The Virginity Project

The story that you don't want to hear...

I never said this blog was going to be pretty. People’s virginity loss stories come in many different shapes and sizes, and with varying different degrees of pleasure. Rarely physical it must be said but occasionally emotional. Not today.

‘I’m not sure people will want to hear my story’ wrote Mia. ‘Perhaps not’, I replied. ‘But that doesn’t mean they don’t need to hear it’. This is a heartbreaking tale and generously, its owner choses also to tell us the other side of a second story, that of the sex worker who ‘takes’ a man’s virginity. I frequently hear the male end of this story and less often that of the female, who is invariably the sex worker.

By the by, I think Mia does herself – and the world of sex working - a disservice when she says ‘I’m a hooker, I’m not real’. Given the dramatic course her life has taken and the nature of her ex job, this is understandable but as you probably know, I’ve got a bit of a bee in my bonnet about the way we perceive sex workers.

I’ve met some fine women over the years who work in the sex industry, women that perform acts of kindness that go way beyond the concept of ‘just’ having sex. Yes, I hear you say, but they get paid for it. Yes they do, but thats hardly the point. Its a thin line between sexual surrogacy and prostitution as far as I can work out. And is one better – or worse – than the other?

This isn’t the time or the place to get into this discussion. I have something to post soon that will provide excellent food for thought on this subject. In the meantime, here is a big story. Not only that, but Mia reveals a promising flair for story telling.

‘Up until about a year ago, I worked as a prostitute, in and around the city of Chicago. I’m actually only twenty now, and I spent most of my teenage years as a hooker, working since I turned fifteen. It was about two years ago that I was contacted by a young guy living outside the city and he asked me to meet. He was a college student, 22, I think, and I remember how embarrassed he sounded in our phone call when he explained that I had to come at a time when his ‘parents would be out’. He also shyly told me that it was his first time so that I would be prepared.

It was that call that got me rethinking about the significance of a ‘first time’. I had sex for a living; did he understand that sex with me wasn’t the same thing? There’s a difference between making love and just having sex. I couldn’t offer him anything more than the latter. Losing your virginity is portrayed in movies as being such a special moment, and I felt like all I could do was let him down. I never got that special moment when I lost mine. Was I making it into too big a deal? Is a ‘first time’ overrated?

In terms of technically losing my virginity, I was fourteen. The story isn’t pretty; my life back then wasn’t in general. I was in foster care, and staying in a rough neighborhood. A year before I had stayed with one foster family for a couple months, and been abused by the father, yet I was still a virgin. I had never even kissed a boy. Despite being inexperienced in that way, though, I had spent a while in pretty tough areas and I was street smart in every sense. I knew better than to walk alone in the dark in that sort of place, yet that night, even sober, I made a stupid decision. I was halfway home when I was approached by five older guys I recognized from school. They were drunk, but not too much so to lose control of me. I was dragged into a dead alley and held down for each one. It hurt like all hell; I never expected that sort of pain. Afterwards, when I was left there, I redressed, threw up, and then walked home. I never spoke of it.

I thought if I never told, I could go on and, if not forget, at least move forward. That plan was put on hold shortly after, though, when I realized I had missed a period. I was pregnant. I was also only fourteen, and a complete mess. I couldn’t even think of options, I was so freaked. But just after I found out for sure, I miscarried. I woke up and I was bleeding, enough to scare me into going to the hospital.

I don’t remember much more, but the pregnancy ended with a tear/rupture in something. There was a lot of blood and no more baby. I was quietly relieved, and completely overwhelmed.

Fast forward a couple months later, and I had consensual sex for the first time. It was nothing special, and neither was he. My first boyfriend, a little while later, was older and more experienced, and sex with him was the first ‘real sex’ I had—sex that was enjoyable, more like it seemed it should be. With that I began falling deeper into promiscuity, and then I started hooking. Fast-forward almost three years after that, and I’m a call girl debating the importance of a lonely college geek’s virginity.

When I finally did meet him, he was just as I expected. Sweet, but in a frustrating way. Older than me, but somehow still very much a kid. We talked for a while, and then he asked to kiss me. I wish I could say that I ended up convincing him not to choose that way as his first time, but I didn’t. He finished, I dressed, and we ended up just talking for the rest of the time (the actual act only took him like a minute, after all, and not surprisingly). He thanked me for being so nice about it, and I wanted to laugh and cry. Stupid boy, I thought, I’m a hooker, I’m not real.

Yet he was happy, because that was all he wanted: plain, quick sex, with a girl who wouldn’t object to it being under the watchful eyes of his Star Wars figures. I saw that losing your virginity didn’t have to be beautiful. Not all sex had to be. Most girls say it takes a couple times before you get it right, anyway. I had spent so long feeling like my ability to enjoy sex was tainted by my first experiences with it, when really, as significant and memorable a first time is, it isn’t everything. I had let myself be scarred by sex, and then become reliant on the money it made me. Throughout that entire time, I had let it define me, without coming to terms with one, first traumatic incident.  I wanted a sex life, but I wanted it to be mine, on my terms.

For reasons that could partially be attributed to that incident, but mainly to a decision to stop doing what made me unhappy, I quit prostitution. Bam, just like that, sex played one less role in my life. That first step helped me when it came to the rest of my climb. I wasn’t looking for closure, because I knew that was impossible. I never planned to forgive, because I simply couldn’t. I just wanted to not think of myself as a victim of my first time. I can’t forget that it happened, and that it altered me, but I’ve become okay with that fact. My first time changed me, but it should never control me.'

The Virginity Project is up, about and fully functioning at 07.48 on a Saturday morning. Unusual…but I’m going on holiday tomorrow morning and I’m excited.

I first woke bright eyed and bushy tailed at midnight. I looked at the clock and realised that I had been asleep for precisely one hour. Great. I then crashed until 4.30am and woke with a raging hunger. One bowl of cereal and two earplugs to shut the birds out later, I was back in bed. With nothing to do. What is it about that time of the morning that turns your brain into a living jukebox? And it’s always the songs that I hate most that are stuck on repeat. Alongside an audio list of all the things I need to do tomorrow: wash, iron, pack, blog, finish emails and other activities of life changing importance – whilst simultaneously discussing the relative merits of the five books I want to take on holiday that need to be whittled down to four – with MYSELF………..I’m not complaining. It’s all very firmly stuck into the ‘first world problems’ basket. These are elegant issues to have and I’m a very lucky person. But still, I do have to get up at 3am again tomorrow morning to go to the airport…..
 
In the meantime, it never rains it pours. You get one email from Malaysia, you get ten. A slight exaggeration but you get my drift. I’ve had two stories from Malaysia in as many weeks and this is the second.  Asides from a tiny bit of editing, I have left this story as it is because I believe that in doing so, I’ll retain the voice of its teller.

She asks me at the end to choose her a good pseudonym and I’ll go with ‘Hope’. I admire her ability to pick herself up, to talk, to cry, to do whatever it takes and to retain some faith that things will get better. And they do. You don’t need to be religious to know that faith is a valuable asset. This isn’t the easiest of stories but it is a story of hope.


‘Dear Kate,

I stumbled upon your virginity project blog and I spent some time thinking if I should contribute my story. You see, mine isn't a typical story and I'm wondering if you've heard some other stories that resembled mine... Anyway, here goes:

Born: 1980, Lost it: 2001, Country of origin: Malaysia

I always knew that I wanted to wait until getting married before losing my virginity... it would be my gift to my husband, and i've always thought that i would have fun making up for lost time... when i was studying in college doing my diploma i had a boyfriend and we would have (literally) sleepovers and fooled around, but we never went the whole way... and then i left for overseas to further my education for my degree... i met this guy and we hung out at his place (which is conveniently across the street from mine) quite often, and he knew of my virgin status and told me he's cool with it... well, one night in nov 2011 he decided he's no longer cool with it and wouldn't take no for an answer (both of us sober)... he penetrated me vaginally, and later, sodomized me as well when he knew that i wouldn't fight back... i felt detached from my body, and it felt like i was watching from afar... it hurt, i was not ready, there was no gentleness, no loving words, no comfort... he's around my age, and he was big sized (abt 1.8m and almost 90 kgs compared to my 1.65m and 63kg frame)... i left his place feeling dirty, and i remember sitting in the bathtub trying to scrub him away from my body

It affected my studies and my social life as well... i became afraid of bumping into him on campus, and smelling the perfume he wore when that incident happened freaked me out even though i was off campus... the outfit i was wearing got banished to the back of a cupboard... a few close guy friends whom i told of it was extremely protective of me, making sure that i wasn't left alone at any time when the chances of bumping into him would be higher... i told a girl friend abt it and was promptly blamed for letting it happen and that was the end of my friendship with her... i went on a spree, trying to 'play like a man', with no emotions involved... after realizing that it's not helping me heal, i opened up to a female colleague who in turn told our boss, who promptly made an appointment for me to meet with the head of the counselling dept... it took months of work before i could move on and not feel like 'damaged' goods... my parents didn't know abt this until 6 mths later, when the counsellor told me gently that it would help my healing process if they knew and could support me...

fast forward to 2005, i had returned to my home country and started work... i dated this nice chap whom i pursued greatly (i knew him since college) and we started sleeping together very shortly into our relationship... he knew of what happened but in the end things didn't work out and i dumped him 6 mths later... this was when i considered to have lost my 'virginity' as i knew full well what i was doing, and there were emotions in the picture as well... try as i might, i could not get an orgasm with him...in hindsight, this relationship was very lopsided as i was making most of the effort to meet up and being the pursuer, i was taken for granted... it took me more than 4 yrs to get over him, and during that time, i was single and very celibate... my theory on why it took me so long to get over it was that he was the first guy whom i slept with that i loved...

On a happier note, i met somebody on a flight back from a trip last year and the chemistry was immediate... we spent the entire flight chatting, and upon landing, made plans to meet... we met for dinner almost a week later, and 2 weeks after that, on my birthday, we talked abt our respective sexual past and that was when i knew we would end up sleeping together... the next day, we spent a lot of time texting (ok, sexting) each other, i told him about the rape over a phone call, because i wanted him to know what he's getting himself into (i came with baggage), and more importantly, that i never had an orgasm that is not a DIY orgasm... he was conducting a training in a university (they gave him a room to refresh himself) and he stated that he would like to see me to ascertain that i'm ok after what i told him... when i told him that i should be fine because it's been 10 yrs, he quietly told me that there is no fixed time frame to get over such situations...  anyway i went to see him, and i freaked out when i arrived, as there were 2 single beds in the room, i was afraid that i had put myself in the same situation as before, that he would just push me down to the bed and rape me... thankfully he did no such thing, although he gave me a nice long hug and told me it's nice to see me again….we made out a bit, and he left to continue on with his training... when i told him later i freaked out abt seeing the beds, he calmly said that although the beds were there, the timing was not right and there was no need to rush... he also told me that he knew we'd end up sleeping together on the night of my birthday itself, and that we'll just have to go with the flow, no pressure, no rushing... we discussed my inability to have an orgasm that was not a DIY, and he made it his mission to give me one...

When he finally did, i cried, and he held me in his arms and talked me through it... i felt so vulnerable, yet safe, for the first time... it was in this safety that i feel safe enough to explore my sexuality with him (him having loads more experience than me, being older as well), and we've talked abt it as well... hopefully it all ends well...

So here's my story, kate, and it's a tale of betrayal, redemption, and hope... i mean, i can't change what's happened, but i can try to move on and not let it ruin my life (sexually, at least)... i don't know if you'll put it up on your blog, but if you do, pls think of a good nickname for me :)'

Do you think that when Marvin Gaye wrote Sexual Healing, that perhaps he might have been thinking about today’s story? I think so.

It never ceases to amaze me just how much one person can right someone else’s wrongs through the power of sexual experience alone. Today’s story is a lovely example of that. It reminded me of a man I interviewed many years ago. It was by accident really because I had just interviewed his wife for my book. Afterwards, he started quizzing me about other people I had interviewed. Had I had any ‘difficult’ stories he wanted to know? No, as it happens, I hadn’t at that stage.

At which point, he offered up his own.

Suffice it to say that as he sat and told me a story that involved teenage sexual abuse, I felt a renewed sense of urgency to finish my book. That I was onto something important because people carry some huge stories around inside themselves.  This man had never let his out. Why would he? He felt ashamed of it even though it hadn’t been his fault. I knew that other people might benefit from hearing it. But what I really remember about that day is the unexpected ending. His first marriage finished in failure because he couldn’t get over the past, until, in his thirties, he met someone who redressed the balance.

‘Jane was a really gentle, simple soul but she was absolutely fantastic with people. She was brilliant with social relationships. I was with her for four years and she slowly taught me what women are all about. She literally took me by the hand and guided me very gently.

That was the first time in my life that I understood anything about sex, about what women required, and about what they appreciate. I learned more about sex in the first three months with Jane than the whole of my marriage to Jean. I learned what it was like for a woman to have an orgasm. I learned what actually triggered an orgasm. I learned what a woman was looking for and what it all meant. It was all completely new to me at the time and it felt like waking up’.

Here is how today’s storyteller redressed the balance.

‘The first version of how I lost my virginity is quite literally painful for me (in more ways than one). I was 13 nearly 14. I had been with my brothers best friend on an off since I was 9 years old, rather naively believing that he was the 'one', planning to get engaged and married all before I was even 18!

Several months prior to the night I actually lost my virginity. We had tried to have sex but I found it too painful to carry out the act and asked him to stop, which he did. The only time he respected my request to stop. The second time was the weekend before my 14th birthday. For some reason he decided he wanted to have sex with me and nothing was going to stop him. Although initially I did agree to going through with it, my common sense kicked in (as did the knowledge that my entire family were in the house) and I asked him to stop. He refused and continued. I couldn't stop him from doing it. He was 15 when this happened.

Not long after this happened I decided that even though he had taken away my virginity, that technically and in my own eyes I was still a virgin. Which leads onto the second and 'official' story of how I lost my virginity. Which was also around a birthday, but my 20th this time. Although this version is slightly unbelievable to some as I have been told.

I lost my 'virginity' to a member of staff at the college I attended. He was not a teacher but a member of support staff in the college's student union that I was an active part of the student committee of. He joined not long after I had been elected onto the committee and just before the beginning of the summer break. At the time I was dealing with a lot of issues personally and he offered a shoulder to cry on. This obviously forged a bond between us that got stronger over the summer holidays as we talked a lot via text.

Upon returning to college in the September, I began to realise that there was something there. It took a few months before we started seeing each other in secret. In fact the first kiss happened at college and was a bit of a shock for us both! The November after that, we ended up at his house, the illicit kisses in the SU office where no longer enough. He knew about my past encounters with men and took we took it at my pace. He was very gentle and kind and did everything right, it was everything I imagined.'

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.’

 

The very marvelous Cindy Gallop gave me a big up on Facebook yesterday and sent this link out which was kind of her. In doing so, she also connected me to Rachel Rabbit White, a woman who recently posted a story entitled ‘Why do girls get more depressed after first time sex?' on her blog. And it’s an interesting question. I don’t think my story gathering technique is quantative enough to draw conclusions but broadly speaking, yes, women can feel very depressed after their first time experiences. But could it be that we are just better at talking about this? Perhaps men feel the same way but they don’t have the language or the opportunity with which to express themselves in the same way….I’m just throwing it out there.

Either way, in one of those strange ‘the universe must be reading my mind’ kind of moments, the following story popped into my inbox. Here is a perfectly visceral example of how rubbish a woman can feel after she has lost her virginity.

But check out the twist at the end the story. I was so NOT expecting that. In a heart stopping moment – and several years after the event - her boyfriend confesses that he thinks he might have raped her when they first had sex – though neither force nor violence was involved.

I have often written about the idea of coercion on my blog and I can only conclude by saying what I said in reply to this woman today. We have very few boundaries as young people (and I include men in this equation. I have all sorts of sad stories from men who feel they were pushed into things they didn’t want to do). It takes time to build boundaries and unfortunately, the only way to construct them is via experience and experimentation. Along the way, hopefully we begin to find confidence in our own feelings and most critically, learn to imbue those feelings with a sense of importance and gravitas.

Because growing up is about realizing that what we feel is ultimately more important than caretaking other people’s feelings. Does she think she was raped? And is it helpful to try and label things in this manner or define them? She must do what gives her peace of mind.

This is what is fascinating about the virginity loss story in general. This story will remain as it is until this woman’s dying day. You cannot change the facts and figures. They are carved into stone but we are not. We grow and change over the years and the way that we think grows and changes too. I hope that one day, this woman will look back and have the confidence to see that she was young and unformed when this incident took place. And that her boyfriend was a jerk. We’ve all been there - male and female. Dating a jerk is part and parcel of the growing up process. Lets not try and label it.

‘I am 23 years old, born in 1988, I live in the U.S.A. I lost my virginity September 17^th 2006, I was 18 years old.

I entered college my freshmen year with little to no experience with boyfriends.  At the time I desperately wanted to be in love. I wanted one of those classic, storybook first loves.

His name was Kevin.  I met him during the first weekend at school at the first college party I went to.  The first thing he said to me was, ‘You live in Stevenson (the dorm I lived in my freshmen year), right?’ After I confirmed that I did, he said three words that made my heart skip, ‘I noticed you.’  This cute boy had noticed me??!  I couldn’t believe it; he made me so anxious and uncomfortable.

After the party, I blew him off for a couple of weeks because of how nervous I was about spending time with him.  I feared that he would realize I was dull or boring and stop liking me.  My roommate at the time told me that Kevin would probably stop trying to see me if I continued to blow him off.  So I finally mustered up the courage to go spend a night with him.  We played pool with a group of his friends and then the two of us went back to his room and talked.  After that night, Kevin and I started seeing each other more often. 

The group of girls I became friends during my freshmen year all had serious boyfriend from home at the time.  One afternoon everyone started talking about their sex lives and I found out I was the only virgin in the group.  This environment was new to me; at least a few of my friends from high school were still virgins.  In college though, I felt like the outcast girl that couldn’t join the conversation.

On September 16^th, Kevin invited me to his room to watch a movie.  My heart was racing as we cuddled in his bed.  We started kissing and he asked if he could take my pants off.  I said that I didn’t know if I wanted him to.  The next thing I knew, we were trying to have sex.  Since I was a virgin, it took some effort.  Kevin only had one girlfriend before me, but she had not been a virgin – so he wasn’t being that gentle with me.  We eventually had sex, it only lasted for a short while and it only stopped because of how much pain I was in.

Afterwards, Kevin turned away from me and gave me the cold shoulder as I lay next to him in bed.  Confused by his behavior but too timid and not comfortable enough with him to ask about it, I looked over at the digital clock to check the time.  It was 1:00AM, September 17^th, this had not been a very pleasant way to lose my virginity but I still felt that I needed to know when it had happened.

Kevin and I dated for three years.  He was very controlling of how I spent my time, who I was hanging out with and where I was going.  I was blind to how dysfunctional our relationship was because I needed to make it work. He took my virginity and felt like I had a responsibility to stay with him forever because of it. 

Two years into our relationship Kevin and I talked about the night we first had sex.  I finally asked him why he turned away from me.  Out of nowhere, he started to cry.  He eventually told me that he felt that he had raped me that night.   Since then, I have always wondered if it was rape.  It wasn’t violent, it was with someone who I ended up dating for years and would even consider my first love, but was it rape?'

Shit happens...

I don’t know why but this story reminds me of one of my all time favourite films ‘Stand By Me’. It has almost nothing to do with the actual plot of the film - kids run away from home to find the body of a dead man - it’s more to do with the pleasure and the pain of being a young person. The trials and the tribulations of what we go through, mostly alone. Today’s story speaks volumes about the condition of being a teenager. When shit happens, it rarely occurs to us to tell anyone about it. We often keep it to ourselves and carry on.

The interesting part of this scenario is that in the end, when we have digested, processed and hopefully learnt the difference between what was our fault and what most definitely was not, we realise that this shit is – for better or worse – par for the course. ‘Into each life a little rain falls’ as my mother once told me. It is what makes us unique. And as today’s storyteller shows, it doesn’t need to define us either.

I often think that these stories would make a great film. If I could choose a director, it would be Robert Altman. He is no longer with us but if he were, I can’t help thinking that this story would be in the mix. Its a cracking good read.

‘Born in the United States, April 18, 1993 

First, I want to say that I love and appreciate what you have here. Each of these stories are so rich and I truly enjoy reading them all. 

When I was fifteen my best friend, who was actually younger than me, lost her virginity. She told me stories as I listened intently while having the vague sensation of being left behind. ‘It's great! She said, ‘…after you get past the first couple of times’. 

I wanted to share this experience with her, to be able to swap stories like the girls in my novels. And I knew just who I wanted too. Sam was my best guy friend and I worshipped the ground he walked on. He was older, experienced, and rebellious and listened to everything I had to say. We were neighbours and spent most days together at the river or in my room talking, depending on the season. 

As my fifteenth summer was coming to a close, a moment presented itself. It was a common occurrence for us to camp, and one night it was just the two of us because our other friends wouldn't be showing up till much later. We made a fire in our usual fire-pit and passed around a bottle of whiskey; his preferred drink that I tolerated simply because it was his favorite (although I did grow to prefer it to other forms of hard alcohol). 

What started off as a back massage quickly escalated into kisses and clothes being carelessly tossed off. I gave him the most awkward blow-job, it tasted terrible and my drunk brain couldn't think of anything better than spitting on his stomach. It was terribly embarrassing, but luckily he laughed, which allowed me to move on.

‘Let's do it, I have a condom.’

‘I dunno…’

I rolled off to the side of him, attempting to think over what my next decision should be, until I felt him jab his erection into my hip. 

‘Come on, they're German. Plus what am I supposed to do with this if we don't?’ he asked while poking me again. 

I'd made up my decision. ‘I guess you'll have to deal with it yourself.’

I sat up, searching for my clothes and stumbling outside to wait for our friends by the campfire. This wasn't going to be the night, after all. 

A few weeks later, I spent a couple nights at my step mom's house, enjoying my rare time with her. It was late one night and she'd gone to sleep while I made a bed on the living room couch as my step-brother arrived home. We watched a movie and as he got up to retreat to his room he made a detour to my spot on the couch. He told me he wanted to try something before leaning over and pushing his slimy tongue between my lips. I freaked out and pulled back. 

‘This is too weird,’ I said, ‘you're my brother’.

‘Yeah, STEP-brother’, he replied, before pushing himself back on me only to have me squirm away once again. After asking him repeatedly to stop he gave up and slithered into his room. I was horrified, and couldn't sleep. Not much had happened but the damage had been done. He was someone I had trusted, someone I had loved as my brother ever since I was a young child and he had gone against all of that. If I couldn't trust him, who could I trust? 

I spent the next two years in what I called sexual hibernation. I lost the ability to handle anything more than a friendship with the opposite sex. I couldn't flirt anymore, I felt like I could hardly communicate like a normal human being. My social skills plummeted. 

When I moved states with my family, I started at a new school. On my first day I noticed the boy in my art class with eyes so vibrant they could literally light the room. I developed a crush on him immediately, but I assumed he was with the fierce girl that he was always sitting with. Not to mention I was far too awkward to start a conversation and my self esteem told me I could never in my wildest dreams have someone like HIM.

One day his 'girlfriend' followed me to my bike, promptly introduced herself with an outstanding level of confidence and we planned to have lunch the following week, when she'd be back from a trip. 

I spent most lunch hours reading in the halls, or outside if the weather would hold up. But one day I decided to try out the art room for a change, only to nearly run into the boy with the eyes (who's name, I had learned, was Bruce) as I rushed through the door. I sat across from him, and asked about his art and we awkwardly discussed books and interests. I was thrilled to discover we liked a lot of the same things. We planned to have lunch again, I was ecstatic. 

By the time his fierce friend had returned (I found out they were only friends), we had hung out a couple times, and I knew I was starting to actually like him. After a lot of poking she finally got me to admit to my crush. ‘He likes you!!’ She screamed at me. 

I made a lot of awkward attempts in class to talk to him, but when it was just the two of us, things flowed a lot easier. Eventually I made the first move, and kissed him on the cheek, only to have him kiss me full on the lips in front of my mother. I guess that’s how I knew we were together. No one is going to kiss you in front of your mother if they don't intend on doing so again. 

I had never grown so comfortable with someone so fast, I could talk to him about real things and he would listen. I told him about my stepbrother and he understood, letting me know that we would move as slow as I would like. As slow as I liked turned out not to be very slow in teenage measurements at all. After a month my mom had taken me to Planned Parenthood for the pill and I told him I was almost ready. He assured me there was no rush, and I understood, but I wasn't rushing, I was just ready. 

We had been dating for almost exactly two months when it actually happened. He had previously told me he wanted to make it special with candles and roses (he has a very cheesy streak), but I insisted that it wasn't needed.  Along with being far more experienced that I, he was also far more nervous. 

He was slow and cautious as he entered me the first time, staring into my face to make sure I wasn't in pain. He asked if I was okay and I told him I was but that it hurt a little. He did a small pump before pulling out. I wanted to try being on top so he rolled over and lay still, holding onto my hips as I tried to lower myself onto him. Whenever I asked for his help he gave it, but he wanted to make sure everything was on my terms. He was so helpful and gentle; it couldn't have been more perfect. We eventually dressed after mass amounts of cuddling and talking and went out for coffee and breakfast. As we walked down the street I tried to see if my view has somehow changed, but the world was still spinning on as it had before. 

Losing my virginity was not a monumental event, like so many other people, I looked in the mirror expecting to glimpse some sign of change only to see none in my immediate appearance. Sometimes, before, I felt as if I was the only person in the world my age who hadn't had sex yet, and that I was destined to become the old cat lady. But I'm glad things happened as they did, because my experience was perfect, and I don't know how many people can say that of their own. 

Bruce and I have now been together for nearly six months, and I love being with him in every way, I love him. And I am so immensely happy to know that he is the one to hold this place in my life.’ 

Two girls, two stories, one night..

I got sent two different stories on the same day last week from two different women. The first dispensed with her virginity in much the same way that one might throw a pair socks in the bin. She titled her story, ‘My first time, funny, drunken, but not regretted’. It was the story of several generations of young people (of which I include myself) who have very little standing in their way when it comes to the loss of virginity.

‘I wouldn’t recommend young people to lose their virginity in this way’, I wrote, ‘mainly because the margin for error i.e. assault when drunk is that much wider but at the same time, alcohol related issues aside, I get so many tormented stories from people who feel like they didn't give it the 'right' person in the 'right' way at the 'right' time’ that I’ve begun to think that jettisoning one’s virginity in a devil may care manner may not be the worst thing that we could do.’ Why put so much pressure on ourselves, after all, to make the first time ‘just right’? We’d all like to have the ‘perfect’ first time but this is real life. And it’s only the first time. The first, hopefully of many different, and perhaps more satisfying times.

As if by magic, the second story dropped into my inbox, this time, from someone who did give a shit about how they lost their virginity and that’s the fascinating thing about this subject area. No matter how much time elapses, no matter how many choices we have (particularly as women), the way that we view virginity and its loss remains a deeply personal matter. My second storyteller has given herself a profoundly hard time about the way in which she dispatched her virginity. If she could fight herself in a boxing ring, she would knock herself out in less than one minute. ‘I feel angry with myself for being so submissive’, she writes, ‘and letting myself do something I knew I didn't want.’

‘You were experimenting’, I returned. ‘You were pushing your boundaries to see what it felt like....and how else would you discover what is right – or wrong - unless you tried it out? I'm guessing you probably need to get to know someone a bit better before you have an intimate experience with them’, I continued’, ‘but at least you know that now.’

We must learn to be kinder to ourselves. We have to make what we consider to be mistakes in order to learn. It’s such a profoundly human thing to do! I can’t tell anyone that though. It’s a conclusion that people have to reach on their own time and in their own way. I can only throw in my ten cents worth and say, as I would to both of these young women, you’ll have a lot of different experiences in your life but when you have your first really great time with someone, you’ll remember that. For all the right reasons.

My first time, funny, drunken but not regretted.

‘So I had been hooking up with boys for a little while at this point. I was a late bloomer, and I hadn't officially lost my virginity around the end of my sophomore year. A friend that I had not seen in a few months invited me to his house to day drink, play games, and drink some more.

My roommate and I decided it would be a good idea to go and I decided an even better idea would involve a bottle of tequila, a tiny bit of margarita mix, and approximately 5 limes.

We go over around noon and start drinking, head to dinner around 6, and pick up a keg on our way back. So the night gets pretty fuzzy from this point forward. Oops.

The boys decide they want to make a slip and slide down a tiny hill, so they take their shirts off, we soap them up, and off they go. I watched for about 10 minutes, got bored, but when the boys came back inside they all smelled deliciously soapy, and shirts did not reappear. Great look for the party.

I end up playing beer pong with the boy who invited me over, T, and I assume we did horribly. Considering after we finished our game, we headed to his room. Apparently no one at the party saw this happen, he does not remember, and I most likely didn't even know my own name at this point so I am no help.

According to my sources (other boys), they walked into the bedroom, saw him and I half-clothed and tried to get us to rejoin the party. That obviously didn't happen.

I wake up out of my blackout, to his d in my mouth, and just continue with what I was clearly doing during the blackout. He pats my head, tells me to hold on a second, and goes to his closet. After about 15 minutes of searching he walks back to his bed with a condom, puts it on and lays back down.

Well this is my first time buddy, I think. There is no way I know what I am doing, let alone am trying to do all the work. I use my really effective whiney voice and cry, ‘I have never had sex before, can you puh-lease just get on top.’

He is not going for it. He shakes his head, and I think the alcohol and all the slipping and sliding has caught up to him, because it seems he does not know English anymore.

I whine again, and he rolls over on top on me. ‘Perfect,’ I think, ‘my first time will be official, and I know he doesn't have AIDS so that is always a bonus, and he is doing all the work.’

After a few thrusts we both realize we are wayyyyy too drunk for this, and we decide we're done. As I am laying in his twin bed, imagining how I plan on getting home in the morning, I decide it is not worth it at all to spend the night. I grab his sweat shirt, his shorts, stuff my bra, underwear, and the 2 shots I have left of tequila in my bag, scoop up my phone and begin the walk home.

I call my roommate when I get outside the apartment, and although it is 4:30 am, she answers the phone and screams ‘DID YOU HAVE SEX WITH HIM?’

I have no idea how she could have known that, tell her I will tell her the story, (as much as I can remember) and then half the buttons on my phone stop working. Cool, I love walking in the dark in the middle of the night in clearly walk-of-shame-clothes.

Two boys approach me, tell me I look like I could use some company and I drunkenly decide to tell them my whole really great story. They agree that Tee should have walked me home, and I laugh and tell them I am a big girl, and plus I never would have made friends with them if he was there.

I get home, tell my roommates about the greatest loss of virginity story ever, and go to bed. The next day I wake up to a text from him saying, ‘Hey, I don't really remember what happened but lets just not talk about it.’

I respond: ‘Yea, gggts not a bgggg deal.  Gggd rather just forget about it.’

-Yeah, my ‘GHI’ key wasn't really working on my phone. Apparently I had dropped a whole pitcher of beer on it the night before. So great work me.

All in all, I would say this definitely proves I saved myself for someone special, and made that night one I will never forget.

hahahahahah.’

Check out my blog at: http://afterthemorningafter.wordpress.com

Story 2

'Recently I've been struggling with the fact that I'm no longer a virgin. I have very mixed feelings about the whole thing. It happened this past October when my long distance boyfriend was in town staying with me. I more or less made the decision I wanted to sleep with him before he had gotten here thinking 'what's the big deal?' I'm 20 years old, who cares. No big deal.

So the first night that he was here we were lying in my bed and he said something along the lines of 'I really want to have sex with you' and I remember saying something to the affect of 'okay then, why not. I don't care.' And so we did. And the entire time I remember feeling strange. I wasn't ‘excited’ or felt like I was in the throes of passion, I was just indifferent, bored. I wasn't enjoying it, it didn't feel good. I was unimpressed.

I don't necessarily think it had to do with him or his performance. I just wasn't into it. So for the next five or so days he was here we had sex several times and every time I never felt any different about it. If anything, I was upset because I felt pressured into it half the time and he assumed that because of my body's natural reaction to get 'wet' from clitoral stimulation that meant I was outrageously horny and wanted to have sex. I didn't. After the first time I just really didn't want to have sex, but I just let it happen anyway. The entire duration of his stay, I faked every orgasm he thought I was having. The whole thing never really bothered me too much, except for when my boyfriend would bring it up later in phone conversations because it always made me feel really trashy and it made me feel like I wasn't myself.

It wasn't until now, months later, that I'm really recognizing how much I regret it. I'm just unhappy with the decision I made. I wasn't ready for it. I wasn't comfortable enough with him yet. We had only been dating about a month, and only ever met each other face-to-face once before. I had gone 20 years without sex with boyfriends I had dated and known for months if not years. I feel angry with myself for being so submissive and letting myself do something I knew I didn't want. I feel like I betrayed myself and my own morals, I'm mad because I more or less allowed myself to be objectified and used. I wish that my loss of virginity was something a little more special or enjoyable, but it wasn't.’

 

Bad boys?

I sense a theme developing here. I did a radio show recently and in it, people phoned up and told their virginity loss stories live on air. It was a brilliant experience and I loved that people had the guts and felt the motivation to tell such a story to a live audience. It just goes to show what an evocative subject this is and how emotive it can be, even years after the actual event occurred. But what stuck in my mind was a brave young man who phoned in and told a very sad story. His words ‘...she took advantage of me…’ rolled around my mind for days afterwards. He didn’t elaborate too much because he could barely speak, so distressed was he at the re-telling of this story but he didn’t have to. His virginity loss experience had clearly been a nightmare and he obviously felt like he had had no control over the situation.

People are often surprised when I tell them I collect men’s virginity loss stories, as if men’s experiences are somehow less significant than women’s. Let me tell you, they are not. One of the things that I have loved most about this entire process has been listening to the voices of men, seeing the other side, understanding the thought processes and motivations – a little bit better – of the opposite sex. Today’s story is a case in point. Today’s story is the other side of the coin. I could probably write the woman’s version of events myself. Boy hangs out with girl, boy says he loves girl, boy and girl talk about having sex but don’t actually do it. Boy has sex with someone else. That’s how it’s going to look from a female perspective; we’ve all been there. But how about if it hadn’t been that straightforward? What if there had been a back-story that had never been explained to you? How would things look then? Because this is that back-story.

I am not suggesting that every man that ever behaved like a twat had an excuse for his behaviour…but some might have. And if they did, I think it might sound a little bit like this. And whilst we’re at it, lets not forget that women can behave like total twats too but for some reason, people are less interested in that story. Enough said.

‘I was born in 1986 (24 years old), am male and I live in the UK. Here follows how I lost my virginity. If I’m honest I am writing this for partly selfish reasons, as a sort of therapy really.

It was two days before my sixteenth birthday. I was a reasonably confident and popular guy, and was very confident being around girls. I was about eight months into my first proper relationship and was feeling my way sexually.

My girlfriend and I were almost identical in age and in sexual experience. We could spend hours in her room snogging and playing around, quite innocent when I look back at it. Over the eight months we eventually had progressed to the point of some genital touching, but were happy to take our time (and neither of us knew what we were doing). I felt like I was a bit more open-minded and happy to go further than she was, but we were both learning about each other slowly.

A couple of times during our playing around sessions, it had got very heated and she would ask me if I wanted to have intercourse with her, I said no. This was for several reasons. I felt like intercourse should come further down the line when we were much more comfortable with each other’s bodies. I was a little scared too and protective of my virginity. While I would have been happy to do lots of other things, I wanted losing my virginity to be something really special. And I wanted to be really good at it too, to know what I was doing, I felt like this might come after being more experienced in foreplay etc.

There was a party organised for a friend from school’s birthday at their house and my girlfriend couldn’t make it. This wasn’t a problem; I had had previously no problems with restraint but was more than a little flirty and got on well with people from school.

At the party I got chatting to a girl from school that I didn’t know very well. She was a little quiet but I had always found her sweet and more than a little cute. She was a bit upset as things weren’t going too well with her boyfriend and I was happy to comfort her about it. I was happy to do a bit of hugging, didn’t seem like I was breaking any rules (although of course I was!).

After a short while, she asks whether we could go upstairs to talk about it some more. I was enjoying being close to her, and my naïve brain didn’t put two and two together. I said ‘of course’.

We went into one of the upstairs rooms, it turned out to be a darkened small spare room with a double bed taking up most of the space in it, and we lie on it side by side still talking about her boyfriend. After a while, the way she touches me changes. No longer is she wanting comfort hugs from me but is stroking my chest. After a while we are kissing, badly, and my head was reeling. I had never even contemplated cheating on my girlfriend, and had previously always felt in-control of situations but I seemed to be passively sleepwalking into it. She asks if we can lie naked next to each other and I agree. I still did not have any idea that anything other than a bit of snogging/hugging was about to happen, as strange as that sounds to look back on.

As soon as we are both undressed, she climbs on top of me and pushes my penis into her. I lie there in shock, thinking how I don’t want this. As she starts moving her hips she tells me to ‘pull it out before you cum’, I do not understand fully what this means - as I had never ejaculated before (except in my sleep) and lay there silent and still. As she continues to move her hips I blankly watch what she is doing, shocked at what is happening.

After a minute or two I cum into her and my penis become limp. She stops and looks at me angrily. ‘What the fuck, did you just cum in me?’ and all I can get out is ‘Sorry’. A few seconds later, she realises that I am petrified. ‘Oh, you’re a virgin?’ she says with a mixture of anger and surprise. I nod.

She turns on the main light in the room, hastily gets dressed and heads back downstairs to the party. After about 5 minutes I get dressed and wander outside to be alone. I manage to pull myself together to pretend nothing had happened and get back to the party.

The next day I arrange to meet with my girlfriend, she knows something is up due to my urgency on the phone. We meet in the park and I decide to tell her that I slept with someone at the party and give no details about it. She is distraught and runs home. With the help of my sister, I phone the girl from the party and ask her to take the morning after pill. I’m really grateful for my sister’s unquestioning support.

Fast-forward almost ten years; I wonder how much this experience has affected me. I’m single but am still confident with women and confident about sex, and had a few wonderful partners who it didn’t work out with. It took quite a few years but I’ve stopped feeling guilty about what happened. I think that it hasn’t had much of an effect on me, but it’s a hard thing to gauge. That one first dreadful experience has not stopped me from having some excellent experiences since (and hopefully a few more).’  

Teenage kicks..

The Virginity Project has a day job and as such, one is pleased to spend one’s current tenure at the agency that is responsible for this work.

On the whole, even when you have acknowledged that losing your virginity was hardly the most exciting moment of your life, most of the stories that I receive are ‘above board’. That is to say, you lost your virginity for the right reasons. It may have been awkward, embarrassing or even downright painful but despite the fact that the angels did not get the chance to sing from the rooftops, you accept that it is the first step forward, hopefully of many interesting ones. The most important part is that you felt you had a choice, you didn’t feel that you were coerced into something. Coercion is a funny old concept - in the non hilarious sense of the word – and to this end, the Home Office is right on the money with this campaign.

The Home Office are primarily trying to get to grips with the shocking fact that a quarter of teenage girls in a relationship will suffer physical violence. This research, by the NSPCC, also suggests that a further third will suffer an unwanted act. I think that most people’s jaws will drop when they read these statistics. I know mine did.

I don’t get a lot of really bad stories, perhaps because people don’t want to tell them. I won’t be forgetting the one’s that I do get in a hurry. But what also worries me is the amount of stories I get that involve coercion, and that’s the awful thing about coercion…it is what it is. Physical pressure may not have been applied, but mental pressure was. It’s a thin line.

Words like ‘frigid’ are powerful. Time and again this word appears, in the interviews that I have done for my book and in your correspondence. I am no stranger to this word myself.  I can see it like it happened yesterday. Me and my friends are fourteen years old, fifteen at tops, swinging our feet on a park bench and Dave Randall* is screeching hysterically at us across the playground after we had clearly rebuffed him once too often:

‘You lot are just SO frigid’.

The truth was that none of us fancied him. He worked in a fish and chip shop and he smelt of fish and grease. But not one of us wanted to hear him say that word. It was an uncomfortable indictment for a 14-year-old girl to deal with. As it happens, his words didn’t make a lot of difference, plus there was hardly room for coercion whilst sitting on a park bench with your friends in the park but I think you see where I am going with this. In a one to one situation, one might not feel that one has got ‘back up’so to speak.

I often think that the one thing that has changed women’s lives beyond recognition, physically, mentally and emotionally, is also the thing that gave us a new set of challenges to deal with. The contraceptive pill liberated generations of women from the worry of pregnancy. All of a sudden, they could control their fertility. That’s no mean feat. Once they could do that, the sky was the limit. Education, careers and financial freedom followed. But the history of virginity changed radically at this point because all of a sudden, there was very little reason to keep it. A quote in Cate Haste’s wonderful book ‘Rules of Desire, Sex in Britain, World War 1 to the Present’, sums it up:

‘Another student living outside London recalled the freedom of being in a mini-skirt, on the pill, and picking up an invitation from a man she’d recently met in 1967: I had the feeling there was no pretence any more. No games to be played. No way I could say ‘be careful with me’, or ‘watch out for my emotions’, or worry if I get pregnant, or think of my honour, or that my parents wouldn’t like it….’

The floodgates had opened so to speak. As far as many men were concerned, it was game on. These changes challenged women on every level. They were challenged to be their best selves, to fulfil their dreams and their ambitions but most of all; they were challenged to make autonomous decisions about their own bodies and needs, contrary to what other people might want. In a modern, ‘sex on every street corner, advertising hoarding and the internet’ world, it still isn’t always easy to do this, particularly when you are a 15 year old girl.

*Deep sigh* as they say in the digital world. In the end, it’s all about finding our voices and the ability to express our needs, whether they be sexual, emotional, physical or financial. It’s all part of the monumental journey that pretty much every woman has been on for the last god knows how long. Unfortunately, often through no fault of our own, some of us are better equipped to use our voices than others and it is for those people that this campaign is designed. Physical violence is clearly a bad thing. Nobody would argue with that, but for every young person who has ever been talked into something that they didn’t want to do, and possibly even been belittled for it as well, it is for you as well.

And my ten cents worth? The best thing a young person can ever do is this. Follow the one thing that will never abandon you, even if you don’t do as it says – your gut instinct. It’s your friend for life.

For further information, visit the Home Office micro site, here.

*All names changed to protect the, er, smelly.