thoughts and feelings can sit side by side and deciding that one is right and the other unquestionably wrong is not constructive. We won’t travel anywhere new by refusing to try and understand each other’s plights. I don’t need to cease being angry in order to try and give men a platform. Because the more men understand how I feel, and the better I package that up and communicate it, the more this translates in to real-time thoughtful behaviour. And vice versa.

Writer Matt Haig met with a barrage of vitriol when he proposed something along these lines earlier this week and that’s a shame. Everyone has got something to bring to the table and suggesting otherwise is unimaginative. Lets lick our respective wounds by all means. I have not stopped licking mine since the day I read this – but lets continue the conversation and attempt to evolve at the same time.

In the meantime, The Virginity Project has been moonlighting on behalf of masculinity. I’ve been back to my interviewing roots and talking to guys of different ages and backgrounds about how they experience being men. In doing so, I hoped to discover something about the way that masculinity has evolved over the last 75 years. As ever, my men folk knocked it out of the park. No one held back. Conversation flowed. Tea was drunk. Feelings were expressed. The (very edited) results are published in The Independent today.

I am also re-publishing a peep into the life of a young man, a virgin who wishes his life were otherwise. I will say no more.

‘I grew up in a very religious house. And I went to religious schools. When I started secondary school, someone asked about sex ed and was told that you would have to do ‘Leaving Cert biology’ to get that. At no point did we get any kind of sex ed prior to that. I did biology (for honest reasons!) and the talk could be boiled down to: ‘Sex happens between married couples. That was the talk. Nothing about safety, nothing about pregnancy.  And if you have sex you will be punished. That was my sex ed.

Making matters worse, when I was fifteen, I developed psoriasis, a very unpleasant, genetic but noncontagious skin disorder, which didn’t help my growing interest in girls and my desire to look cool. I learned how to hide it, by growing my hair long and wearing long sleeves/pants all the time. I kept trying with different girls, but was incredibly self-conscious and would often find myself unable to talk to them about anything more than ‘nice weather, innit?’

When I reached college, having finally freed myself from the shackles of small town life, I decided that was a whole load of crap and resolved to get cool clothes, meet interesting people and try sex for myself. It was a bit of a shock to learn that I still had no clue about talking to women. In hindsight, I can see several situations that I could have possibly turned into something more. Maybe. But I kept trying to break out of the repressive programming of 19 years. And then I had a minor freak-out in a club. Under the strobe lighting, the psoriasis on my scalp and upper body stuck out like day-glo dandruff. And this happened every time I went to a club. I still had the bars and events and college. While studying for my masters, I moved into a house and found myself sharing with 7 girls (all with boyfriends). It was an education and I learned a great deal about women. But always, at the back of my mind, I kept remembering how bad the psoriasis could get.

Ultimately, I finished college without ever having a girlfriend. This is despite my friends, frequent trips out and the numerous societies I took part in. The psoriasis was a constant burden. I learned to cover up a lot of my problems in college.

After college, I was in search of work, and found myself in a few strange places, including India and Russia. The jobs and language barrier made it quite difficult to find people my own age. I eventually found employment back home, in the city I went to college. I knew the streets, I knew all the names, the doormen, I knew the bands; I was set. My job was hard and time consuming, but worthwhile. I ventured out several weekends a month, to different gigs or bars. I got a job with a music magazine, and would often get in for free. I started kick-boxing, along with volunteering at a soup kitchen twice a week. I was spending my days working, my nights hanging out with my new friends, and my weekends getting into gigs for free. It was great.

I was and still am generally happy with my lot in life. Yes, I would sometimes wonder what it was like to hold someone in my arms as they slept, but I would just remind myself of the numerous good things in my life and just say it will happen when it happens. I kept myself out there and did things I enjoyed and believed in. I have few difficulties socially, and can talk to most people, but when I try for something more, I fall flat on my face or miss the cues to act.

After an absolutely hellish week at work, I returned to my flat ready for a nice long weekend of sleeping, listening to music and watching TV. Instead, my flat mates had a few friends over and I got talking to a girl who I’m going to call Jess.

She was pretty; she was funny, she had similar hobbies to mine. After a few hours of listening to increasingly bad music, she looked me right in the eye and said: ‘This is getting a bit much. I bet your room is a lot quieter.’

As I led her up the stairs, all I could hear was the theme to Chariots of Fire. She stopped in the bathroom to do whatever arcane magicks women do to prepare, so I classied up my room a bit. The door opened, and a beautiful lady in just a bra and shorts entered my room. We haven’t even kissed yet. She begins to open my shirt, then paused. ‘What… the fuck? She stepped back, vomited on my bed, and asked ‘What the hell is wrong with you?!’

Psoriasis.

She pulled her top back on and walked out. After everything, after getting my life sorted, after getting someone who wanted to be with me because she liked me, and this was how it ended. I didn’t leave my room for the weekend. I didn’t eat, I just slept and watched porn and slept and watched porn. She was the last girl I approached. I haven’t tried since then, about 6 months.

I only ever told one friend of mine about that night. He recommended I see an escort, and gave me a list of his ‘go-to’ girls. Talking about escorts and prostitution opens up a whole other can of worms, I’m not the biggest fan of it, but I’m not going to condemn the ladies involved, and I can understand why some (not all) people go. He then told me to try the ‘pump and dump.’ Take a guess what that is. If someone, man or woman, wants a string of one night stands, I got no problem with that. As long as whatever happens is between consenting adults who use protection, then you can do whatever.

Trying to bring me around to his way of thinking, he told me about the ‘unholy abomination’ he woke up beside earlier that week. I’m sure there are plenty out there, men and women, who can tell similar stories. Go out, get drunk, go home with someone, cold light of day it’s a Hammer Horror. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be someone’s funny sex story, and I don’t want to have one myself. I’m not looking for true love, or waiting until marriage. I just want someone I care about, and who in turn cares about me. I want to bake cakes for someone. I want to hold someone in my arms until they fall asleep. I want to be with someone who wants to be there, not because they have an obligation or for money.

So that’s me. A 26-year-old genetic abomination who never kissed a girl.

Born in Wales'

I was at a new media event last week. Ahead of it, I was preparing questions for the speakers, some of whom I was hoping to interview for the company communications blog. ‘How do you think technology is changing media?’ ‘How do you see the future of content?’ And so on. Interesting questions but the thing I really want to ask is ‘how do you think technology is changing the way we live?’ Because it is.

I remember when we first got an answer machine at home in the 1980’s. It was REALLY exciting. No more hanging around waiting for boys to ring! You could go out, come back and check (you hoped) all your messages. It was the absolute cutting edge of technology. The point also being that if a boy took the time to pick the phone up and risk the humiliation of having a conversation with someone who may possibly reject them at the end of it, you were in receipt of important information - even if you weren’t conscious of it at the time - he probably quite liked you.

Not so much now. It’s so much easier to make digital overtures to people on instant message, Facebook, twitter and numerous dating websites. And it’s just as easy to give people the flick when you’re over them. I’m not saying romance doesn’t happen in the digital age. Neither am I saying that all of the boys who had the guts to ring me up in the 80’s were stand up guys BUT…there was a quality to the pre digital era that allowed something a little more substantial to evolve. The process was slower. In between dates, we weren’t bombarding each other with a constant flow of communications via text and email. You knew nothing of your potential conquest’s movements/dinner or feelings about the weather in between times. We made a date to meet and turned up on the appointed day. It was all fresh and the only way we could get to know each other was to talk face to face. If you wanted to blow each other out you had to pick up the phone and do it with your voice…unless you were prepared to deliver the ultimate blow out i.e. standing them up. Tell me I’ve got my rose tinted specs on. You might be right but meanwhile, what do I like about today’s story?

Its two main characters allow time to build a fire beneath their union. It doesn’t happen over night. In my experience, the best things often don’t. It also demonstrates that love can have quite ordinary beginnings…’I spent a while fantasizing about meeting this guy’ she says, ‘but I cared very little when he was there.  Weird.’ I like this. We’re bred to believe that if it’s not a constant stream of fireworks then it’s not worth bothering about. I take issue with this. Ask any couple who have been around the block with each other a few times. There might be fireworks but that’s not the glue that’s going to hold you together.

In practical terms, I always enjoy a ‘re-definition of virginity loss’ story too. Simply because the ways in which we traditionally define virginity loss are so limited. There are myriad ways in which we could define this step in our sexual history. Gay people, for starters, might take issue with the heterosexual dictionary definition of the act.  Plus ‘virginity’ + ‘loss’ is such an archaic combination of words for most Western women. Its not like we are going to ruin the reputation of our families (as some people choose to believe) on the day that we part company with virginity.

Today’s writer tells a story I have heard before. It’s the story of someone who did feel like they had lost something the first time they had sex. But who went willingly on to ‘present’ it to someone else much later. In the modern age I might add, not way back when I had my rose tinted specs on. I like the way this story builds, if one wishes to resort to such clichés, to a climax worth talking about. Here we go.

“I hope that you remember me but I shared my virginity loss story with you in 2011.  It was entitled 'Good girl gone bad', though that's something I have recently grown to regret.

It was a story about how I felt that my virginity was akin to an anchor, weighting me down and keeping me tragically tied to my unhappy past, a past full of confusion, fear and guilt.  The person i lost it with left me pregnant and alone and angrier than I think I was to begin with.  In my original story I jumped to where I was in 2011, in love for the first time and expecting my second child with my now-husband, Dennis.  But I probably left out the most important part of my journey.  I think I may have re-virginised myself in the intervening time between falling pregnant and falling in love.  I lost my virginity to the father of my first child.  But this story is about how I gave Dennis, my now husband my new-found virginity.

Following the birth of my first child, my fear of sex increased.  It never hurt, but it really wasn't all that great. It just never felt... good.  I had told myself that sex for girls is rarely wonderful.  My elder sister, who had only recently lost her virginity with a boyfriend she loved, had plenty of lovely things to say about sex but explained she could take it or leave it, because it wasn't all that.  I just wondered what was the point.  As a girl you lie under some guy while he gets his rocks off.  You might as well be a blow-up doll, that's how little input you have.  (I must also explain that the last time me and my first partner had sex, he was watching porn DURING. That was the extent of my appeal to him I guess).  So I was convicted to stay away from anything with a penis because nothing was worth feeling low about myself again.  

I spent a year-and-a-half post birth adjusting to being a mum which was tough, and any time a guy showed any interest I'd turn on my heel and run away.  I became decidedly anti-men and anti-romance.  Until I started hearing random little bits about Dennis.  Yes, my sister started just talking about him and my ears would prick up.  I learnt very little about him, but what I learnt I liked!  He's an amazing cook and he used to hold infamous dinner parties for his friends, a couple of which my sister had attended.  He was also unduly generous.  I saw his picture and can't say my heart skipped a beat, but he had a really kind face and I developed a little crush.  I didn't dare tell my sister about it, because I knew she would embarrass me.  

We eventually met at my sister's boyfriend's birthday party.  I didn't recognise him at first and wasn't blown away seeing him in person, but we instantly got along.  My sister did remark that he stayed at my side all night, but I didn't notice.  This makes no sense to me at all!  I spent a while fantasizing about meeting this guy, but I cared very little when he was there.  Weird.

Anyway, I'm rambling on.  I added him on facebook, we messaged once or twice and then I decided to hold a dinner party.  I, too, love to cook and since I was still living with my mum and dad and not working while taking care of my daughter, I cooked all the time and decided I was quite good at it.  I wanted to impress him and invited him along.  He couldn't make it and I was disappointed.  But when I checked my messages a couple of days later he'd left a very long message inviting me to dinner.  A lot of things went through my mind, namely that I wasn't attracted to him, per se. I thought he was nice and we got along, but I thought sex was so gross and unnecessary I couldn't think of him in that way.  Needless to say I said yes.  

I dressed a little dowdy for a first date and only had a very small glass of wine with my meal (tactical, as wine makes me feel a little horny), which was out of this world!  He'd booked a table at a Michelin starred food-tastic little spot near Soho and I was amazed.  The conversation flowed effortlessly but he didn't even try to kiss me at the end.  I was thankful for this.  In the past I had sat across from one too many guys who were just a tad too pushy when it came to initiating kissing and more.  And they were all so dull, if they weren't cruel and arrogant. Dennis was laid back, he asked me questions and made me laugh.  A lovely first date.

We continued in the same vein for a couple more dates; fantastic food, easy conversation, not even a peck at the end of the night.  By this point I was getting frustrated.  What the hell was wrong with this guy?! I was dressing a little more provocative each date, but he didn't seem to bat an eyelid.  So after our third date I text him to say I just wanted to be friends.  He said fine and I was gutted.

A week went by and I was a little miserable.  So I asked my sister if she thought Dennis was interested in me. She looked at me like she wanted to slap me.  She said of course he was and told me to call him, which I did. So I made amends with him and he gladly booked a table for our fourth date.  Another superb meal and a couple more drinks and finally everything seemed to fall into place.  I was adamant that I wanted him to make the first move and so we sat, both a little tipsy, with a lot of tension in the air.  He seemed to take a deep breath before he leaned in, but it was probably the most amazing kiss of my life.  Obviously, the kiss is the first step into becoming physical, so I took it as a sign of our growing feelings for one another.  I had been denying my own sexual needs for so long, I didn't expect much.  Besides, I'd told myself I didn't find him sexually attractive, but after that kiss I stoically ate my own words.  I was attracted him, but I also needed to know he fancied me too. I think I got a resounding yes that night.

We could only see each other once every ten days because we both had other commitments (he worked shifts).  This is one of the awesome things about our early relationship.  It went at such an even pace.  As the old saying goes, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' and it certainly did that.  He lived in West London and I lived in Guildford, so when we met up I noticed he was booking things closer and closer to his place, but I never went back with him. Eventually he invited me for dinner at his place.  

He had never cooked for me before that night.  He made his own pasta for tortellini, cooked duck in chocolate and prune sauce (so delicious, I could have wept) and finished with an amazing chocolatey meringue tower.  I had planned to leave by half nine to get the train back into Guildford, but I couldn't, we were caught in a lip-lock so intense I found myself completely reneging on every promise I'd made myself about never having sex again.  I gave myself to him.  It seemed like the most natural and honest thing to do at that moment.  And I realised something.  The whole time we had been dating, all of those times he had given me amazing gastronomical experiences, easy conversation, gentle approaches.  He had been wooing me the whole damn time, even by not kissing when every other guy would!  While it's not the most important thing, he spent a hell of a lot of money on our dates.  Most guys don't want to part with money without some guarantee.  He knew I wasn't a virgin. I had a child for goodness sake, yet he was still careful enough to go at a pace I was happy with and not rush ahead.  And do you know something else?  The sex felt amazing!  That's why afterwards, while he wanted to cuddle, I bawled my eyes out.

I am embarrassed by this now, but it's true.  I cried for ages.  Poor Dennis didn't know what to do.  Our society does something to girls that is so unhelpful it's obscene.  It tells girls from a young age that the greatest thing that can happen to us is to be wanted, but that sex (in itself) is damaging to us.  We're told guys think about sex all the time, they are the predators, clearly implying that women don't think about it and we are the helpless prey.  That's why so many of us love the chase.  We doll ourselves up, head out on the town and love to see the men baying like wolves, but only the real sluts among us give in and let themselves be 'had' and only the really experienced whores know how to enjoy themselves as much as the guy does.  All that combined with my years in Church, hearing about the virtue of abstinence and how unholy fornication is, made me feel like I had failed yet again.  When I gave myself to Dennis that first time, I was shocked at myself that I had enjoyed it and let him know I did.  I tried to act bashfully and fumbling like I didn't know what went where, because I didn’t want him thinking I was a slag who went out and had sex all over the place.  I had the baby, but he didn't need to see me as an easy lay and this is why I cried.  I couldn't explain all this to him then and it probably wouldn't make much sense now.  

I cried the first few times we did it because each time it felt better and better, until eventually, something else that I didn't think ever happened to girls during penetrative sex, happened to me.  I orgasmed.  By this point we were both head over heels in love with one another and we found ourselves in a trusting relationship, which I think certainly helped me.  So why was I still so ashamed of enjoying it?  

Only in the past week or two, since visiting your blog again have I become aware that I have slowly let go of my neuroses about sex.  But has that come about through age?  Do I feel like I have been given permission to enjoy it because I married my lover and we have a family together?  Or am I finally comfortable with sex and my body.  It's interesting to me that all the men I dated (aside from the guy who hated my body) were lovers of food too.   But Dennis came at a point when I was trying to be like everyone else.  I trained many times each week at the gym with my trainer to get a 'perfect body' and looked the best I ever have.  He stepped in and opened my eyes to food as art, so I stopped denying my stomach at the same time I stopped denying my sexual urges.  And I've not looked back since.  The sex is still amazing and adventurous and I'm at peace with it.

I'm sorry. This is incredibly long as before!  But I remember how helpful it was talking with you before, so I felt the need to share again!” 

The Virginity Project took itself to the flicks this week to see ‘The Sessions’. Rarely have I felt an audience so rapt in their attention as the story on the screen unfolded. And yet…it all felt so very familiar. Here is the reason why. The Sessions is a film about a severely disabled man who wants to lose his virginity. Without the working arms and legs that you and I possess, he makes the brave decision to enlist the help of a sexual surrogate. When I started interviewing people for my book, one thing I never anticipated was the sheer volume of people I would encounter who had not lost their virginity, for all sorts of different reasons. But one in particular, ‘Ash’, much like the central character of ‘The Sessions’, had no choice because his physical disabilities prevented him from doing so. Eventually, after a lot of soul searching, he employed the help of a sympathetic sex worker. This story and its result became a corner stone of my book. When it later became a play, this was the story that bought the house down.

What part of our able bodied brains believes that because a person with severe physical disabilities faces such enormous daily challenges already, that thoughts of sex disappear out of sight and therefore out of mind? Not only that, but take a minute to think about how it would feel to get to wherever you’ve got to in life without ever having felt the touch of someone who loves you. And not because they are related to you i.e. your parents or a paid carer but just because someone likes you enough to want to make you feel good….

‘That kiss was the most intimate moment I’d had in my life up to that point.’

This was my interviewee’s voice when he first encountered the sex worker who would help him shed his virginity. He wasn’t an innocent 15 year old. He was a man in his 30’s who had never been kissed before.

The Sessions is a great film for so many reasons. I particularly loved the moment when one of Mark’s many (exquisitely played) carers wheels him up the hill to his first appointment with ‘the therapist’. Mark is nervous. ‘What do you think of intercourse?’ he queries his carer. ‘Overrated’ he snaps back. ‘There are so many different ways to achieve the same result’.

Very true. We are so fixated by the concept of penetration – your average porn flick has much to answer for – when most sentient people know that there are 150 different ways to achieve intense pleasure, none of which involve penetrative sex. In this sexualized world we live in, its so easy to believe that our lives are not complete unless we are swinging from the rafters every night whilst jack rabbiting our partners.

Still…try telling that to a person who’s never even kissed another human being before. The Virginity Project doesn’t like to get too slushy and sentimental but we felt moved by this film. So did everyone else in the Coronet the other night. It took us back to what really matters: truth, genuine intimacy, pleasure. It highlights the work of sensitive people who devote their lives to making other people’s dreams come true in the most generous way possible. It’s such a human film. Don’t miss it.

Today’s storyteller has an impediment of his own. As an aside, I’d like to add that this man’s ‘can do’ attitude to life, under the most trying of circumstances, is inspirational. I like this guy a lot.

‘I grew up in a very religious house. And I went to very religious schools. When I started secondary school, someone asked about sex ed and was told that you would have to do ‘Leaving Cert biology’ to get that. At no point did we get any kind of sex ed prior to that. I did biology (for honest reasons!) and the talk could be boiled down to: ‘Sex happens between married couples. If I find out anyone in this class is sexually active, I will personally ensure they are expelled.’ That was the entire talk. Nothing about safety, nothing about pregnancy.  If you have sex you will be punished. That was my sex ed.

Making matters worse, when I was fifteen, I developed psoriasis, a very unpleasant, genetic but noncontagious skin disorder, which didn’t help my growing interest in girls and desire to look cool. I learned how to hide it, by growing my hair long and wearing long sleeves/pants all the time. I kept trying with different girls, but was incredibly self-conscious and would often find myself unable to talk to them about anything more than ‘nice weather, innit?’

When I reached college, having finally freed myself from the shackles of small town living, I decided that was a whole load of crap and resolved to get cool clothes, meet some interesting people and try sex for myself. It was a bit of a shock to learn that I still had no clue about talking to women. In hindsight, I can see several situations that I could have possibly turned into something more. Maybe. But I kept trying, trying to break out of the repressive programming of 19 years. And then I had a minor freak-out in a club. Under the strobe lighting, the psoriasis on my scalp and upper body stuck out like day-glo dandruff. And this happened every time I went to a club. I still had the bars and events and college. While studying for my masters, I moved into a house and found myself sharing with 7 girls (all with boyfriends). It was an education and I learned a great deal about women. But always, at the back of my mind, I kept remembering how bad the psoriasis could get.

Ultimately, I finished college without ever having a girlfriend. This is despite my friends, frequent trips out and the numerous societies I took part in. The psoriasis was a constant burden. I learned to cover up a lot of my problems in college.

After college, I was in search of work, and found myself in a few strange places, including Africa and Russia. The jobs and language barrier made it quite difficult to find people my own age. I made some good friends, don’t get me wrong, but have you ever tried to get home from the pub at 3 in the morning when you can’t communicate with the taxi driver?

I eventually found employment back home, in the city I went to college. I knew the streets, I knew all the names, the doormen, I knew the bands, I was set. My job was hard and time consuming, but worthwhile. I ventured out several weekends a month, to different gigs or bars. I got a job with a music magazine, and would often get in for free. I started kick-boxing, along with volunteering at a soup kitchen twice a week. I was spending my days working, my nights hanging out with my new friends, and my weekends getting into gigs for free. It was great.

I was and still – and am generally happy with my lot in life. Yes, I would sometimes wonder what it was like to hold someone in my arms as they slept, but I would just remind myself of the numerous good things in my life and just say it will happen when it happens. I kept myself out there and did things I enjoyed and believed in. I have few difficulties socially, and can talk to most people, but when I try for something more, I either fall flat on my face or miss the cues to act.

After an absolutely hellish week at work, including seven months of work getting completely wiped, I returned to my flat ready for a nice long weekend of sleeping, listening to music and watching TV. Instead, my flat mates had a few friends over and I got talking to a girl, who I’m going to call Jess.

She was pretty, she was funny, she had similar hobbies to mine. After a few hours of listening to increasingly bad music, she looked me right in the eye and said: ‘This is getting a bit much. I bet your room is a lot quieter.’

As I led her up the stairs, all I could hear was the theme to Chariots of Fire. She stopped in the bathroom to do whatever arcane magicks women do to prepare, so I classied up my room a bit. The door opened, and a beautiful lady in just a bra and shorts entered my room. We haven’t even kissed yet. She begins to open my shirt, then paused. ‘What… the fuck? She stepped back, vomited on my bed, and asked ‘What the hell is wrong with you?!’

Psoriasis.

She pulled her top back on and walked out. After everything, after getting my life sorted, after getting someone who wanted to be with me because she liked me, and this was how it ended. I didn’t leave my room for the weekend. I didn’t eat, I just slept and watched porn and slept and watched porn. She was the last girl I approached. I haven’t tried since then, about 6 months.

I only ever told one friend of mine about that night. He recommended I see an escort, and gave me a list of his ‘go-to’ girls. Talking about escorts and prostitution opens up a whole other can of worms, I’m not the biggest fan of it, but I’m not going to condemn the ladies involved, and I can understand why some (not all) people go. He then told me to try the ‘pump and dump.’ Take a guess what that is. If someone, man or woman, wants a string of one night stands, I got no problem with that. As long as whatever happens is between consenting adults who use protection, then you can do whatever.

Trying to bring me around to his way of thinking, he told me about the ‘unholy abomination’ he woke up beside earlier that week. I’m sure there are plenty out there, men and women, who can tell similar stories. Go out, get drunk, go home with someone, cold light of day it’s a Hammer Horror. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be someone’s funny sex story, and I don’t want to have one myself. I’m not looking for true love, or waiting until marriage. I just want someone I care about, and who in turn cares about me. I want to bake cakes for someone. I want to hold someone in my arms until they fall asleep. I want to be with someone who wants to be there, not because they have an obligation or for money.

So that’s me. A 26-year-old genetic abomination who never kissed a girl.

Born in Wales'

Fly little bird, fly...

‘I’d like my pseudonym to be ‘Camille’ wrote today’s storyteller to me. ‘Because someone once came up to me and told me I look exactly like a woman named Camille Kirkpatrick.  I like to think that someone came up to her and told her she looked like (insert story teller’s real name), and that she uses my name as her pen name ;)…’

This brought to mind my own teenage years and the amount of times I had the name ‘Hermione’ yelled at me in the street. Younger readers please note, nobody was called Hermione in the 80’s. Harry Potter was but a twinkle in the author’s eye. Who is this Hermione that people speak of? I kept thinking to myself and why do people keep mistaking me for her?

Fast forward a couple of months and I’m staring at a carbon copy of myself at a party in Richmond. Spiky crimped red hair? Check. Combat trousers? Check. Pointy elfin face? Yep, that’s me. It turns out people had been screaming ‘Kate’ at my double for months. We ended up best friends and spent the summer of ’84 lying atop a barge, smoking up a storm on the ‘shores’ of Twickenham riverside whilst I should have been at school learning to write the book that I would publish 27 years later (not). Fun times. I digress.

As I write today, I am sitting in the Virgin club lounge at London Heathrow, about to board my first flight to New York in over 14 years. The Club Lounge was a blag; I’m not that posh. But I am so excited I could combust. By the end of today, I will have travelled 3461miles. Isn’t that amazing? In the meantime, here is today’s story teller, demonstrating great presence of mind despite having signed a virginity pledge when she was a teenager.

‘I'm Camille.  I'm almost 29 and I lost my virginity about 2 ½ weeks ago.

I imagine parts of my story likely aren't terribly different from many others who were brought up in a conservative, religious environment.  While I wasn't raised in the Christian church, I became involved at my local church at the age of 14 in the Bible belt in Tennessee, and quickly internalized the unspoken expectation that, as girls, we were to protect our purity as though it were the greatest battle of our lives. I was the president of the True Love Waits abstinence organization in college, and I remember signing more than one ‘pledge card’ that I would wait until marriage to have sex.  Of course, writing this now, I'm appalled at how I couldn't see I was treating myself like an object or piece of property.

By the time I went to grad school, I began to form a healthier and more holistic view of sex and I realized in my studies over the next few years that sex was a natural part of a loving relationship between consenting adults.  Slowly, I began to let go of some of my precautions and fears surrounding sex.  Like many girls, I also internalized the notion of being passionately in love with my partner.  Since I was in seminary anyway, I didn't really venture much past making out in my romantic relationships (some of you may know that certain denominations have ‘policies’ related to sexual behavior for ministers in training.  I won't get into that; suffice it to say that there are many of us who are currently practicing exceptions). I tried to go as far as I could while being within the lines of those requirements. And then, I woke up one day, and it wasn't enough.

I met a guy this past January (B) who told me that he was willing to ‘help me’ explore some of my fears and curiosities about sex.  At first I found the conversation a little pretentious (that he assumed I would say ‘Oh, great!’ and throw off all my clothes), but then I realized that he wasn't anything of the sort.  In the last few months, we've had several conversations about sex, and explored a bit more than I had before.  With B, I learned what it was like to lie naked in a bed with a man and not feel pressured to do anything past my comfort level.  I also learned what it was like to explore his body, and have mine explored.  All of this happened before I lost my virginity, though (by ‘virginity’ here I mean penetration).

Although I've had opportunities over the years, the closest I came to having sex was during something of a spring fling with a good friend (C).  We were away for the weekend 4 years ago; nobody knew where we were.  I had resolved to not have sex because of the fears I had internalized, but I wanted to be with him so badly my body ached.  After making out for 5 hours (5!) we finally went to sleep, and I think I've been regretting that decision since. 

So, when an opportunity became available for B and I to get away, we planned it.  The most interesting thing about this whole experience for me has been the process involved.  Because it wasn't spontaneous (we live in different states), we had the chance for it to be an ideal setting: we had a nice hotel room with a hot tub, wine, and just about anything else to make it a good experience, but there wasn't any pressure.  I did a fair amount of research about what it was like for women to lose their virginity. I was ready.

I remember being so concerned about ‘the setting.’  [I blame this entirely on the movies.]  After we were ready, we had one dim light on.  Immediately after we began, I was in pain, but was emotionally ready for it as a part of the process (I know this is normal for many women).  After a few minutes, though, we had to stop.  He told me it was okay; he wasn't upset or mad, and didn't want to hurt me.  So, we put our clothes back on, took a quick shower together and went out for dinner. 

When we came back, I was playing some music on my laptop; I remember thinking it was a funny play list to be listening to (it was a bunch of remixes of electronica songs).  We made out for a few minutes; he unhooked my bra and slipped off my shirt.  I pushed him down on the middle of the bed; his shirt came off.  It was only a matter of minutes, and I was on top of him (for the first time).  At first I felt a little odd being on top (I had imagined it would be the other way around) but it was more comfortable for me.  I remember being very amused for some reason that the ‘setting’ was off: all the lights were on, the music was silly; we didn't have any wine first – but it was the most natural thing in the world to finally feel another person inside me.  We fell into a rhythm after awhile.  Our foreheads were touching most of the time – I wanted to feel that connection as much as possible, and for some reason, that was important to me.

We relaxed in the hot tub afterwards, listened to music for a while and talked, and went to bed.  We left the next day, and as I was riding home, I didn't have any guilt or shame.  I didn't feel bad about anything that I had done, and I certainly didn't feel any sense of disconnect from God (though I didn't expect to).  I did feel profoundly lonely for a few days afterwards, and I think that's because I have such a physical connection to him.  I think not being passionately in love my first time has been something of a liberating experience because I don't have assumptions and expectations tied into him.  I know that I'm my own person and I can own my feelings and experiences (and so can he; that's not to say that I wouldn't do it with him again). :-)

In the meantime, I think I'm in a time of sexual exploration.  I used to feel deprived, in a way, that I couldn't have good sex when so many other people can (and do).  I know that's not true any more.  It's still going to take me a while to feel comfortable with it, but I'm going to try to be intentional about being around people who support me in this phase (whether that's B or others I haven't met yet).   After all, I've got some lost time to make up for.’

Boys and girls

This story makes me think about the disparity between girls and boys. I realize I am making a huge generalization here, as, believe me, I receive stories from boys that are every bit as tender, confused and vulnerable as the stories I receive from girls. But as a rule of thumb, I get those stories from women more often. There are biological reasons for this that we have discussed on this blog before. Women have to be ruled by their emotions. Why? Because we have the ability to grow tiny human beings in our bodies! Imagine how many pregnancies we would have to deal with if emotions weren’t thrown into the equation. It would be a nightmare. We’d be constantly up the duff.

It’s almost like a cruel trick of nature but as I’ve got older I have come to understand that our emotions protect us, that we have to invest more in our intimate relationships because we are biologically pre-programmed to do so. It’s not because we are clingier – lord knows, I’ve met some clingy boys in my time – or more needy. It’s the fact that emotions help us build connections with the opposite sex and in doing so, we are less likely to be left holding the baby. It all makes sense when you look at it like that right?  

But try telling that to yourself when you’re 15 years old, or twenty years old, (and sometimes even when you’re 30 or 35). It takes a long time to get a hang of ‘the game’ and meanwhile, we’re all going to accrue a collection of heartbreaking stories. If I knew then what I know now. Such a hackneyed phrase but it’s hackneyed for a reason. If I knew then what I know now, I could have blithely dismissed so many of my own teenage torments with the rationale above. ‘It’s ok, ‘Wayne’ (there were a lot of ‘Waynes' around in the 80’s) is behaving like an twat because he’s controlled by his hormones and he doesn’t have to worry about creating a life that he won’t have to take care of for the next 18 years’…and so on.

The downside of having emotions is that we complicate things. Men are so much simpler when it comes to affairs of a heart. If a woman slams out of a room screaming, ‘don’t EVER call me again’, the chances are, a man won’t call again because those are the clear instructions that have just been issued. For clarity’s sake, what most women mean when they say this is, ‘you better call me asshole and when you do it, you better get down on your bended knees and beg for my forgiveness’. I know that, you know that but you have to forgive most men for not knowing that. We have to give men clearer signals and make things as easy as possible for them.

None of which really helps today’s story teller who says, ‘I know the circumstances were widely of my making’. Yes, perhaps they were but for all men’s straightforwardness and simplicity, you’d still have to be pretty stupid to think that ‘snuggling’, ‘spooning’ and ‘making out’ might not lead to people having feelings. That’s just basic common sense. Yes, the lady in question might have helped by spelling her thoughts out in a more straightforward manner but I’d also call this an open and shut case of someone else wanting to have their cake and eat it. So to speak.

‘I first want to say how wonderful and brave and beautiful your blog is. Thank you. I found it at an important time in my life and I truly believe it is helping me in my healing process.

To back track: Jan 15, 2012

I grew up shy and conservative, raised by Christian parents whose only sex ed was ‘True love waits’ which means ‘DON'T HAVE SEX EVER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES EXCEPT MARRIAGE BUT EVEN THEN WE CAN'T GO INTO DETAILS’. Needless to say I was a little unprepared. I relied heavily on my older sister to keep me informed about life facts because she was a) older and b) told it like it was and c) didn't take shit from nobody.

I am religious myself. Never really dated in high school. Made out with a Russian exchange student all the time in college, then moved on to a former Navy guy with dad issues. Was truly single all through college, pining over true love and my best guy friend who turns out is gay.

I met a guy at my favorite pub a little less than a year ago. He was cute and witty, scribbling notes back to me on napkins when I left him questions and comments. I started talking to him one night when my girl friend was deeply engrossed in a boring conversation with an ex. We hit it off. I liked him and awkwardly tried to show it through a series of offbeat pranks and postcards I delivered by hand to the pub. He took the bait, he made jokes, he wrote back, he was funny.

Fast forward three months, I'm leaving for a job (just temporary) and he finds out. He is sad. At this point we have been hanging out a lot. I've been to his apartment a few times for some ‘fun’ (mainly hand jobs and getting naked) which I feel EXTREMELY guilty for. I tell him it’s okay... I'll be back in the fall. Blah, blah, blah. I call him at least 3 times a week. Most of the time we're both drunk on the phone and it devolves into a guessing game of what I'm wearing. One night, I'm super hammered and we have a great silly conversation which eventually devolves into him calling me a ‘crazy bitch’ and telling me he's not going to wait around for me that summer because I didn't/wouldn't have sex with him.

After a lot of crying and more drinking, I come home from my summer job. I avoid where he works, only going in on his days off. Eventually I come in and he is super excited to see me. He acts surprised that I'm standoffish. An apology follows our somewhat awkward meeting. We slowly begin to talk….him apologetic, me afraid to get hurt.

Sometime that fall, we are on really good terms again. He is single, I'm single. We decide that we will be just friends but have fun on the side. This leads to me going to his apartment to snuggle and then spoon and then make out with him. Or talking to him on the phone until we're both masturbating. He constantly assures me that I don't need to be scared of him - I've tensed up before when we're in person - he's not going to have sex with me. We have long conversations about me being a virgin. He tells me brief snippets of his first time and ends the story with the sentiment that he'd wished he'd waited. He tells me beautiful things, things no man has ever told me and therein lays the trouble. We talk every day, sometimes three times a day, about life, our jobs, the weather, matching v. mismatching socks, etc. All the while he reminds me that we are NOT dating.

January 15, 2012: I see him at work and wait at his car until he's about to leave. He laughs and tells me to come over in an hour. I come over and it's kind of awkward at first. His dog is jumping around barking. He sits on the small couch and then laughs when I try to sit with him. He asks me what I want to do and the answer is obvious to me but I won't say it. So we move to the bedroom. We undress on his bed and begin to make out. I can feel his cock in my hand, hard. I'm not as scared of it as I used to be. We try different things. We talk. He listens when I say harder or slower or right there or just moan in pleasure as my toes curl and I dig my nails into his bare skin. But whenever he brings his cock close, I freeze up. He reassures me that he's not going to have sex with me. We spoon as I try to calm down. I tell myself not to ruin this, I want it. I get myself wet as we spoon and eventually bring his hand down to finish the job.

The rest is a blur.

One moment I'm in pleasure and bliss, his hand working away, his eyes meeting mine. And then I break our rule, I roll over to face him. I cling to him like I'm drowning. And the fingers are replaced by something else. I'm in so much pain. It builds and builds until suddenly there is a feeling that explodes into a finely tuned intensity of pain and relief all at once. As suddenly as it started, it fades. I stop rocking my hips against his, and pull up and away from something hard and fiery. The feeling fades and I'm left clinging to him with ragged intensity. And then it is over. He takes my hand and has me finish him off. He cums and then says ‘Look at what you did’. As if I have any idea, I'm too numb and sore. The rest of the time I'm there, he won't really look at me or touch me. He moves away from me and won't really answer. I'm glowing and I don't even know why.

The next two days are like hell. I ache below the waist. That night, I peed and there was blood. Not a lot. Just some. And suddenly something in my brain clicked. I can barely walk at work and try to sit all the time. Slowly I replay what I did that Sunday night and the reality hits me. I feel like throwing up. I feel ugly and cheap. I feel like killing myself but know that suicide is not an alternative. I try calling him four days later to see if it's all in my head. I tell him ‘I feel like things might be weird since….’ to which he replies ‘Things aren't weird. What are you talking about?’ I convince myself that I was wrong and that it didn't happen. We didn't use protection so the next two weeks until I get my period are nerve wracking.

Fast forward a month or so. We still talk and call but it begins to taper off. I find out that he thinks I'm too attached and clingy. We have the same conversation over and over. He stops responding to my texts and calls around Valentine's Day. I ignore him for three weeks. During this time, I drink a lot, stay in bed, and constantly relive Jan 15th as if it was the first time. I realize that maybe I shouldn't have made myself forget what happened. It was a bizarre coping mechanism.  I see him the week leading up to my birthday. Anytime he wants to talk to me, he addresses my friend, A. Skip to my birthday where he kisses me on the cheek and comps all my drinks at the pub. We hug for the first time in months. The next day he calls me to talk it out. I wake up in such a good mood that I don't mention that day. It's the furthest thing from my mind. We talk and joke and he tells me nice things. I decide that I'm going to be on model behavior so that he has nothing to complain about in regards to me being ‘TOO ATTACHED’. This works in a way but I still cry about what happened.

The sad truth is, I'm not 100% sure he popped my cherry. I know the circumstances were widely of my making. But still, I can't bring myself to ask him about it. It's something that makes me cry almost every day. I only hope that one day I'll have the courage to ask him what happened on January 15th. The confusion and pain hurts so deeply. I can't bear it for much longer.

~M’

Goddammit I have had some interesting stories and emails from you whilst I have been sunning myself on a hot island. You are a fascinating bunch. It’s hard to choose which one to feature first but I’m going for this one. Partly, I admit, because it’s another ‘first time’ for me. My first Haitian-American story. Not that that’s of any consequence because the themes, as ever, are international. When it comes to virginity loss, it doesn’t matter what language you speak or what cultural background you relate to, people are people. And people have hormones.

It also occurs to me that I never really tell you what I say to the people who write to me because I do always say something. I can’t help it. I have morphed quite naturally into the role of agony aunt, even when people aren’t actually asking for advice. ‘Oh the irony of modern life’, I wrote to Martha. ‘Here you are, a fit, healthy young woman with a healthy and natural interest in sex and you can't find a man to be 'the first'. I went on to point out that she differed from many young women – and men – who write to me in one critical way. She isn’t seeking The Great Love Of Her Life. She just wants a nice, sexy, intelligent man with whom to share this important step.

Easier said than done. Martha goes on to quote some interesting stats about the probability of leading a single life. She’s got a point. It’s a hot topic and I love that she’s not unduly worried about this. ‘I know women in their early twenties’, I told her, ‘who are hysterical about the fact that they haven’t yet met The One’. We are conditioned to believe that this is the only way. That our lives are not complete or full, that in fact, it’s a slightly sub-standard option to be enjoying your life unless you are enjoying it with your other half. Martha is unlikely to be burdened by such limiting thought processes but she does still have a dilemma. And clearly not one that will be solved by picking up a ‘random’ as you guys occasionally call them (I love that phrase).

I suggested, rather un-originally, to Martha that finding ‘a first’ or a virginity breaker as she calls it (not so keen on that phrase), is a numbers game. You need to get in front of as many different 'potentials' as possible. Therefore could online dating be an option? She wrote back and gave me various different (and perfectly valid) reasons why that might not work and ended up with ‘but then again, I’m not really looking for love so I probably should just get over it and join a dating site.’

When she does, perhaps she might write back to us and tell us what happens next. Watch this space people. I know I am.

'Born: 1985 Country: United States (Haitian American)

Dear Kate,

Where do I begin? I’m twenty-six, due to be twenty-seven in May and I’M STILL A VIRGIN! Most of the stories on your blog seem to be about how people lost their virginity; my story is about my goal to lose it ASAP.  In fact, I ran into your blog after googling ‘how to lose your virginity.’

That’s not all. I’ve never been in a relationship. I can count on one hand the times I’ve kissed a guy which incidentally almost always took place when I was stupid drunk.  I feel so pathetic that I’ve never told a friend about this. I am the definition of pent up sexual frustration.

I grew up in a very strict and religious Haitian home and in my teen years I actually became very active in the Mormon church of my own choosing. I was going through some difficult times at home and the church really helped me through some of those moments. But even then I didn’t expect to be a Virgin Mary and I had no plans of waiting for marriage to have sex.  It’s too ironic because I’m pretty sure I was thinking about sex way before it was appropriate to do so, even by today’s standards.

When I was still in grade school, I used to imagine falling in love and having passionate sex with my lover. I clearly remember getting in trouble because I used to act out love scenes and one time my mother caught me making out with my arm….embarrassing. But in my defense, I was only eight or nine.  I’ve always been a passionate romantic but I was also pretty wise for my years. I found my mother’s advice to save my virginity for my future husband highly unlikely, but I thought it was a good idea to wait for when I was a bit older and more mature…but, never did I think that I’d be approaching my Late 20’s STILL A VIRGIN!

To be honest, I’ve given up on the romance part of the plan. I’ve come to terms that not everyone is meant to be in a relationship. According to the U.S Census Bureau 2007, there are 56 million Americans who have always been single, representing roughly 60% of the adult unmarried population. There are 99.6 million unmarried people over the age of 18 in the U.S, representing nearly 44%of the adult population (http://www.unmarried.org/statistics.html). These numbers are not depressing to me, it’s just an indication that the world is changing so therefore, the way we do things must also change. I don’t know what the future has in store for me, but I am determined to lead a happy life as a single woman, as I do not want to depend on others for my happiness the way my mother has always done.

I do however, really want to have sex.  Apparently no amount of masturbating or vibrator can make up for the real thing. This is driving me crazy. I wish I could be the type who could just go out there, pick up some random guy and take him home…but I simply can’t. Trust me, I’ve tried. I even took this taxi driver home one night, and we made out for several hours, the whole time hoping that I’d get excited enough to want to rip off my clothes and have him plunge into me. But it wasn’t like that; I could hardly stand him on me and eventually I had to stop.

I don’t need the candlelight and I don’t need the love, but I want it to be special enough for it to be enjoyable.  I want to briefly connect; in good conversation, intelligent flirting, and great fore-play with someone who is patient and willing to explore with me. I guess, what I want is a good sex mentor. I admit, what I want is pretty specific. The things I want from a sex mentor are similar to what I’d want from a potential boyfriend but minus the commitment. Are those requirements the root of my mistake in this approach? Do you have any suggestions? I’m beginning to think that my search for a virginity breaker is just as challenging as the search for a good boyfriend. One I can live without, the other I can’t.'

The bare faced cheek story..

I did a radio interview recently, the first words of which were ‘Kate Monro, why you are such a big perv?’ I was slightly taken aback but I also howled with laughter because it's a fair question. Why do I go around asking people such impertinent questions about their sex lives? To be honest, I can barely believe my own cheek when I think back to the beginnings of this project. What on earth impelled me to request such a personal story?

The clue is in the last word of the previous paragraph. It was never virginity loss per se that got me going. It was merely the most effective vehicle I could find with which to tap people for brilliant stories. We all know how we lose virginity. An entire book about the nuts and bolts of ‘the moment’ (as it were) would be as dull as dishwater. It’s the bigger picture that’s interesting. I wanted to get people to paint these pictures. I needed an under the radar entry point at which to do that and this was it. There aren’t many other life experiences that could garner such a rich selection of reactions than the moment we have sex for the first time.

I chose today’s story for two reasons. 1: because it didn’t make the cut for my book. Not because there’s anything wrong with it but just because I couldn’t find the right place to put it. And 2: it’s a lovely example of the bigger picture. ‘The Moment’ takes up all of two lines and there are no gory details. But it is the inspiration for an epic tale that takes in religious spliff rolling parents, a questionable church pastor, a young black man alone at college in Cambridge for the first time and a very big dilemma.

Whilst I am here, here is a link to a nice interview I did last week for ‘Love Matters’, a Radio Netherlands produced sex education website for teens. Watch and learn England, watch and learn.

Daniel Collins. Born 1967. Lost virginity aged 20

Afro Caribbean parties are different to the parties that I ended up going to at university. On one level, it was really laid back but on another level, it was scary because dancing is part of the culture and it’s all about the moves. You are seriously done for if you can’t do the moves. Revoke your badge; do you know what I mean? It is not good. You’re supposed to be all but going for it in the middle of the dance floor, wining and doing it and I used to get so nervous; I would be running hot and cold sweats. I think that the one and only time that I did actually get into a dance with a girl, she may as well have been dancing with a broom because I was rigid with fear. I was a nerd. I was a comic book reading, cartoon drawing, nerd.

My parents came from Jamaica and my mum has become a regular church attendee since my dad died, but for much of my life, she was very Christian without actually going to church. This is important, because I grew up not being that interested in religion. I heard a lot of things that my mum said about God and her absolute belief in him. But at the same time my parents were having parties and stuff and dad would be in the kitchen rolling one up and mum would be out there, dancing crazy and entertaining.  I rebelled backwards, I didn’t smoke pot until I was twenty-one, and it was my mum who taught me how to roll properly.

When I was eighteen, a mate of mine that I had grown up with came round one evening. I was hanging around outside my house as you do at that age.  He just seemed to be different and I couldn’t get my finger down on what it was that was different. Finally, when I asked him, he told me about this Born-Again Christian group that he’d joined and it was more the way he was, rather than what he said that I latched onto. It was the sense of him being a bit surer of himself. He seemed to have a confidence that he didn’t have before, so I went along with him the next time and I found myself getting involved. At first I was just curious but it didn’t take long before I was enrolling in one of the classes. 

Dr Whitsun was an American preacher who had split from the church and he had started to interpret the bible in a ‘new’ way. Basically it was a ‘reformation’ sort of situation. All these people had strayed off the path and he was going to put it right. He really bought all these ideas to life for me and there was a real sense of an active movement, something that I am sure the apostles would have felt, you know? The act of really doing something, and I found myself joining up.

One of the tenets of this faith was no sex before marriage and we talked a lot about the influences around us that are designed to lead you off the path. We were to follow the examples of the original Christians, which meant that we were free to see partners as much as we like, but we were to refrain from sex.  I was at an age where there was a real pressure to be sexually active and apart from my friend at church, I had always hung around with friends who had gone and lived life and had girlfriends, lots of girlfriends. At the end of the day it wasn’t like it was on offer for me to turn down, but maybe I was dealing with it, or possibly the lack of it, by using religion. But I felt that I was doing the right thing even if my body sometimes didn’t agree with me.

So I go off to college, I move away from home for the first time and now things really start to get interesting because I don’t have my touchstone anymore.  I can’t go to Fellowship and get a spiritual refill and I think I became really quite Taliban-like in those first six months of college. I think my way of dealing with it was to get really hardcore about it. I was at a little arts and technology college in Cambridgeshire; it wasn’t in any way involved with the university. But it’s not a very big town so you would end up in the same parties with people from the university. You’d end up in conversations with people who think they know stuff and I had some heated stand up debates.

I never felt more alone in my life.

I couldn’t find anyone else like me. Even if there were other Christians there, I wasn’t even on their side because my denomination was just as sceptical of all the other, nice, organized religions as it was of the secular world. It was a lonely place to be and I am not sure how I dealt with that first year. I remember once having this stand up conversation in the canteen with a guy about faith and trying to tell him about the ‘Born Again’ experience. I was trying to convince him that I would be all right but he wouldn’t, which at the end of the day is what you’re doing as a born again Christian. 

I gradually began to wonder about things. Everyone else seemed to be having such a nice time going to the college bar and drinking and I would be sitting there drinking my coke. In fact I did that for about eight months, not a drink, not a nothing. Just chatting. And then temptation came along. There was a girl who had been in the same canteen at similar times. We had seen each other a few times and maybe passed each other going to the bank. Then we ended up at the same party and I don’t know what happened but we conversed and stuff and somehow at the end of the night we were kissing and heavy petting. Nothing more came of it but I realised at that point that I had crossed over some kind of Rubicon.

Now I wasn’t so sure of what I was saying and I suspect it was at this point that I really started to ratchet it down. Osama had come out of the cave so to speak. But something had changed and I couldn’t tell anyone about it because this girl was known as somebody who would throw herself at guys. That was the worst thing about it: the irony; I’d gone from being Mr Chaste to being Mr Chasing and chasing the easiest kind of tail. I was very confused. I met the person I ended up having the ‘first time’ with not long after that.

I had fallen asleep in the library. I was supposed to be studying, and I sort of jerked my head awake and there was this girl sitting a few tables away laughing at me. I smiled but I was nervous and I knew that I looked a bit of a twat. Then we met at a party later on and got to know each other a little better. Nothing happened for a little while but soon I got to really dig her. The funny thing was that I ended up jumping straight in at the deep end with her so to speak. I was twenty by this point and I had to get rid of this dilemma. I didn’t go out of my way to ‘kill it’, not consciously at least, but sub-consciously I think I just wanted to let life go on.

It wasn’t the very best experience in the world but my imagination wasn’t that advanced and I really had no idea what to expect. On some level you experiment but it’s not the same as when you’re actually with someone. I had read books and seen porno mags and it wasn’t like that. It was all I could expect it to be, let’s put it that way. She knew it was my first time, or she would have known by the way I was. I didn’t exactly have it choreographed. At aged twenty it was a bit embarrassing to be that awkward but she was very caring. I knew I wasn’t going to be like superman lover and I didn’t think the world was going to explode either.

The relationship didn’t last that long and it stopped in a very abrupt way. I wasn’t pleased with myself that I was the instigator and that it was also for the most stupid, selfish, childish reasons. Basically, I thought the nerd in me had finally been killed. It was the end of the year and after we came back from the Christmas holidays, I was just like, its New Year and I’m gonna get me some new ladies. And I cut it. Just like that. That was the weirdest, hardest thing because I didn’t even explain myself to her. But how could you explain that?

It was done. I had done it before marriage. It was difficult for me to come back from that situation without looking like a hypocrite, without actually confirming everything that people thought, which was, say one thing and do something else. I did not want to be that person, so it was not like a coming of age experience for me. It was more like a step forward and a step back.

I never found a way to marry the two. And in fact what happened next was the pastor in charge of my church became involved in a sex scandal, the whispering campaign began and senior members of the church took sides, ultimately causing a split. Once I saw the bickering, that was it. I was off.

I felt like I had stepped out of the world I had been in and stepped into the world that everyone else was living in. But I didn’t know whether it was better. That was the price, you know. I knew I could say sorry for what I had done and ask for forgiveness but I think I knew that I was going to do it again so it was a bit of a hypocritical exercise. In some ways, everything has been up in the air since then. It’s not like the end of uncertainty for me.

I am not religious now but I am trying to get some spirituality back into my life to get a bit of balance. It is the sense that there is a pattern and a flow to things that I enjoy. I certainly don’t want to be as rigid as I was. I do think there are more shades to life and besides; I hate the idea of giving authority to any one person. Why would I do that? They are just as messed up as I am. If they can’t say, ‘I am actually just as messed up as you are’ then don’t be a ‘God’ as far as I am concerned. I am more leaning towards stuff like Taoism and the whole Buddhist thing. I like the sense of finding your place in the universe.

Good girl turned bad...

This is the title that today's story teller gave her own post. And like me, you’ll probably disagree with her choice once you read it. My first reaction was shoot the parents. I mean really. How does someone help their children by stopping them from living? But on reflection, how can we know what we will feel like until we are parents ourselves? And whilst I’d like to think that I wouldn’t stick a straightjacket on them, who can say for sure until it happens. Parents often believe they are doing what’s best for their children, even if they are not. And the resultant journey is one that we all go through. It’s called life. The tantric sex teacher that I interviewed for my book summed it up thus…

‘There’s a lot of stuff been written about this. About what you know, and what you are told.  Because as a child, you have a very deep, inner knowing. And what happens to us is that our intuition is denied and that’s why we get so fucked up, because we don’t trust ourselves.  Because the authority, parents, teachers, whatever, tell us that what we’re feeling is wrong.  And that’s the journey really, to get back.’

Here is Adele’s journey to get back. It’s a big one.

‘I am one of the many people who have become quite taken with your new book.  It has been a subject that has really got me thinking.  I was born in 1984 and as a woman, I’ve been lucky enough to be a part of the generation that has grown up knowing I can ‘have it all’.  I can be a mother and a beloved wife and a career woman and go on flash holidays and have the most adventurous sex ever.  However, my upbringing was quite sheltered, and while the big bad world was looming outside my door, I very rarely got to part-take in its many pleasures.

In hindsight I wouldn’t necessarily say that my parents were strict.  There were some things that took place in our household that simply wouldn’t in most Afro-Caribbean homes.  They were not consistent about many things like bedtime or sweeties, but they were and still are overly anxious about our lives and the things we do.  They’re afraid.  The fact that my parents raised me and my two sisters with fear as their guiding light stopped us from blossoming and stifled our basic development.

My mum and dad got married very young and within a very short time had three kids. I can remember always feeling like this was the ultimate journey to undertake, fall in love, marry and have babies and have a companion at your side to muddle through life with.  In their late 30s they both got baptised and within a short space of time my father was ordained as a Minister.  The following year my two sisters and me converted to the same Christian denomination and from then we became Minister’s kids.  It’s quite an awkward position to be in.  Everyone is watching you to see that you are outwardly pure.  Everyone wants to see that the family is harmonious, praying together, at various church events together.  We were rarely apart from our parents. It sounds like something from the 1940s, perhaps even a little bizarre, but this was what life was for us. 

We attended an all girls’ school so my contact with boys was very limited.  I can honestly say that I never spoke to a boy until I was about 18.  Were there boys in Church?  Of course there were, but if you were seen talking to a boy; you better have a good reason.  All sorts of rumours would circulate either that you had been acting filthy together or that you were getting married.  Because they were the only reasons to even look at a boy.  We were taught to pray against any unholy urges and ask God to lay our lustful thoughts to sleep until we were blessed with a husband.  I was 13 years old, my oldest sister had just started university, we were hormonal young women who were told how impure our minds must be if we wanted to be touched.  It was all very confusing and very hard.  So we sat back and waited to get married. 

I remember working so hard at being ‘holy’, denying my every bodily pleasure in the pursuit of the heavenly.  But I was so young, impressionable and really needed a guiding hand.  The pastor at our assembly was very old, my dad was his deputy, but the young people were left in the care of the Evangelist.  She was a fearsome lady, and as someone who was new to the faith I revered her as someone to follow.  Coming from the home that I did, I was taught first and foremost to respect my elders.  My parents were always right, I never disagreed with them and they loved me for it, so I was to never disagree with the Evangelist.  I believed that if I could just gain her wholehearted approval, I would be fine and on my way to heaven.  She was a disagreeable woman; nothing made her happy for long.  I found myself on the receiving end of her sharp tongue and aggressive ways and watched my parents being belittled by her.  I was so afraid at times to go to church for fear that she’d be in one of her terrifying moods.  If I told my parents I didn’t want to go they would tell me not to worry or to pray for humility, she was an elder and therefore wouldn’t lead me astray.  I completely lost sight of the belief that God was my heavenly father who loved me.  Instead I saw him frowning at me and hating me, just as she did.

You’re probably wondering what on earth this all has to do with my virginity, but these experiences lead me quite directly to my sexual misadventures.  A couple of years passed and it was time for me to go away to university.  I was nervous, that same old fear reared its ugly head at home again.  I had chosen a university quite far away from home and my parents were wondering why.  I was still working part-time in London so it was expected that I was to come home every weekend, and of course attend church every Sunday.  I must admit I was hoping to get away.  I was hoping to get a life.  I had never been away from home, was constantly under the watchful eye of my elders.  Every word I said was scrutinised, everything I heard and saw was censored.  I was bound.  I longed to be free.

Freedom came in the second term when Artem, a Canadian exchange student came to stay in the dorm a couple of doors down from me.  He seemed so sophisticated; he charmed his way into the hearts and minds of everyone he came across.  We started spending a lot of time together and everyone was convinced that he had the hots for me.  So one night I kissed him.  One thing led to another and although it didn’t go further than heavy petting, it was a giant leap for me.  I was convinced that I was in love with him and him with me and started making plans for us.  Everyone was having sex; all my girl pals had boyfriends.  I was desperately lonely. In retrospect, I lacked so much of the confidence I tried to exhibit.  It was almost like it had been stolen from me after years of being a member of a Church that practically obliterated my faith in God.  My faith was such an integral part of my identity; it was hard to function without it.  I felt hollow and I needed to be filled.  Artem, I thought, was just the man for the job.

But he was cruel to me, picking on every little thing I hated about myself.  I was left feeling fat and ugly. Having let him know that I wanted him to be my first, he told me that he wouldn’t touch until I lost some weight!  To drive this point home he began a very public flirtation with Sadie, a six foot tall size 8 model-looking thing who he would ‘fuck in an instant’.  What little self-esteem I had left was shattered completely.  I was left not only hollow now, but very, very angry. 

Anger was a new emotion for me, since I had had to deny myself any knowledge of ‘fleshy’ things for so long.  I was so completely taken over by this anger, it was like a drug.  I dropped out of university after one year and started working full time.  Everyone was disappointed, not least because I was a girl with ‘so much promise’.  I went from wearing no make-up and long skirts, to not wanting to leave the house without a full face on and showing way too much boob.  I started drinking and answering back.  I had more or less stopped attending church at this point, waking up every Sunday morning with some excuse or another.  My parents judgementally shook their heads and I can honestly say I hated them at those moments.  It probably doesn’t sound so strange to have a child saying that about her parents, but the fact that I wasn’t a child, I was a young woman and I’d spent all my teenage years under my parents wing lovingly doing as they said, is odd isn’t it?  I started to fight really hard for my independence, but when they refused to acknowledge my desire to grow up I tried to hurt them.  The only way I thought I could achieve this was by abusing my own body.

Sometimes I think about the amount of freedom we have over our own bodies.  A hundred years ago a woman’s body was secret to everyone but her husband.  Nowadays we can flaunt it and no one bats an eyelid.  In the western world we look at the burkha, for instance, as a tool that Eastern cultures use to stifle their women.  But is revealing all up front any better?  In affect aren’t we as women only giving men more of what they want without expecting them to work for it?

I was drinking too much, mostly in secret.  I was watching a lot of pornography and worrying about my desirability.  My provocative dress was getting me noticed big time and working in the City in a well known jewellers meant that I had my fair share of admirers.  One such admirer was Alessandro, an Italian scooter-driving banker.  He came in and asked me to dinner and I accepted without hesitation.  I was looking so badly for a little affirmation that I let my standards slip.  What I wanted was someone I classed as a real man – older and therefore experienced, owned their own house, had a successful job (lots of money) and someone who seemed up to have sex with me.  In the testosterone-filled City this was pretty much everybody.  Our first ‘date’ was an amazing restaurant, the second was back to his place where he was to cook me dinner.  Needless to say he didn’t spend much time in the kitchen.  I was certain I was ready for him to fuck before he started fumbling about.  He threw me on the bed, fingered me too hard and broke my hymen.  He tried to enter me but he was far too rough and then he sat on top of me and made me give him oral sex.  It was then I told him I was virgin and he called me a cab.  The experience left me feeling cheap and disgusting.  I did want a little romance, but he was so flippant about the experience.  But I wouldn’t say I’d lost my virginity, even though he broke my hymen. 

My parents had been calling me all night to find out where I was, which really pissed me off.  When I got home after one, I explained I had been with a man and they looked at me in horror, which gave me a perverse sense of pride.  They begged me to let them know when I was going to be out. 

The next man who picked me up was Claudio, another Italian, a chef and ex-model who started signing his number to me from the other side of a restaurant I was at with my sister.  We started texting right away.  He let me know that he thought I was beautiful and at that moment I felt so grateful, not least because he was so good looking.  We went to dinner a few nights later.  The man was tall, dark, desperately handsome, but so boring!  I just wanted to go back to his place and see if I could get him into bed.  I did, but I just couldn’t give it up to him.  A part of me really wanted to, to upset my parents and God and to give myself a reason to think I was sexy and worth it.  But I was resisting him.  Was I afraid it would hurt?  Maybe.  Was I still thinking that I ought to be in love before I went all the way?  I don’t know.  We continued seeing each other for about a month, but then he told me he was moving away so it fizzled out.

And then there was Graham.  A Geordie, he was broad and dark, the spitting image of Jack Branning from Eastenders.  At 35, he was 14 years my senior.  I walked into a bar with some friends and I didn’t even need to look at him.  I sensed him.  I sensed that every single pore of his being wanted me and I felt so powerful I was practically walking on air.  He approached me and we hit it off.  He didn’t want me to leave when my friends tried to drag me away to get the last train.  We were on the phone constantly and when we went out to see a film on our first date we were in an endless lip lock.  But this kissing was quite unlike anything I’d known before.  Electricity.  I could feel his hard-on against my arm and for the first time I wasn’t afraid of the penis.  I wanted him so bad it almost hurt. 

We dated and kissed for a while and I managed to convince myself that he really cared about me.  He was always telling me how strongly he felt the moment he first saw me. I was the ‘most beautiful girl in the room’, and I really appreciated the sentiment.  I let him know I was a virgin, and he took this news in his stride, he wasn’t in the least bit fazed like the others had been.  He set about putting me at ease.  The night I agreed to stay with him I was quite shocked by his dirty flat, but I didn’t care.  I was there to be rid of my virginity.  We were kissing and touching.  As always it felt so good.  Then he said the words that shook me to my core: ‘I want to fuck you Adele; I want to FUCK you in every hole’.  So after hours of foreplay I let him.  Without a condom.

The experience left a lot to be desired.  I didn’t orgasm, I couldn’t.  I still couldn’t shake the thought that sex was dirty and that I was dirty because of it, just as I had been taught at church.  The momentary peak in self-esteem that I felt when Graham called me beautiful abated and I felt worthless again.  I continued seeing him for a while, always at his place, always a quickie that left me sad and anxious for affirmation.  Never with a condom.  I couldn’t care less if he had given me some incurable disease, I hated myself so much.  One night he unexpectedly became quite aggressive with me and it left me a little shaken.  So when I left I promised myself I wouldn’t be back.

It’s really strange how life happens.  I spent my childhood innocently following my parents rule without question, believing in love because they loved me.  My teens were spent trying to squeeze the love out of a heartless woman who wanted to hurt people because she was hurting.  I’ve spent the best part of the last 6 years battling my anger at never being strong enough to walk away sooner or strive for my own independence the way other young people do.  I stopped believing in love and looked for sex, but each time I found it gave me another reason to hate myself.

As it turns out, I didn’t catch a nasty disease from Graham.  I fell pregnant and four and half years later I have the most beautiful little girl on the planet.  He's never been involved, which is okay.  She’s really bright and forward and everyday I’m afraid that I’ll make some terrible mistake that will lead her down that same path I went on of self destruction.  After years of trying to pull love out of people I learnt that I need to love.  My child taught me that.  She was born so fragile and pure and my heart grew at the sight of her.  Now, I’m in a happy, fulfilling relationship with the most beautiful man I’ve ever met and we are expecting our first child together.  We’re getting married next year and my little girl gets two loving parents and a younger sibling.  Once I opened my heart to love I found that I couldn’t stop. 

I saw my virginity as a sort of anchor to my passivity in the past and in my haste to lose it, I ended up hurting myself and others.  I have so many regrets that I didn’t know enough about myself back then. If I had only had more patience and self-esteem I believe I could have bypassed these less than desirable experiences and found love.  It’s mad that virginity is viewed as something so undesirable.  It’s a virtue.  I’m not ashamed to say that this is the lesson I will be telling my children when the time comes.  Will I tell them to wait until marriage?  Maybe not.  But I will most definitely tell them that sex is dangerous if you’re using it to get affirmation.  Learn to love yourself and you can go anywhere and be anything.’

 

You're the one that I want....

I can’t deny that I did think about jumping on the royal bandwagon and writing a wedding themed post and then I changed my mind. Kind of.

This week I have traveled to Manchester with the very fabulous Suzi Godson to do next Monday’s edition of Woman’s Hour. Together we met the legendary Jenni Murray and did our best not to swear by mistake on the show. I have also been into several bookshops to innocently enquire after a tome called ‘The First Time: True Tales of Virginity Lost & Found (Including My Own). I usually crack when they ask if it’s by Kate Monro and admit that I am she. I wonder at what point I will get bored of this game.

On a more serious note, I have fielded questions about the impending release of said book from my 13 year old nephew. I feel slightly guilty about the fact that I have written one of those books that I had to climb the bookcase to retrieve at great personal risk when I was his age. Naturally I chickened out and sent him in the direction of his mother.

More to the point, how am I going to stop my stepfather from reading the first story in the men’s chapter?? I think I am going to have to find a way of temporarily blindfolding him because when push comes to shove, I am far more worried about corrupting his relatively innocent mind than my 13 year old nephew’s!

But all in all, generally speaking, I can say that publishing my first book has far surpassed my expectations and it hasn’t even come out yet.

Until it does, here is today’s story. Hailing from the States, ladies and gentleman, I give you the modern day Danny and Sandy….

‘My name is Tegan. I’m now 17 years old and live in the US. But before I tell you my story, I think you should know a little bit about me. I’ve always been the straight A student, the very religious girl, you get the picture. But then I started dating Mark. We met at school freshman year; we started dating a month later. Mark was what most people would refer to as the ‘popular’ guy in school. He was known for being the star athlete…you know the type. He had an i-don’t-care attitude that attracted me to him, which was odd considering I had only dated the quiet, shy guys.

I honestly couldn’t tell you why I started dating him because I don’t even know myself. I never pictured myself with anyone other than your typical nerd. He just wasn’t my type; I definitely wasn’t his either. But it felt like with him…I had to make an exception. It was like we balanced each other out. I was quiet, he was outgoing. After a few months of dating we became best friends. I guess you could say we were pretty much inseparable. Six months into our relationship we began doing things I never planned on until after I was married...oral sex. After a few months of that, we wanted more. Not exactly sex itself, but the closeness that came with it.

I was fifteen when I lost my virginity to Mark. His family was out of town for his sister’s volleyball tournament, and he told his parents he was coming to my house that Saturday. I told my parents I was going to his, for they didn’t know his family was gone. It took a lot of planning, but it worked. We hadn’t exactly talked about having sex that day, though we had talked about having sex before.

The minute we stepped in his house we quickly went up to his room. We kissed and before I knew it our clothes we in the floor. We spent quite a long time ‘warming up’ if you get what I’m saying. I was more scared than nervous when we finally did it. It wasn’t like you read about in books or watch in movies at all. It took a while before he could get it in. And when he finally did, it hurt. It hurt bad. But not in a bad way. He didn’t last long, but that was okay; I’d come closer to him than I had been with anyone in my whole life, and that’s all we had wanted. I had his virginity, and he had mine.       

I’m seventeen now, and I don’t regret anything that’s happened between Mark and I. We aren’t like the crazy sex-obsessed teens today. We have sex to feel closer to one another. Not just to have sex. Although I’m still a Christian, I’ve come to believe that sex is okay as long as it’s for the right reasons. Maybe Mark and I will end up together, maybe not. But I know for a fact I couldn’t have asked for a better guy to experience this with. No, our story wasn’t the make-believe story everyone talks about…but it was our own story.’