In
middle school, I was pretty much an outcast. In my class of a whopping 48
students, it was pretty obvious who the popular people were. And everyone else was
either friends with each other, or not friends with anyone. I fell into the
last category. Besides my best friend Gen, I pretty much braved middle school
alone. When I got to high school, I somehow came across my group of six
girlfriends who are still some of my best friends to this day. We were an odd
group to say the least, I being the black sheep of all of us. They were all
skinny and blonde, only bought clothes from Hollister or Abercrombie, and had
ways of getting booze and cigarettes with the click of a text message at age
14. I met them all while attending a mutual friend’s party, where I showed up
alone and hoped for the best. For one reason or another, they all took me under
their wing, so to speak, and I was in the group.
For
the next four years, the biggest thing that divided us as girls was sex. I,
being awkward, chubby and more interested in reading novels than going out and
getting drunk on a Saturday night, viewed sex as something a million miles away
from where I was. Yet, by the time we were in tenth grade, all six girls had
already not only lost their virginity, but also had sex with multiple guys. I
somehow made it out of high school without too much scrutiny from everyone;
after all, I wasn’t completely oblivious to any physical act. I had “fooled
around” with people, but for some reason just didn’t see the point in having
sex at an age where I barely knew who I was.
When
I came to college, I found a great group of friends who I immediately felt
myself around. I no longer felt like the “black sheep” in my beautiful group of
girl friends; I had a huge group of people around me who liked the same things
I did, who listened to the same music that I did, and who supported me, even
through my (still) awkward stage at age 18. With college came new boys and new
experiences, but as the first couple years passed by faster than I thought they
could, I still hadn’t had sex. It wasn’t like I announced it or made it known;
if people found out or asked about it, I was upfront and honest. I felt that I
had nothing to hide. I was often met with a shocked face or a tentative
question. “Are you like… waiting until marriage or something?” I always smiled
and told them no, that I was just waiting. Simple as that. I didn’t understand
why people were so concerned and fascinated by the fact that I was a college
student who hadn’t had sex yet, just
because I didn’t feel that I was ready yet.
My
virginity ended up being a deal breaker for two different guys that I dated
while in college. Once they found out that I hadn’t had sex, they shied away
and seemingly wanted nothing to do with me. At first my confidence was
shattered. Was I some unwanted, unworthy, unsexy being just because I hadn’t
felt ready to have sex yet? Who’s to say I didn’t want to, it just hadn’t been
the right time? I consoled myself with the fact that if a guy wasn’t interested
in me for something I hadn’t even done
yet, they weren’t worth my time anyway.
Flash
forward to my senior year in college. 21 years old and still a virgin. I met my
current boyfriend in October of this year, and was up front with him from the
beginning about the fact that I (shocker) had not had sex yet. I had never viewed sex as the “be all end all” of my innocence, despite
the fact that my Catholic school upbringing had made me believe this until I
came to college. I didn’t think that I needed to be married to have sex. I
didn’t think that I would burn in hell or get pregnant or that I would be a
completely different person. The fact of the matter was that I had just never felt ready. If sex
wasn’t the single most important thing in sexually active people’s lives, why
was my lack of it supposed to be the biggest thing in mine? I became annoyed by
the fact that my virginity was seen as a commodity; that I was somehow strange
or awkward or not mature enough to handle something that everyone (yes,
everyone) that I knew personally had already done. Being the only virgin that I
knew of made me feel alienated in a way that I hated. Was I any less of a
person, any less of a woman, because I hadn’t had sex yet?
I
always told myself that I would not have sex until I was ready. I realize that
“ready” for me and “ready” for other people can be two completely different
things, which is why I never based my readiness for sex off of when my friends
started having it. However, I have to wonder: were they actually “ready”? Is
anyone ever actually ready for something that society puts such a huge weight
on?
I knew that for me
personally, I wanted my first time to be with someone who I loved and trusted;
someone I knew would not leave in the morning and never speak to me again (I’m
not saying that this is the case with everyone; I just had heard too many
stories about how this had happened to people I knew and didn’t want it to
happen to me).
I didn’t hold onto my virginity with
white-knuckled fists because it was extremely important to me; I held onto my
virginity because I hadn’t met anyone who I felt comfortable enough with to
share that large part of my life. But
why is virginity viewed as such a large part of our life? Maybe it doesn’t have to be.
After
my boyfriend and I had been dating for a couple months, I finally felt prepared
to have sex. Once I did, I did not feel different. I did not feel happier,
freer, relieved, or sad. Instead, I felt content that I had waited to be with
someone who made me feel at ease with myself and the situation, and that I
hadn’t had any hesitations with my decision. My journey into having a
sexual part of my life may be seen by most as unconventional. I have been
called “cautious” and “a late bloomer.” And the fact of the matter is that I am
completely content with that. I don’t understand the large pressure society has
put on girls and boys alike to lose their virginities, while at the same time
putting such a focus on “purity” and having something “taken away” from us as
women when we finally do have sex. I am extremely glad that I waited to have
sex with someone that I cared about, but I don’t think that the fact that I
hadn’t had sex needed to be an issue to anyone but me. So what if I was the
only virgin I knew for two years? Not being sexually active didn’t define me as
a person, just like I won’t let the change define me now.
The
article that inspired me to write about my own sexual experiences is called
“Why are adult virgins considered to be backwards in modern society?” I
completely related to the bewilderment of people who found out about my virgin
status, and couldn’t help but feeling like something is “wrong” with me. The
link is here: http://gmwilliams.hubpages.com/hub/Why-are-Adult-Virgins-Considered-to-be-Backwards-in-Modern-Society
So
why is virginity such a big deal in our society? Has it always been this way?
Why are we afraid to talk about it, or be okay with the fact that we have not
had as much sex as our peers? Why is such a private act something that has
become so public when we don’t necessarily want it to be?
