The Virginity Project

Back in the 1980’s when I was a teenager and we felt like the first generation of women who could make like a man i.e. have sex with whomever we chose (not without its issues but that’s a story for another time), it wouldn’t have occurred to us to think of virginity loss as anything other than awkward penetrative sex with a member of the opposite sex. This was the demarcation line between cool and not.

On a personal level, wearing a faded pink Fruit of the Loom t-shirt and tumbling in the grass with a French boy with cheekbones like razors on a balmy Spanish evening, I made sure I was cool, even though the physical experience itself still makes me wince when I think about it (the story behind it, however, was enough to inspire a book). My point being that times have moved on. People are freer to define their first sexual experiences in a more personal and frankly, interesting way. To give you an example, a female interviewee once said this to me:

"After a few months of sleeping with my boyfriend, I started to feel the twinges of a possible orgasm. And then he made me come. That’s when I really started to lose my virginity."

THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. Is that not one of the most joyous, evolved sentences you’ve heard? Everyone should be able to put pleasure at the center of their sexual experiences whether it be the first time, the fiftieth time or the last time - and not to concern themselves with the route they took to get there, whether it be trad penis in vagina sex, tongues in all manner of places or the classic dry hump.

And it definitely shouldn’t involve guilt, shame or at the worst, a doctor, politician or religious person who feels the need to define what to this day and forevermore will remain indefinable. There is no such thing as a test that can prove or disprove female virginity. I sincerely hope that one day we will live in a world where the need to even discuss this will cease to exist. Your virginity, or ‘lack’ of, is nobody’s business but yours. End of story.

Today’s story teller drives home, if you needed more reasons, why, contrary to what Susan Sarandon says, you actually DO need to vote with your vagina if you value the freedom to make your choices about your body. Susan Sarandon has enough cash to flee the country and not worry about the outcome of this election if it all goes tits up. If you don’t, close the lid of your lap top now and go and vote.

Hi Kate! I love your blog. Reading about other people's experiences is amusing and interesting. So I wanted to share mine. I'm Samia. I was born in 1995 and I'm from the United States. 

I come from a conservative Christian home. I was raised to believe that your virginity is special, only to be given to your husband. And also that no good guy wants a girl that's already had sex. Youth pastors used horrible analogies to get this point across like ‘Would you want a present that's already been unwrapped? Exactly’.

This scared me a lot. I've always been intrigued about sex from the time I got ‘the talk’ in fifth grade, but I didn't think I wanted to do it until I was married. I even had a purity ring, which sits, dusty, in my jewellery box as I type this. I had also been told by many people that you would experience immense guilt after doing it before marriage. So I felt pretty confident in my virginity pledge. 

I met Evan when I was 16. He was so easy to be around. I never felt uncomfortable or judged by him. Soon after we started dating, the topic of sex came up and it turned out he’d had a pretty crappy experience with it at first. He had been kind of talked into it by a girl he was dating for a few months and didn't enjoy it. We decided it was in both our best interests to wait. 

Fast forward two years later; we were on his bed, getting hot and heavy. He asked if I wanted him to ‘go down there’, I reluctantly said yes and I didn't regret it. It was bliss. 

After about a year of doing everything but intercourse, a few weeks ago, we tried it. 

This huge experience that everyone told me about was finally here. I was anxious to see what my own ‘first time’ would end up like. 

It was pretty bland. It only lasted about four minutes, neither of us finished. It was very uncomfortable and slightly painful. Afterwards he held me and kissed me and told me he loved me like thirty times. I was excited to have done it, and I can't wait to get more practice in. 

The thing is, I don't feel guilt like I was told I would. I don't feel this big emotional connection either; I was already so emotionally connected to Evan. He's the love of my life, and it was simply one of many first experiences we have shared together. 

That is my theory. Sex is what you make it out to be, and for me, it's an experience to share with someone. Don't get me wrong; I'm glad I waited to do it with Evan. But honestly, we had been ready to do it for a long time! Our relationship is strong and solid, with or without sex. And that is what my youth pastors left out: Sex does not make or break a relationship. People do.

Viva la difference

I won’t lie. Last week was a long one and the thought of cuddling up in bed on Saturday morning was infinitely more appealing than arranging to be on the Euston Road by 10.30am.

But I had a ticket for the Wellcome Collection’s Symposium of Sexual Desire, so I got my shit together and I didn’t regret it one bit. This day long symposium promised to ‘delve into the complexity of sexual desire, tracing connections between history, sociology, psychology and neurophysiology’. It did so, with bells on and everything in between.

Two things spring to mind when thinking about this event. Research into an area that affects almost every waking moment of our lives is in its infancy and this fact blows my mind. We have built a rocket that could send a man to the moon but we still know next to nothing about the very reason that we exist in the first place. To illustrate my point, it’s only recently that we have begun to let go of the idea that vaginal orgasms are a myth for most women. It is simply not the way that the majority of the female population get off! But a man with a beard deemed it so sometime last century and culture dictated that these facts were not disputed.

Until now. Things are changing and Saturday’s programme at The Wellcome Collection confirmed this. The day was full of enthusiastic, insightful characters lifting away the layers of our intimate lives and trying to make sense of them. ‘It’s difficult to be scientific about such a subjective area’, said one of the speakers, but they gave it their best shot.

My second point is that at times, I am guilty of being negative about sex & the internet. I am disturbed by the fact that internet porn has become the default sex education. I’ve talked about this before. But the flipside is that the internet showcases a much more nuanced and less black and white model of sex. I see this in my own work all the time. If you’d asked a bunch of teenagers 10 years ago to define their loss of virginity, I’d wager that most of them (the heterosexual ones at least) would have mentioned penis-in-vagina sex.

Not today. Young people are freer to define their experiences on their own terms because they are exposed to more fluidity and choice. They understand that there are lots of different ways to experience sex and pleasure. So if the experience of having your first orgasm with someone meant more to you than having what, let’s face it, can be anti-climactic penetrative sex for the first time, so be it. Sexuality is a wide ranging arena and there are fewer and fewer ‘right’s or ‘wrongs’.  Just what feels right for you.

Asexuality, a phrase that I feel sure is set to become a buzz word for the future, was laid bare by Liz McDonnell & Susie Scott from the University of Sussex as they offered up a palate of asexual persuasions. Susie and Liz illustrated the spaces and places where the so called ‘normal’ sexual world overlaps with the asexual. Once again, who knew that asexuality was so nuanced and colourful? It reminded me of how shocked I was (at myself more than anything) when I first read the account that later become ‘The Asexuality Story’ in my book. Because I realised that asexuality was nothing to do with prudishness or having a personality schism or something that happened to people who had had disturbing experiences with sex.

It was more often about people who, whilst they might lack sexual desire, definitely did not lack interest in romance, intimacy or even passion. That there are all sorts of different ways of ‘being’ in this world and a lot of us are pretty limited when confronted with anything that strays from the norm. Here is some lovely writing on the subject of difference from Canvas8.

Katherine Angel led a fabulous conversation around the language that we use to talk about sexual desire, specifically women & desire because language in this area is mostly modelled on a male understanding and that seeing it solely as something that is ‘urgent’ can be prohibitive. That again, mimicking the theme of the day, there are lots of different ways to experience the D word. She also pointed out that that whilst we take male desire as a given, a story is emerging around women being more ‘unruly’ than is traditionally thought and proceeded to mention a piece of research conducted by Meredith Chivers that I really love.  I won’t go into one. You can read it here. But to summarize, women are turned on by just about everything: men, women, monkeys. Boom.

Kate Fisher delighted us with her collection of historical sex objects that she takes into schools to facilitate conversations with young people about sex, intimacy, body image and consent.  What a genius, not to mention genuinely informative idea.

And author Frederick Toates said that we 'needed more narrative based research’ which as you can imagine was music to my ears because this is what you, the readers & participants of this blog have helped me to co-create at The Virginity Project for the past 8 years.  Whilst I am at it, here is another narrative based piece of research I’ve recently completed.

The day could be summed up by Katherine Angel’s quote: ‘There is no normal; it’s just what is commonly accepted’.  So going forward, can we open our minds and commonly accept something curious and new on as many days of the week as possible?

Which leads me to today’s story.

There is little else to say about it asides from the fact that it’s a good thing that people are born with brains and can work things out for themselves because that’s some serious layers of shite that Kacey was forced to wade through in order to find ‘the truth’. Aka, her truth, the only truth that matters and not someone else’s agenda to push gender relations back to the Victorian era. Big up to Kacey for putting pen to paper and sharing it with us.

‘Hi Kate! I love your blog. Reading about other people's experiences is amusing and interesting. So I wanted to share mine. I am Kacey. I was born in 1995 and I'm from the United States. 

I come from a conservative Christian home. I was raised to believe that your virginity is special, only to be given to your husband and also that no good guy wants a girl that's already had sex. Youth pastors used horrible analogies to get this point across: "Would you want a present that's already been unwrapped? Exactly." 

So this scared me a lot. I've always been intrigued about sex from the time I got "the talk" in fifth grade, but I didn't think I wanted to do it until I was married. I even had a purity ring (which sits, dusty, in my jewellery box as I type this). I had also been told by many people that you would experience immense guilt after doing it before marriage. So I felt pretty confident in my virginity pledge. 

I met Justin when I was 16. He was so easy to be around. I never felt uncomfortable or judged by him. Soon after we started dating, the topic of sex came up and it turns out he had a pretty crappy experience with it at first. He had been kind of talked into it by a girl he was dating for only a few months and he didn't enjoy it. We decided it was in both of our best interests to wait. 

Fast forward two years later; we were on his bed, getting hot and heavy. He asked if I wanted him to "go down there" I reluctantly said yes and I didn't regret it.

It was bliss. 

After about a year of doing everything but intercourse, a few weeks ago, we tried it. 

This huge experience that everyone told me about was finally here. I was anxious to see what my own "first time" would end up like. 

It was pretty bland. It only lasted about four minutes, neither of us finished, and it was very uncomfortable, and slightly painful. Afterwards he held me and kissed me and told me he loved me like, thirty times. I was excited to have done it, and I can't wait to get more practice in. 

The thing is, I don't feel guilt like I was told I would. I don't feel this big emotional connection either; I was already so emotionally connected to Justin. He's the love of my life, and it was simply one of many first experiences we have shared together. 

That is my theory. Sex is what you make it out to be, and for me, it's an experience to share with someone. Don't get me wrong; I'm glad I waited to do it with Justin. But honestly, we had been ready to do it for a long time! Our relationship is so strong and solid, with or without sex. And that is what my youth pastors left out: Sex does not make or break a relationship. People do.'

*the painting depicts 'The Temptation of St Hilarion' (who doesn't look like he suffers an over abundance of hilarity) but you can read more here. He's in the Wallace Collection in London. 

Cock-a-doodle-don't

 …and then it was 2015. To kick off the New Year, I thought we’d start with something silly. The Virginity Project tends towards the serious at times. Much like impending spring time – at least we hope for impending spring time – light relief is always a good thing.

‘Laugh away’ wrote my contributor after I died laughing reading his story. Even if the sun hasn’t found its way to the UK yet, I can assure you it’s the first mention of the phrase ‘my cock was ruined’ this year. If not ever. You’re welcome. Enjoy!

‘When I was 15 years old, I stayed the night at my best friend Toby's house quite a bit during the summer of’ 93.  He lived a 5-minute bicycle ride away from my insanely hot 15-year-old girlfriend, Lisa.  Her father worked, so she would be home all day with no parental supervision. 

In my mind, I knew I was getting closer to a 'home run', as I'd previously made it as far as third base, mostly at Lisa's prompting.  She looked strikingly like Cindy Crawford in her prime, great body, flowing brown hair, piercing eyes.  She always smelled like ripe strawberries and I love strawberries. 

One day during the summer, I rode my bike over to her house and her loud mouth, annoying friend Sarah was there.  This girl was cock-block deluxe.  She would not leave us alone, even when Lisa asked her to.  However, once we finally got her out of our hair for a moment, we began to make out on her bed.  I put my hand down her shorts, and into her panties.  I fingered her for a bit, but of course, loud mouth returned.  She was soaking wet and I was hard as a rock.  She got off her bed, took my hand, led me to her bathroom, turned on the fan, and locked the door. 

We undid each other's button fly shorts.  Button fly pants are the most annoying thing when you're in a hurry. She hopped up on the bathroom sink and I began to stimulate her with my fingers again.  My cock was so hard I thought I was going to run out of skin if it got any bigger.  She began to jack me off. 

Masturbation has always involved some sort of lubricant... up to this point.  See, it had always been my hand doing the stroking, never a girl's.  Because there was no lubrication of any kind being used here, she began what felt like rubbing the skin off my dick.  What was I going to say though?  I had a beautiful girl jerking me off.

This went on for a few minutes before she asked me if I had a condom.  I did not.  She however did.  She asked me to lay down on the bathroom floor before she rolled the condom onto me.  She got on top of me, and guided me in.  She began to ride me.  Kinda.  She was actually hurting me.  The rubber against my rug-burned-cock was painful, and the condom was a bit large for my 15-year-old penis, but dammit, I was having sex!

I never got off.  I have no idea if she did.  When I left, I couldn't wait to get back to Toby's house, so I could rub one out.  I locked myself in his bathroom and used a handful of Vaseline to do it.  My cock was ruined.  It felt like it was on fire.  I remember how disappointed I felt.  Like, that was sex?  I also remember not feeling particularly any different than I did before sex.  Well, other than my dick wasn't on fire. 

My name is Taylor, I was born in 1978.  I live in Wichita KS and I gotta chalk up my experience of losing my virginity as a bad one. 

It's got much better since then.

As a side note, about 15 years later, after we both had kids and had been divorced, Lisa tracked me down, and we had some fun as adults for a few weeks.  We got each other off plenty.' 

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Coke is the real thing

I’ve been brewing this metaphor for years. Or perhaps the word ‘season’ might be more appropriate. Because its usually around this time of year when, in a fit of pre-winter dread and the realization that my summer short/sandal combo is going to make me look a bit simple within a matter of weeks, I panic buy an item of clothing that I am convinced is going to make me look like a French fashion editor for the entirety of winter. Only to discover shortly afterwards that 1. I hate it and 2. It doesn’t suit me. It doesn’t transform me in the way I imagined. The fashion police are not high fiving me on my way to work. It was a sartorial chimera, purchased in a moment of impulse and insecurity in the belief that it might change my life. In much the same way we sometimes believe a flashy new boy or girlfriend can change our life. Which occasionally they can. But mostly the world doesn’t work that way.

To put this into perspective, a few years ago, I was browsing a cheap high street shoe store when I happened upon a pair of white loafers.  Lets just be clear that up until this point in my life, ‘white’ and ‘loafer’ were two words I would not have enjoyed putting together in one sentence. I come from the 1980’s. White loafers conjured up the wrong associations for my people and I but something about this particular shoe whispered ‘Take Me’.

Or at the very least…‘Try me on. You might be surprised.’ 

So I relented and what do you know? I was transformed into someone I had no idea I could be. The effect was astonishing. I looked polished….but casual at the same time. They looked cool with scruffy jeans. They looked marvelous with a dress. The whiteness – and they were WHITE – lifted and complemented virtually any outfit you care to mention. People commented on them wherever I went. Sometimes they spotted the shoes straight away. Other times they would just look and say ‘You look different somehow Kate. Better. Actually you look really well’.

And to think I could have sailed right by those shoes and never even given them a second glance.

And so it is with relationships, I feel, as I flit amongst the rows of autumn allure in the high street stores.  I often get asked in the emails I receive from young men and women….’how do I find’ - in the manner of someone searching for a needle in a haystack, because that’s how it can feel – ‘the person who is right for me?’ Here is my answer.  You need to look for the human equivalent of the white loafer. Which is to say, expect to be enthralled by the unexpected.

Keep your mind wide open because in my experience, the person who turns out to be ‘right’ is often to be found underneath one’s finely tuned-to-search-for-a specific-type-of-person radar. Which is a tough call in the age of digital romance.  In an era when you can literally swipe someone off the screen of your smart phone and move quickly onto the next individual based purely on a 2 second appraisal of their ‘qualities’. It’s a challenge because what I’m suggesting to you is to think beyond the very thing that catches your eye in the first place and focus on what might give you a more long lasting sense of pleasure. Some of you might be thinking, well, DUH? How else is one going to sustain romance than by looking beyond the obvious? If so, congratulations. If you’re under 30 and you’ve got that sussed then you are ahead of the game because honestly? This was not a concept that was clear to me way back when. I get it NOW. Now I’m older (and only marginally wiser) but mostly I would have thought you were talking a different language if you’d suggested such a radical idea at the age that a lot of my correspondents are.

Now I can speak from experience because a few years back, I got it on with a man I might not have picked out of a line up (of potentials. Not criminals obvs although I’ve had my moments with the latter). Don’t get me wrong, I was physically attracted to Non Line-Up Man but on first blush, he didn’t fulfill my limited idea of whom I thought I should be with. I liked charming, scruffy, rock n roll boys who over imbibed. Non Line Up Man had charisma in bags but he didn’t drink. I spotted a pair of dad sandals in his hallway.  He didn’t care about going ‘out’ on a Saturday night (a.k.a. coming home on Monday morning).  But he did have, I discovered upon close inspection, bigger and much more interesting fish to fry. A life, in short and a purpose beyond the next party. Reader, several months in I realized I was happy with him and it was a shock to me.

I won't lie. Every so often I would – literally. He was a cycle courier – see my past, the most recent waste of space I’d wasted my time with ride by and I’d look wistfully at the dust trail kicked up by his back wheel. But it didn’t take long to realize that I was 100% happier not being spun into someone else’s web of self-destruction and, ultimately, tedium. Whereas this. This was interesting. This was inspiring (and sexy) on a level I’d not experienced before and all because I’d dared to dig beneath the surface and please what felt good inside instead of entertaining my slightly insecure and attention span deficit outside.

It is a curiously contradictory dance that I am proposing to you in order to find something similar. I’m not knocking tinder, Guardian Soulmates or online dating as a concept. I’ve served time at the coalface of online dating and known success in this field but take time to look beyond the obvious. To use the metaphor I began with, I wouldn’t recommend jumping at trophy pieces whether they be human or fabric. Short cuts rarely work, or last. Save your money for cashmere. Of course that may not be what you want, in which case, proceed with abandon!

In the meantime, here is a *story that has very little to do with today’s sermon. It is painful, but it is funny. When I say painful, I mean painful in the ‘I lost my virginity when I tied my dog to my bike, the dog saw another dog, legged it and I fell onto the cross bar’ painful (this actually happened to someone I interviewed for my book btw). But the finish makes me  L O L.

*This story was first published on nerve.com but its owner emailed me and bought it to my attention recently. I’m so glad she did.

Female, 14, New York

The story of when I first had sex with a man and the story of how I lost my virginity are actually different stories. The sex with the man is typical and boring so instead I am going to tell the story of how I popped my cherry.

I was fourteen and had recently struck gold when I found out how to give myself an orgasm. My ventures into masturbation had been non-penetrating up until that night, but like anyone exposed to any addictive pleasure, I looked for a dragon to chase. 

I had inherited my room from my older sister who had moved away to college. There were many phallic objects to choose from, but my sister’s collection of Classic Coke bottles drew my attention. The neck of one such bottle seemed small enough not to do any damage but large enough to qualify as a dragon.

The Coke bottle stood at attention on the floor while I straddled it. After a few up-and-downs, I had an orgasm and finished the exercise unscathed. I concluded that having something to wrap my kegels around while enjoying spasms is much more ideal then just tickling the kitty. I hopped into bed excited that I discovered a new technique within the creative hobby of masturbation. I should have just stayed in bed and fallen asleep, but then I wouldn’t have this story to tell.

I decided to do it again. So once more the bottle stood at attention. This time I felt a little more adventurous so I increased speed and doubled up on the rhythm. But like all zealous and inexperienced teenagers, I had abandoned caution. At one point the bottle slipped out, and as I came back down it hit my pubic bone and bounced its way inside at an aggressive speed and angle, ripping through my hymen.

I had remembered hearing about bleeding once your hymen is broken and how sometimes there can be a lot of blood. Sometimes women panic, but it is actually normal and there is nothing to worry about. But I hadn’t accounted for my hymen breaking under such reckless circumstances, so I immediately didn’t think it was normal.

It was dark in my room, so I didn’t see but felt warm blood gush down my legs. I thought I was going to die. I threw on a robe and stuffed a towel between my legs. I knew I needed help. I went out into the hall and called downstairs for my twin sister but there was no answer. Alas, the only person home was my poor father.

The unsuspecting man was in the shower when I knocked on the door and opened it a crack, asking if I could talk to him right now, because it’s really important. Like a good father, he told me to hold on for one second. He got out of the shower and put on a white towel that he had to hold together with his hand.

He was sitting on the toilet when I came in. I honestly don’t remember what I said, but he definitely understood that I broke my own hymen while masturbating. My father sighed deeply and rubbed his temples. He told me that I was going to be fine. I didn’t think he understood the damage I had done to myself so I showed him the blood-soaked towel so he would realize the emergency. He looked at it and still assured me I was going to be fine.

All I had to do was wear a pad and not put anything else up there in the meantime. I realized that this emergency was not an emergency and that I had traumatized both of us for no good reason. We both sat there in the bathroom silently for a moment. But then the awkwardness became unbearable so my father tried to remedy the discomfort.

I cringed as he told me stories about sex and blood from his experience. Like when he was a teenager he had dry-humped a girl until his penis bled, some of which got on the girl’s jeans. He also told me that his one girlfriend, who had lived with us, was a virgin when they first had sex and it had looked like a massacre scene. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. I was mortified and I felt sorry for both of us.

I don’t remember exactly how our exchange ended, but eventually I was sitting downstairs in the kitchen by myself, eating pasta. I had put on underwear and a pad. I felt like crawling into a hole somewhere. My brother came home and sat down at the table with me. I remember thinking he has no idea about the horrific event that just happened to me. And then I burst out laughing. It startled my brother and he asked me what was so funny. I continued to listen to him while smiling.

This has happened to me a couple of times. When I am so mortified that I can’t imagine life beyond that moment, because of the embarrassment that I have to carry with me, but then the whole thing turns into a comedy, which makes life easier, as though it were some kind of evolutionary mechanism. Without this mechanism, embarrassment would drive human beings off cliffs in herds, like lemmings.

That following weekend I was staying with my mother. I pulled her aside and told her my humiliating secret. My mother did something she does only once in a great while that always entertains me. Her face turned red and she covered her mouth. Her whole body shook and very little noise came out of her except once she took a deep enough breath, she squealed with laughter.

My mother got on the phone with my eldest sister and told her the story. My Coke bottle incident spread through the family like wild fire. I remember lying on my grandmother’s bed the following Christmas Eve with a large group of my female cousins, recounting the story while they all laughed. My sister Elizabeth (the previous owner of the Coke bottle) told the entire floor of her dorm room. I was visiting her once and a guy I had never met handed me a can of Cherry Coke. 

I like the idea that I lost my virginity to myself and not to some dickhead.

Welcome to Camden

This story seems fitting for several reasons. One: its teller comes from North America, home of the USA, where my book has just been published (WOOHOO) and two; he lost his virginity not 500 yards from the desk I sit at as I write this. Chalk Farm. Or the Borough of Camden to you.

If you are ‘a punkish arty kid’ as Tom paints himself, there could be no more appropriate backdrop than the beer stained (amongst other things) streets of Camden Town. As an aside, I took against Camden for the longest time but I’ve come to slyly like it. As gentrification saps the life blood from London, Camden remains as it ever was. It’s grubby. At least once a week I’ll mutter ‘welcome to Camden’ as a topless man walks past me in 12 degrees of freezing cold. There are more piles of vomit here of a morning than any borough in London but……I like its vigor. I like its honesty. I like the fact that it’s never boring. It’s such a cliché but Camden is packed full of larger-than-life characters. It’s no surprise that Amy Winehouse made it her home and I love Camden for making her their un-official queen.

Today’s punkish arty kid spins a good tale. Kudos to his 17 year old brain for ‘not exploding right then’ and despite the fact that nobody would blink if such a thing happened, it would be a shame because then we wouldn't have heard this story. Here we go.

'Hi Kate. Here's a story for you :)

I was born in 1983, and I'm from Canada. My first time was, well, pretty great. It was fluky and crazy and hot, and if I had to go back and do it again, I'm terrified I wouldn't be able to make the perfect sequence of events occur again.

I had recently turned 17, a punkish/arty kid in high school on the outside of Vancouver. I had been a quiet nerdy type for most of my childhood but a deliberate and drastic period of self-transformation at the end of grade 10 turned me into someone I never thought I could be. Specifically, someone who girls who liked, so I had to make up for lost time. This story takes place only 9 months after my first kiss. 

At the time, I was dating a girl named Hayley, a green haired punk girl. We'd been dating for 4 months and loved each other in that intense way you do as a teen. It was the beginning of summer vacation. My father, a thrice-divorced businessman was travelling to Germany and London for a business trip and offered to bring me along. I was reading Trainspotting obsessively at the time, so a chance to go across the pond was amazing.  After taking my final exam, I said goodbye to Hayley and took off for Europe for the first time. 

Fast-forward 4 days into the trip. We'd driven through Germany and were now in London. By this time the patience level between a teenage son and his father was stretched as thin as you'd expect. After we'd had dinner and grumped at each other for a bit, we wisely decided to hit up a pub to smooth things over. We were several pints in, getting along great again when this woman walks in. Gorgeous, with short black hair that reached just to her jawline. She was by herself, and seemed a little awkward and uncomfortable about it. I remarked on this, and my dad jokingly said ‘well ask her over then’ not thinking that I would actually do it.

But when I went up to get the next round, out of nowhere I actually got the nerve to do so, leading in with a (lame) joke about whether she was trying to pick up the nearly comatose drunk leaning against the bar, then explaining that we were visiting from Canada and would enjoy the company. She took me up on the offer and I led her back to our table.

Now, my dad had always been a bit of a skirt chaser, and had numerous affairs and dalliances throughout his many marriages. My bringing this beautiful woman back to the table suddenly piqued his interest, and he went into full flirt mode. The two of them chatted for a while about business (she was an accountant for a large auction house) while I drank and zoned out until the conversation turned to music. She and I had similar tastes, and it turned out she had come to the bar to see a punk show that was happening soon in the basement of the pub. She asked if I wanted to join her. (It turns out she had been making eyes at me leading up to this, but since I was 17 and dumb I hadn't actually noticed). I asked my dad if that was cool, and in that weird strained moment, you could almost hear our antlers clacking together while David Attenborough narrated this unexpected competition between males.

But he acquiesced, handed me some cash, and told me to be back at the hotel by midnight. The girl (Her name was Alex, she was 27 and had moved here from Australia) and I headed downstairs to see the show while my father finished up his pint. 

Here's the next amazing and fluky occurrence that I'm forever grateful for. There was no punk show downstairs that night. There was just a DJ setting up and he explained that the radio had played the wrong ad that day. Thank you, whoever messed that up and for making sure that Alex ended up at that pub that night. She asked if we should go up and rejoin my dad and I said I was happy for the break from him, so I asked if there was anywhere else we could go. She suggested a nearby club, so the two of us headed out into the night. While we chatted on the way, I asked if I could hold her hand. She told me: ‘Go for it’ and I did. 

We got to the club, grabbed some drinks, and grabbed a booth to chat/yell into each other's ear over the music. Obviously it only took about five minutes before we were making out hard. After about 20 minutes, she suggested we go back to her flat. We traveled up to her place near Chalk Farm station. I chatted with her roommate Dave while she made coffee and then she asked me ‘Want to head to bed?’

Kudos to my 17-year-old brain for not exploding right then, because it sure felt like it did.

As I got undressed, I explained that this was my first time. She told me that was fine, and mentioned that I should always take my socks off first. And then we proceeded to drunkenly fuck/fool around for four intense and hazy hours. Once we'd finally finished and lay down together, we got to chatting. She had asked me earlier in the night how old I was, and I'd told her 19. Now, post fuck, she asked ‘are you really 19?’ and I admitted no, I was only 17. She asked when my birthday was, and I told her it was in May. It was currently June, so I was just barely 17. She laughed to herself, and I asked if this was a problem, and she leaned into me and said ‘nope.’

Finally, it was time to head back, so she loaded me into a cab, and gave me her number and an invitation to come back the next day for a BBQ she was having for the World Cup. I got back to the hotel by 4 am. My dad had waited up for me. He didn't seem mad, but he didn't ask questions either.

The next day I was in a complete daze. An old friend of my father's had driven down to London to meet up with us, and the three of us toured the Tower of London with me lagging a few steps behind, trying to process what had happened. I had mentioned the BBQ to my dad, but he didn't seem keen on the idea, until finally his friend convinced him to let me go. He was a little more insistent that I at least get back by 1 this time.

So I made my way back to her flat, and hung out with her and her friends (all of whom teased her relentlessly about my age, and when I reached the age of 27 I could totally see their point). We watched the World Cup, and after her friends left we fucked again for a few more precious hours before we finally had to part ways. I could have made out with her in front of that gypsy cab forever. 

The next morning, we flew back to Canada. As we drove home from the airport, my dad said to me ‘don’t worry, I won't tell Hayley a thing. That's your business.’ Oh right, my super serious girlfriend. My 17-year-old brain had shoved any thoughts of her right out of the way once it saw the chance to lose my virginity to this woman a decade older, and to this day I haven't been able to summon any real guilt over what had happened.

Life tossed me this experience, and I took it, and I've never regretted it. But, since I was still 17 and shitty, I didn't tell Hayley what had happened. The relationship fizzled out of its own accord part way through the summer anyways. Eventually she found out what had happened; information tends to travel in high school. She was probably right to punch me in the stomach the way she did when she found out.

So that's it. That's my story. Right place, right time, right city. 

Cheers. 

Tom’

What happens abroad probably won’t stay abroad

For once, I won’t intro a story. Ok, just a little one. Some stories you just want to chuck right out there, fresh off the press, pretty much the moment they land in your inbox and tell the world about them. A lot of shitty things happen in this world. Here is a story that doesn’t include any of them. Please listen to ‘La Isla Bonita’ for added atmosphere.

‘Dear Kate, 

I'm an American almost-woman (although now maybe more woman than girl), age 21, currently studying abroad in Europe. I lost my virginity just about two weeks ago. This is how it happened: 

I am what some people might call a ‘late bloomer’* when it comes to sex. I didn't have my first kiss until I was 18 (in a blow-up pool filled with foam at my first frat party), and have only had a few brief relationships in my life. Thanks to years of listening to the Savage Love podcast, I'm a firm believer in the concept of losing your virginity in stages: first hand job, first blow job, first person who sees you naked, first person you see naked, etc. Over the past few years, since starting college, I've ‘lost’ each stage except actual penetrative sex, mostly with different men. In no way do I consider myself a ‘slut’. I just like to share my body and have others share theirs with me, and that sometimes a connection of a few hours can be as powerful as those that build over several weeks.

*a late bloomer (Novemer in the Balearic Islands)

I arrived in Spain in January for a semester abroad. I hadn't had any type of sexual contact with anyone for the entire fall semester, and was mentally preparing myself for experiencing the Spanish language (and Spanish men) in all ways possible. Before I left, I talked with a few close friends and decided it was pretty likely I would lose my virginity abroad. After a few heartbreaks and many nights regretting the opportunities I had to have sex and didn't, I was ready to go to Spain and come back literally a different person. 

Two weeks ago, my group of friends and I went out one final time before we all went our separate ways to travel over spring break. At this point, the other students in my program and I have developed a close group of friends, the kind who you could tell you're still a virgin and know they won't judge you. On this night, we started out at our favorite bar where the bartenders pour heavy and rarely make us pay. I wasn't trying to get wasted; I had a big trip coming up and still had to pack the next day. 

We were there for a few hours, and while my group filled almost the entire bar, there were a few locals as well. One group of guys in particular caught my eye. I talked to one of them, and we established that I'm an ‘extranjera (foreigner) and that I'm originally from California.

An hour later, my friends and I moved to another bar down the street. We weren't drinking anymore, just wanted a change of scenery. The same group of boys was there, and the one I had talked to, Hugo, slowly started moving his way towards my group, and in particular, me. After some more small talk, music started playing and pretty soon we were dancing...then kissing...then making out in the corner booth. 

Soon after, his friend, my friend, Hugo, and I walked to the nearby clubs to dance. Hugo and I were getting pretty hot and heavy on the dance floor, with hands everywhere and little attention paid to anyone else nearby. After a couple hours, we went outside for some fresh air. We were mostly sober at this point, more buzzed from dancing and the cool night air than from any leftover booze in our bodies. Hugo asked me if I wanted to go back to his apartment with him; I wanted to, but told him that if we did, I wouldn't have sex with him (clearly that changed). 

At this point, though, I was clear on my no-sex policy and said if he couldn't agree, ‘no pasa nada’ and I would go home with my friend. He insisted that it was absolutely okay and after a short talk with my friend, I left with him. In an amusing turn of events, his friend's car got locked in the parking garage and we ended up taking the subway back to his apartment. 

On the subway ride back, he asked if he would see me again after that night. For some reason, I decided to be a punk and said that I knew it was just a hook-up and he didn't have to pretend he was genuinely interested in me. He got honestly frustrated and all of a sudden, pulled a small hemp bracelet off his arm and tied it to my wrist, telling me ‘If at the end of tonight, or whenever you leave, you want to see me again, take this with you; it's my favorite bracelet and if you leave with it, it's a promise you'll see me again if only to give it back to me.’ That quickly put a stop to my brattiness; and for the rest of the ride we sat in near-silence fingering the frayed edges of his bracelet. 

When we finally got there, it was 7am. His roommate had dead-bolted the door, so there were several minutes of knocking until his roommate woke up, unlocked the door, and then actually saluted us as we made our way to Hugo's room. Once inside, it was probably less than half an hour until we were down to just underwear. 

Hugo stopped, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a condom. I had learned that his first language is French and that he's almost 24, but we both speak fluent Spanish; to me, there was something cool about all this happening for each of us in a second language. He told me, ‘If you want to, I have it; if you don't want to, we don't.’ After cautious mumbling for a few minutes, I finally spit it out: it would be my first time. To my surprise, he said it would be his first time, too. I didn't believe him at first: ‘You're almost 24! You're handsome! You live in Spain!’

He sat both of us up and told me that he's been ready to lose it for a while but that it didn't feel right until that moment with me. He told me that I'm the first girl he's brought back to his apartment since moving in over six months earlier. I know that some people will think that he was lying just to convince me, but I have a good bullshit detector, and I didn't think that his obvious hesitation and sincerity were fake. 

I told him that I had been waiting to lose it for a while, too, and that if he was sure, I was sure. If I hadn't believed that he truly was a virgin before, I did when it took him several tries to put the condom on. He was slow and gentle and it was both exactly what I thought it would be and like nothing I expected. 

When we finished, we decided that after almost 24 hours awake we should try to sleep a little. We ‘slept’ for an hour, and then woke up for Round Two. He stopped, though, because he didn't have any more condoms (the one in his wallet was a gift from his brother for when his lucky moment finally arrived). After more fooling around, I thought it was finally time for me to go home. It was almost noon. 

It took another hour to slowly find my clothes and put them on; every time I tried, he would pull the hem of my skirt or bra and I'd get distracted. We finally left his room and kissed goodbye for what felt like days in his doorway until I decided I really should leave. Right before walking out, I held up the wrist with his bracelet and asked, ‘Lo llevo conmigo?’ (I'll take it with me?) And he answered, ‘Lo llevas contigo’ (You take it with you). 

Due to travel plans, we won't see each other for another couple weeks. We've messaged several times and he wants to make sure we keep talking to not lose momentum, although with guaranteed sex at the end of our vacations, I don't think either of us is having a hard time staying interested. 

For the past two weeks, I've been waiting for some kind of regret to set in; to regret losing it to a near-stranger, to regret having it emerge from a night out, to admit that maybe I won't see him again. And two weeks later, I'm positive that I would have made the same decisions had we met totally sober on a Tuesday afternoon rather than in a bar on a Thursday night, and that I would have regretted more not having sex with him than I potentially will regret in the future having gone all the way. In the event that we actually don't see each other again, or that all his talk about being a virgin too was a lie, that's okay with me--in that moment, with him, it was perfect.

Sometimes things just work out, 

Katherine’

 

Semi Formal

So many great things about this story. I love the language. I love the fact that despite it being written in plain English, fifty per cent of the cultural references go straight over my head. I had to do some Googling to get the measure of this beautifully American story. But what jumps out at me today - perhaps it might be something different on another day - was this….‘we were completely emotionally open with one another’.

This made me think about the way in which my nephews used to attack a fresh piece of paper with a coloring pen when they were small. They had no expectations as to what they might achieve as the marker hit the page. Their minds were as wide open as the small flat white expanse in front of them. Absolutely anything could happen and it often did.

Adult life appears to be about un-learning this skill.  Of course, this is a natural part of evolution. Imagine what might befall us of a day if we didn’t learn to rein ourselves in…..Lord of the Flies at best. But in terms of emotional entanglement, of being, as today’s author says, ‘completely emotionally open with one another’, today’s story takes me right back to being young enough to love without barriers, before the notion of how badly your heart can be bruised is even a conscious thought.

It must be the hardest thing in the world to be a parent and watch your children navigate adult waters, knowing that things may not go as they planned. And how hard to then explain that this actually is ‘the way of the world’. That this awful alien feeling of bleak, cold rejection is not abnormal. That it is par for the course. That it may even happen again. Possibly even multiple times. (If you’re lucky enough one might argue…). I still remember the first time this happened to me. I can still re-call my ex-boyfriend’s voice (we’d broken up exactly one week beforehand) as he arrived at my house one summer’s afternoon to break it to me that he’d ‘accidentally’ slept with someone else at a party on Saturday night. Upset doesn’t cover it. Hysteria is closer to the mark. On reflection, I actually don’t think I’ve lost my emotional rag that visibly since. My response was raw shock. How could he do THIS to ME? How can one human being get away with making another human being feel THIS feeling? Shouldn’t this be illegal? Can’t you fix this? Can’t my parents fix it? Or someone?? And make like it didn’t happen? It can’t be fixed, it couldn’t be fixed, and unfortunately, it shouldn’t be fixed. Its part of life and believing it not to be is perhaps the truest definition of innocence.

Anyway, I’m making out like today’s story ends badly. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. But it does make me yearn for a time when we are able to love without boundaries. To re-create a little – or a lot – of that in our every day lives. It reminds me of skiing for the first time when I was well out of my teenage years and learning, all over again, that, to lean ‘away from the mountain’, something that goes against the grain of every new adult skier - because what you really want to do is cling to the mountain for dear life - is the one thing that will make you a more effective skier. Leaning in turns your knees the wrong way and makes you ski like a spaz.  Taking a chance, leaning out and pushing your legs and knees in the right direction will steer a more effective course through the snow and perhaps even through life. If you have the balls to try it. Or as Betty White allegedly once said, ‘why do people say ‘grow some balls?’ Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna really get tough, grow a vagina! Those things take a pounding!’ Luckily I have one of those already.

'Hey there, my name is Jo. I'm 16, born in the grand ol' year of 1994, currently residing in the USA. I've been reading through your website for a few hours now and I came to the conclusion, my virginity loss was fantastic, especially for being 16. Well, without further adieu...

This was a process. Years, maybe. Two boys. For me, the quiet little blonde girl who liked punk rock and hanging with the older crowd, I think everyone assumed I'd ‘done it a million times’ by the time I actually did. I didn't care.

I'm an only child so my childhood best-friend and I, when we turned 10 or so, went straight to our computers that we’d both just received and figured out what the birds and bees truly were. Thank you Fanfiction. Suddenly, my little brain was spinning with ideas of lust and romance, something more than ‘just kissing.’ Keep in mind, I still thought kissing with tongues was disgusting. Oh, little me. You have so much to learn.

Fast-forward about two years and enter Dominic. We met 4 days after my 12th birthday and let me just say, he was GORGEOUS. I automatically assumed he was years older than me, with long reddish-brownish hair and big green eyes and scuffed up Chuck Taylors. I knew when I saw him across the room that he'd change me. Dominic and I clicked from the moment we first began talking.

Things took off pretty fast. Both of us were precocious 12 year olds (he was almost 13) who had too many questions and not enough answers. We loved our music loud and fast and angry and we especially loved discovering each other. Dominic was my first almost everything. He was my first kiss (grocery store, deli section), my first ‘make out’/kiss with tongues (on his living room couch during ‘The Longest Mile’, that film with Adam Sandler), and eventually, the first penis I ever saw. When he dropped trou, I seriously had no idea what to expect. At this point, the only penis I ever saw was in the 3 second glimpse of Pete Wentz’s (see: bassist of Fall Out Boy) schlong thanks to a friend on AIM Direct Connect, so to have a live, real, ERECT (!!?!?!!!?!) penis right there in front of my 12 year old face, well, I was at a complete and total loss. ‘...do you want me to...touch...it?’ I had a way with words, even then. Let me tell you.

Yet, even though Dominic and I were together three and a half years exactly, we never had sex. He always wanted to, constantly trying to coerce me into it but for me, I just...knew. I'm not a ‘True Love Waits' !!11!!!!shifty!!1!’ person, nor strictly religious. Something just told me that he wasn't the one I should lose my virginity to. Call it intuition, I don't know, but my gut decision wound up being right. As it turns out, he got it elsewhere in the meantime, cheating on me (and having the nerve to text her while sleeping in MY bed, but that's another story) and losing it to whatsherface-with-the-monroe piercing, effectively breaking my 15-year-old heart.

Things with Dom and I had been rocky for a while though, since the start of my sophomore year. Ironically, that's about the time I was assigned to my sophomore year homeroom with ‘delicious-boy-who-likes-striped-thermals-and-fantasy-novels’ across the room. I never really figured out who he was strictly through homeroom, but man...he was adorable. I was too scared to walk up to him and comment on the books he was reading, even though we liked a lot of the same ones. (A 16 year old boy who reads Dante's Inferno and The Odyssey for fun!? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN MY WHOLE LIFE?)

Luckily for me, we shared a study hall together after the Dominic ordeal ended. I came on entirely too strong but, as he told me later, he found it ‘endearing...since girls aren't really attracted and never have been. Plus, you're the most adorable thing I ever saw. So, the creepy was negated.’ I was kind of creepy. I Google Earth'd his address and found out how long it would take to walk to his house. I liked him. A lot.

In March, he asked me to semiformal*, which wound up being our first date. I think it was understood at this point that we would, eventually, wind up together. Upstairs, changing into my poofy black and purple dress in his parent’s bathroom, I said a silent prayer that this wouldn't be the last time I'd ever see his house. That this wouldn't be a one-time thing; that this was a beginning. Prayers were answered that night. Sitting upstairs on his bed, he had his purple dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing some scars. ‘You're the only person I'd ever let see these,’ he said. Oh shit, I think I kinda sorta just fell in love with him.

Things progressed quickly after that point. We both didn't ‘need’ sex, but we were quiet and completely emotionally open with one another. We functioned as best friends since the moment we met; somehow it just seemed natural to move quick.We were together 12 days when we had our first ‘experience.’ I came over to his house to enjoy the springtime weather, third time over *EVER*, mind you, and it started out as normal as one could ever expect.

We ate dinner. We made small talk with his mom and dad. We wanted to go in the hot tub downstairs, so we'd headed up and got changed. Standing in his room, he ran his soft hands up from my thighs, taking my blue floral sundress off in one swift motion, leaving me standing there in my (only) pair of thong underwear and pink frilly polka dotted bra. Long story short, we were trembling and nervous and rolling around on the floor, touching new places and letting our skin melt into one another's. We tried to have sex, just to see what it'd feel like, but our nerves got the better of us and we couldn't quite ‘get it in.’

Laying on his comforter and pillows that he carefully laid down for us, we felt like we just hit the jackpot. Two virgin kids who fumbled and tried, who were learning to discover themselves through someone else. The whole experience reminded me of the e.e.cummings poem ‘I like my body with your body’: 

'i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite new a thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body. i like what it does,

i like its hows. i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones, and the trembling

-firm-smooth ness and which i will

again and again and again

kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,

i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz

of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes

over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new '

Time progressed and I found myself falling deeper in love with him than I could've ever imagined. We would write each other poems and talk about where we wanted to wind up in life. Our passions, our hopes, our dreams. 

My 16th birthday was coming up on June 10th. He was helping me plan a sweet 16 shindig for our friends, so for the weeks leading up to it, he was over my house quite a bit. He made invitations with me, favors, the whole bit. The day we actually lost our virginities was exactly one week before I turned 16, June 3rd. My mother worked late that night, not getting home until about 6 o'clock at night, leaving Troy and I three hours to ourselves. We were given the task of ‘finishing the party favors’ by my mother in exchange for the time alone. We both knew that this precious time would be used for finally giving me the best birthday gift of all.

I won't sugar coat it for you, it did hurt. We had issues trying to get it to ‘go in’ before, a few failed attempts under our belt, but this time we figured out that slow and steady wins the race. Seeing his soft, bare body hovering over mine all wrapped up in my soft white down duvet and hot pink flannel sheets sent shivers down my spine. Suddenly it wasn't just about the sex, it wasn't about the act, it wasn't about any of that. He looked at me and kissed me soft on the lips, and like that, it was in. 

Some girls complain about the first time they get penetrated, but to be honest, once he got going, it felt really natural. I jokingly called him ‘Goldilocks penis’ because he was just right. Not too big, not too small. He didn't come that first time, because after about 15 minutes or so I got too sore, so we resorted to spooning - also known as the greatest invention known to mankind. 

It took us about 6 months before sex actually became extremely physically pleasurable, because emotionally it was incredible but I would still be in pain. Proud to say in about the past three to four weeks we finally mastered the art!

If you haven't guessed yet, Troy and I are still together. We are still very much in love, planning on where we want to go with our lives and still writing each other poems. Losing my virginity to him will never be a mistake, because I gave it to a boy who gave me his everything in exchange. He's one of a kind. He's mine.’

*Semiformal is a school-sponsored dance that has a 'semi-formal' dress code, meaning girls in tea-length dresses and boys in nice pants and a dress shirt, usually with sneakers and no tie.

 

Losing It in the USA....

It’s not all doom and gloom over here at The Virginity Project. On the contrary, it is a great day. A long held dream comes true. My book,’ Losing It: How we popped our cherry over the last 80 years’ has travelled all the way from two people randomly sharing their virginity loss stories on El Matador beach, followed by a ‘that’s a good idea for a book’ moment….to actually holding a book in my hands that gets published in America today. WAHEY!!

To celebrate, here is a story that does actually involve a moment of comedy, not an overly popular theme in your stories over the last 7 years it must be said. And it is sandwiched between a side order of poignancy... but I think you’re going to like it. For once, some lucky young man gets exactly what he has been dreaming of. Not only that, but it goes on to define the rest of his sexual life, in the best way possible.

Here we go…

Taylor, Pennsylvania, USA, Born 1981, Lost virginity first week of August, 1997, age not quite 16

‘My therapist says I have a very feminine mind. This, as you may imagine is a strange light for a burly, bearded, balding construction worker and general outdoorsman to see himself in. As a Brit might say, I am of ‘the hairy chested sort’. What follows, at least in part is a story that had him laughing aloud during one of our early sessions. Few of these stories involve a hilarious physical injury, but mine does.

When I was thirteen years old I was in an awkward phase. I had removed myself from a group of ‘friends’ and classmates whose physical and emotional abuse I would no longer take. I found a love of writing, mountain biking and girl watching. I was, by all accounts an outcast. My daily routine after school involved biking a few miles to a nearby lake where, sheltered by the shade of a big old dogwood I would write stories and poems in a large leather bound binder. It was on one of these outings that I met Sarah, who approached me while I was writing one afternoon. Believe it or not I was so flustered and shocked a girl was talking to me that I didn't notice how pretty she was. She was academically brilliant, just moved to the area, lived away from town and attended a private school. She had no preconceived notions about my reputation as an outcast. We had similar interests and became fast friends. Suddenly I was no longer riding to the lake daily to get away from a painful childhood, but going because I wanted to spend time with Sarah. We were in many ways each others salvation. I made a friend who wanted to know me for me and I was her shelter from a boring life away from her schoolmates.

I had feelings for her as soon as I met her, but kept them under wraps for want of not ruining what had become the most important and formative friendship in my life. However my romantic intentions became rather overpowering and shortly after my fifteenth birthday I took the risk of confessing them. I remember how utterly terrified I was at the time I told her. After I finally got my stuttering, nervous confession out, she kissed me and we were a couple from that point onward. The next six months were a joy and probably the most carefree and innocent days of my entire life because we spent every available second together. Her aunt and uncle were having marital trouble and neither wanted to stay around the house, giving us quite a bit of time and privacy, during which we cultivated our relationship further. Not much changed between us other than we had become physical, making out frequently although fully clothed. One day in late March, around her birthday we were browsing a book shop together when she made me leave the store, coming out with a bag containing a large book, claiming she bought herself a birthday present but wouldn't let me see it.

About a week later we were cuddling on the couch in her living room, watching NYPD Blue when she pulled out the book. It was a pictorial lovemaking manual who’s title escapes me but it was based on ‘The Perfumed Garden’. I was shocked that a generally proper girl bought such a book, but I knew little of women then. We started looking through the book, blushing at the pictures of couples engaging each other in various positions, naughty thoughts running through our heads. We had never discussed how we would lose our virginity although I'm certain we both knew we would be each other’s first. We talked about this and although I regularly dreamed of having sex with her, I said I wasn't sure I was ready. She made me take the book home with me, where I read it in its entirety.

July had come to a close when she asked for the book back. She had gotten a birth control formula from the clinic and had been on the pill since shortly after buying the book! I still wasn't sure I was ready for sex but Sarah was, asking about it or alluding to the subject almost daily. Thinking back, I can't believe I didn't act sooner, but I had severe performance anxiety, was worried about hurting her and all those first time jitters. How often is it that a perfectly average looking guy like me has his own personal living fantasy asking to have sex with him daily? It has certainly never happened to me since. Both her aunt and uncle would be out of state on the coming weekend and she declared her intentions to give me an early birthday present. I knew this would be it so I lied to my parents and told them I was going with a friend's family on a trip to New York City which they thought was a fantastic idea.

That Friday after work I met Sarah at the house. We ate together, drank a bit of wine, watched TV, made out and eventually ended up undressed on the couch. At first I was so nervous I couldn't keep an erection for more than a couple minutes.. We lay together, cuddling for a while before trying again. Sarah insisted I be on top. Now...this couch was a beige leather clad monstrosity that had a large glass topped coffee table positioned in front of it. I tried to penetrate her a couple times but she was very nervous now that the moment had come. On what I think was our third try I got in a little deeper and was gently pushing when I could see her wincing in pain. I tried shifting my knee only to have it slip off the couch and as I attempted to catch myself before falling my left hand slipped off the edge of this overly complicate- to-make-love-on-piece of furniture. When my hand slipped, I fell sideways, banging the ole' family jewels on the edge uncovered by cushions and slashed my scalp open on the corner of the glass coffee table. At first I lay on the ground, one hand clutching my balls, the other clutching the top of my head. Sarah peered over the edge of the couch, caught in uncontrollable laughter, which made me start laughing. It took me a minute or two to realize my head was bleeding quite a bit. Off to the local medical clinic we went, her driving faster than the speed limit, me holding a kitchen towel to my head, both of us breaking out in fits of giggles. Overall the cut wasn't very bad, but nothing bleeds like a good clean head wound. It only required two stitches and we were back at her house within two hours. We cleaned up the blood on the floor and packed everything away, still occasionally laughing at my clumsy misfortune.

That night we slept together for the first time, partially clothed. We went to sleep after talking away the rest of the night, her head on my shoulder. Despite my sore scalp I was light headed and elated. When we woke in the morning we ate breakfast in our underwear and made jokes about the previous night. I decided I could use a good soak and she ran me a bath. I was in the tub no more than a few minutes, enjoying a steamy soak when Sarah walked in, slowly undressed and climbed in the bath with me after scrubbing my back. We kissed a lot and washed each other slowly, exploring each other’s bodies in the hot water. We didn't get out until the water was getting cold. I will remember that as one of the sexiest, most sensual and enjoyable activities and have always requested this with later lovers, few though they may have been. We towelled each other off and moved to her bedroom where we continued our love play. ‘We need to be more comfortable’ was the theme and it was working well. Sarah wanted her birth control pills be our only contraceptive for our first time. We caressed and explored each other for what must have been another hour until it just seemed right. She wanted to be on top this time. Here is where we found that slow and steady was the way to go and it was much easier this time but I could see that as we slowly got more and more of me inside her it was causing considerable pain.

One last push and she gave a yelp that startled me, tears slowly filling her eyes. I remember being surprised at the fact that she wasn't simply warm inside, but hot. I pulled her to me and just held her there, kissing her shoulder and neck. I could feel her breathing, her every movement, every little shift in weight from inside. It was the most magical series of sensations. We cleaned ourselves up, cuddled and when we tried again it was much, much easier. We tried several movements, her rocking back and forth, or me thrusting gently as I held her to me but neither of us came. We tried a few more positions, but always with generous foreplay beforehand. We found she enjoyed doggy style quite a bit and she asked me to not stop when I would slow down. I still couldn't come until we ended up back in missionary, her legs wrapped around by back, moving with me. I will never forget my first climax inside her, her hips rising to meet me. After wards we lay in each other’s arms, her stroking my chest and belly, me running a hand around her hip and the small of her back, whispering I love yous, talking, laughing. I can't imagine a better way to have lost my virginity. For once the reality was better than all the dreams and ways I had fantasized about the experience.

So many other people I knew said it was over so quick that it wasn't really enjoyable but our experience was anything but. Perhaps because my first experiences with sex were slow and gentle but also very pleasurable and emotionally fulfilling I have always preferred it that way. Perhaps this is why I don't lust after random women and try to get them into bed. In fact I probably wouldn't know how. I have always thought of sex not as something simply mechanical and lustful to reach an orgasm, but also something very emotionally fulfilling. Maybe it is because I have always sought out people in general but lovers in particular that made me feel wanted, welcome and accepted. In fact I would say I cannot have sex unless I feel I am wanted as a man.

The rest of the day was spent walking around the lake, talking under the old dogwood where we spent so much of our time together and enjoying being young and in love. We had another long session the next day, trying different things and getting ideas on what we liked. We talked about how every little sensation felt and were completely open with each other. It was an amazing weekend during which I learned more about love and intimacy than I have in the almost 14 years since. I remember coming home and my mother asking me ‘so how was your weekend’ and declaring honestly that I had the best weekend of my entire life up to that point.’

The Sunday Sermon OR why you should try, even when you don't know what you're doing.

It’s a truly great day for The Virginity Project because in under one month, ‘Losing It: How we popped our cherry over the last 80 years’ will be published in the USA. Needless to say, that also makes it a great day for me, Kate Monro.

Full disclosure: I never had plans to write a book. I never had plans for anything much beyond having a good time and going to a lot of parties for most of my teens and twenties. It wasn’t until I hit my thirties that it occurred to me that 1. I might be good at something else and 2. I better find out what this elusive ‘something’ was because time wasn’t standing still.

Without wanting to pen a CV of my entire working life, I’d done a lot of ‘interesting’ jobs up to that point (mixed with a bunch of pointless ones it must be said). I’d worked in the music business way back when, assisting maligned Blur manager Mike Collins as his handsome young tykes recorded their first album (caveat: a tear trickled down my face as I watched them at Hyde Park, almost 20 years later in 2009. Who knew this ‘indie’ band would play to 50,000 people in the heart of London one day? I always loved Blur but I admit I hadn’t foreseen that). Later, I worked with some of the most talented photographers, stylists, writers and artists during my tenure at Dazed & Confused Magazine. I was always drawn to creative spirits but only ever in the capacity of assistant or marketer. It was too much to dare think that I might create something of my own. Instead, I aligned myself with bright clever people, got the kind of jobs that people said were ‘amazing’ and hoped that something might rub off.

To anyone who has ever considered doing something vaguely creative, I have one piece of advice for you: start doing it. It doesn’t matter how shit it is. Every mediocre, good or even great piece of art began with one tentative stroke of a brush, a clumsy collection of words and someone who had absolutely no idea what they were doing. There is no short cut so let me save you the time because for the longest stretch, I genuinely believed, albeit in a subconscious manner (the worst kind!) that any worthwhile creative endeavour appeared on the page as a fully formed idea and if you couldn’t think of something show-stopping and spew it up as a perfectly conceived piece of art immediately then you weren’t that creative. I couldn’t be more wrong. Creativity is a process. It is also the net result of graft.

Those fabulous fashion stylists I used to work with at Dazed? Their work took weeks of preparation mixed with large doses of spontaneity and creative risk on the day of a shoot.  For the longest time, I preferred to believe that they possessed something that I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong. We all have an aptitude for something. I wouldn’t make a great fashion stylist but it turns out that I’m pretty good at collecting people’s stories and curating them into intriguing social documents. Again, who knew?

Along the way, I had to learn to string a sentence together. It wasn’t always comfortable. Pressing the ‘send’ button on my blog for the first time was a bit like the literary equivalent of passing your driving test and not knowing whether you’re about to take out ten pedestrians on your inaugural drive. I’m being dramatic but it was unchartered territory and this is what I’m getting at. You have to keep trying, even if your output isn’t that impressive. Creativity is a small act of personal bravery, nothing more. Setting out and not knowing what direction you’re going to travel in is perplexing. What drove me forward was the belief that I had something to say. I still don’t write on a regular enough basis to be great. But I’m ok with that. I’m half way through my life - god (with a small g) willing - and optimistic enough to feel that the best is ahead of me. But in the meantime, I can be cock-a-hoop about the fact that a book that I never anticipated writing about a subject that has resonance with most people will be published in America. This is way beyond the expectations I had for myself.

Another small but not insignificant detail, along the way, one gets ‘the signs’. The seemingly random quips or comments from friends or even virtual strangers that spur you on…the friend that emailed me apropos of nothing one day with ‘one day Kate, you are going to find something that you like doing and you are going to be really good at it’. That surprised me. That he saw something that I only mildly suspected. The intern who included me in a round robin creative challenge and mailed me back a few days later with ‘your contribution was by far the most imaginative’ - total shock on my part - to the boyfriend who constantly chided me for ‘being creative but not doing anything about it’. Take note of this shit and use it to push yourself forward. It isn’t just ‘the universe’. It is people who recognise something tangible. From someone who flunked school, blew out university but got an A+ in wasting time, read the signs and make a promise to expect more of yourself.

I may well be preaching to the converted. The teenagers I encounter these days are far more self possessed and expectant than I was at that age. Possibly because they didn’t grow up with parents who remember rationing and The Second World War (‘when we were young we ate whatever we could get so EAT IT’ was the soundtrack for anyone who grew up in the last part of the 20th century). Today’s storyteller grew up with a different soundtrack. For the younger amongst you, picture ‘Mouse’ from ‘The Carrie Diaries’. Bright, of Chinese American heritage and holding the expectations of parents who have given up everything in their lives to make hers better and draped those expectations across their daughter’s slender shoulders. I would not have lasted 2 minutes in this household. On the other hand, I might have written my first book a bit quicker (but with much less entertainment along the way).

'I'm Mei. I was born in 1991, in China. I am Chinese American. That means I grew up with strict parents, perfect grades, and not surprisingly, a very conservative view on sex, alcohol, drugs, and the like. When I was in 4th grade, a friend wrote me a note explaining the health processes related to puberty and sex. Apparently, her mother had given her ‘the talk,’ and you know little girls…they're eager to share. When I approached my mother about it, she told me that it was all a lie. It wasn't till middle school that I really found out about the whole she-bang: kissing, French kissing, groping, SEX.

I went through most of my high school years without having even a kissed a boy, which wasn't for lack of wanting. I just wasn't allowed to have boyfriends. You wonder why I didn't go behind my parents' backs, but this wasn't just a rule...this was The Rule. For Chinese parents, a boyfriend means distractions which mean bad grades (like B's). There is no influence more evil than Boyfriends.

But at the end of junior year, an Asian boy from Canada transferred into my school. We met, and in a few months, I was in love. After weeks of coercing, begging, nagging, and making absurd promises about studying hard, my mother miraculously allowed us to date. Maybe she saw how desperate I was for this boy.

We dated for two and a half years. For the first year, we were in total, loving bliss. Senior year was one of the best years of my life (so far, at least). I got my first kiss, my first make-out session, my first grope…the only thing we never did was make love.

I had always been taught to save my virginity for marriage, but honestly, I didn't care too much about the whole save-yourself bullshit. I was 18, and I had grown pretty tired of my parents constantly roping me down with stupid Chinese rules. If Wai had wanted it, I would have made love to him. And that's the thing; it would really have been making love because at the time, we were completely right for each other.

But he was much more Chinese (and Christian) than I was. He was a virgin and planned to stay that way until marriage. In fact, he wanted to marry a virgin. He said he couldn't possibly marry a girl who had already had sex with someone else. I was pretty disappointed inside when I found this out, but I loved him and respected him, so I let it go.

After senior year, I left for college across the country in California. We somehow stayed together for another year and a half, long distance. Wai was very straight-edged, and out of fear that he would leave me, I stayed away from those freshmen beers, weed, and parties. We chatted every night, and saw each other during breaks. I would wonder sometimes if I were missing out on other people and new experiences but I really believed that I couldn't get anything better.

Things changed my sophomore year. I started rock climbing and I met the most incredible group of people. They are my closest friends now. In that group was a boy, Jamie. We were incredibly comfortable with each other from the moment we met, and our group of friends was amazing. I began to question my lifestyle. Yes, I had been brought up to stay away from drugs and alcohol and sex, and yes, my boyfriend would flip a shit/break up with me if I did any of it, but I really wanted to experience all of it. More than anything, I wanted to experience it with my rock climbing friends. I knew I could trust them. And...I wanted to keep seeing Jamie.

I started going out regularly with my friends, to drink and smoke and hang out, to just be a college student. I talked to Wai less and to Jamie more and predictably, Wai and I started to have problems. After being asked why I wasn't ashamed of the way I was living, I broke up with Wai. 

I immediately started to date Jamie. Maybe that was callous, but we gravitated toward each other. He was everything that my old life was not. He smoked and drank, and didn't think any of it was a big deal. He was the most hilarious person I'd ever met, and was completely solid in who he was. He was happy, thought that other people should be happy, and didn't believe in controlling what other people did. He was everything that I wanted to leave behind….all the suffocating rules and guidelines that would keep me ‘pure.’ All that my parents and Wai stood for.

After we had dated for two weeks, I decided to have sex with Jamie. Thinking back on it now, I wanted something to erase all the stiffness and Chinese-ness that had defined my life for 19 years. It wasn't because I genuinely wanted sex, or because I was in love with Jamie (although, we liked each other quite a lot); I thought losing my virginity would be some kind of fresh start, symbolic of all the ways I had started to change.

Surprisingly, Jamie was also a virgin. We didn't really know what we were doing, I was tense and nervous, and it hurt like hell. We didn't get much of him into me, and I didn't really know if that counted as losing my virginity. After a few failed attempts, we gave up. That night, I lay in his bed, sore and frustrated, wondering what I was doing. If I was this tense, I probably wasn't ready to be having sex. Maybe my parents and Wai were right. Luckily, Jamie was incredibly sweet and understanding about it. He knew I had just gotten out of a serious relationship, and to him, the sex wasn't that big of a deal. It was about what I wanted, about being happy.

We stayed together, and spent many days and nights just enjoying each other’s company. Then one night, when we were fooling around, I realized that I really did want Jamie. All of him. The thought caught me off guard, but I knew then that this was how it should be. I was going to lose my virginity unplanned, without any rules or guidelines to restrict me, and that was completely right. I was much less tense, we went slowly, and this time, we succeeded. I remember looking into Jamie's eyes as he came in me, and thinking I had never been more happy about a decision. I had never felt so good. Before, I had been afraid that my parents and Wai might turn out to be right, that I would regret losing my virginity so...casually, but I knew then they were wrong. It's not about the rules, about using sex to seal some marriage contract. It's about what feels right, and being with Jamie felt right.

Jamie and I are still together. We have a lot of sex and we love it. I am so happy about my decision to sleep with him that it's like I have negative regret - it's made me feel better about other decisions I've made in my life to bring me here. There's something physically and emotionally free about being with him. Losing my virginity (and I guess he lost his to me) has come to represent my liberation from the fear and timid-ness that my parents and Wai had instilled in me. I'm not that much more wild than before (although I do drink and take a few hits now and then), but I am happier. And I have no regrets about my first time. I can't ask for more.'

The Candle Man

For almost as long as I’ve written this blog, I’ve been in touch with someone whom I have come to think of as my New York Counterpart, Therese Shechter; a person who has been making a documentary film about virginity loss and blogging about it for the last forever. A little like myself but the film version. Well it turns out that forever is more finite than I thought because hells bells! She’s gone and finished it.

Furthermore, it debuts this Sunday November 17^th at the DOC NYC Film Festival; 9.30pm at the SVA Theatre in New York so go and see it. It’s a fresh, funny and long overdue exploration of the myths and misogyny surrounding the ‘precious gift’ of virginity. For anyone who knows me, and even those who don’t, you’ll understand why I’m gutted I can’t be there for more than one reason. I have an ongoing romance with NYC and I’d love to wish Therese well so go for me. Break a leg Therese and massive congratulations to you. No one knows better than me how gratifying it is to see what has kept you awake at night for more years than we care to count take tangible form. Enjoy!

 

There is a New York theme to today’s post and in the process of describing it; I am going to sound like a total ponce. I bought some books at McNally Jackson on a recent trip to NYC and I was so excited about reading them that I came back to London and purchased the cheapest flight I could find to somewhere in Europe with the sole intention of doing just that.  I booked a holiday to read some books. Ok, so I’m exaggerating a little. I was tired and needed to take the kind of break where you don’t feel like you stuck your hands in an electric wall socket. That’s how NYC makes me feel and I love it…but its not conducive to the Zen state of mind I was hoping to achieve with a stack of books, a Mallorcan mountaintop and, as it turns out, *the most annoying ginger cat in the world.

But I did want to honor the books. And so…day two atop the mountain (its a hill but I’m a townie so it feels like a mountain) and in between sunbathing, what could almost be described as biking (cycling down to the shop, walking the bike back up) and eating, I finished fellow blogger, Leandra Medine’s book ‘Man Repeller’. I liked it very much. This book appealed to me because I love the idea of telling stories via items of clothing that we have known, loved and occasionally hated over the years. As a dyed in the wool tomboy with more traumatic tales to tell you about being squeezed into my older sisters hand-smocked-by-my-mother (‘but I made that dress Kate. How could you not wear it?’) as a stroppy four year old than I care to remember, this is a sartorial subject close to my heart.  This shit matters.

Leandra’s story takes shape around the observation that what she chooses to wear; in fact, the things that she loves to wear the most (high-waisted denim shorts, dungarees amongst others), also happen to repel men. This forms the basis of her uber popular blog, Man Repeller and now, this book. What’s this got to do with the theme of my own blog you ask? Well, Leandra is very upfront.  She says things that most of us think but don’t always say out loud. This is one of the things I like about her and her virginity loss story is not left out.

Here’s the thing. As I read it, the thought occurred to me that this story answers a question that comes up a lot on this blog. I get a lot of emails from young people and I’ve heard a lot of stories over the years. As you can imagine, they’re not all pretty. Not that I expect them to be because that’s life. Those who subscribe to the everything has to be ‘perfect’, whether it is their virginity loss experience, their day, their lunch, whatever, annoy me almost much as the ginger feline who wakes me up every morning on this mountain top and appears to think (persistently) that I am in charge of its eating schedule. Life is not ‘perfect’ and this is what makes it interesting. The two most important qualities we can cultivate during our time on earth are humor and a sense of perspective. Because almost any story can be funny given time and the right point of view.

I digress. I guess what I am saying is that I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on what could make your story memorable for the right reasons. Setting aside the actual moment of course (that part often does suck I’m afraid), your choice of partner is something that you mostly have control over and this choice can drastically shape the outcome of your experience. Leandra, bizarrely, picks well.

I say bizarrely because its not the most promising start.  She and the man she choses to help her dispatch her virginity had been broken up for ‘approximately one year, five months, three weeks and two days’ after he had chewed up her heart and spat it out - several times. Despite this, and presumably recognizing something in said man that isn’t immediately obvious to the reader, she harangues him into being the person she loses her virginity to. See what I mean? This can’t end well.

But here is the part that got my attention. No matter that she and Abie are nothing more than technical friends by this point. No matter that there is every chance that once the deed is done, and having had no prior experience of just how much the having of sex can bend one’s mind and emotions, when she arrives at his apartment at virginity loss o’clock, he has taken the time to line his living room, the hallway, the bedroom, in fact, his entire apartment with lit candles to celebrate this momentous occasion and to give it extra gravitas. Corny? Maybe. Sweet? I think so. Thoughtful? Absolutely yes. And there is the clue: thoughtfulness.

One word that packs a big punch. And whilst it might seem obvious to you and I with the benefit of hindsight, sadly it’s not always the most obvious quality to inspire the average teenager. Ergo Leandra is ahead of the curve because one thing I have come to know over the years of reading your stories is that you can’t go wrong when you do it with someone who actually gives a shit about you - and someone who has the foresight to go out and purchase that many candles and light them cares about the outcome of your experience. And whilst I don’t want to get all Jane Austen on you because I believe there are many more important moments in a woman’s life asides – and, I guess, as well as - finding someone to marry, reader, she does actually end up marrying him.

Furthermore, I cannot deny that the romantic in me wished it so all the way through the book. Or at least that they would get back together. Marriage is a minor detail in my view. But I did enjoy the wedding outfit very much.

Finally, I’m not suggesting this pyrotechnical gesture be your benchmark younger readers. It could be impractical to sit around waiting for the one human being who is prepared to break the bank and attempt to set their entire living space alight for you. But its equivalent wouldn’t hurt. And if anyone has some real life examples, I would love to hear them *thinks back to own experience and finds it sadly lacking*….however, like Leandra, it did at least inspire a book!

*the finca owner’s wife fed The World’s Most Annoying Cat twice from her plate at a local restaurant. It found out where they lived, came to visit and it has not left since. True story.