I’m not a virgin.
No, hold back the gasps of amazement, I know it’s unbelievable. I am 24 years old and I have had sex.
To me, this statement means marvelous little. The lovin’ sessions I have had has always been nice, never earth-shattering, but nice. But to talk about my sexual status is something I’ve always done in the same tone as saying “I like Crest toothpaste, the kind with the sparkles.” It has never meant much of anything to me. It’s not some kind of feat, nor is it some kind of curse on my house. It just sort of is.
Through the years, I have come into contact with people who have not actually had sex. Maybe it was because they didn’t believe in sex before marriage due to their religious beliefs. Or due to a childhood trauma. Maybe the opportunity never presented itself. Or just because. I dunno. Never really mattered much to me either.
I consider it much in the same vein as my statements about having had sex, to be something like, “I like cheese omelets for breakfast” or “purple should be a flavor, dammit!” It’s another nothing statement. I’m full of them.
So what? Big deal. Who cares?
Pashmina informed me that there was this blogging site for virgins over 25 so OF COURSE I had to check it out.
Holy balls, these people are OBSESSED by their virginal status. Totally obsessed. Freakishly obsessed. Like they cannot stop thinking about it ever.
I dunno. If you want to Not Have The Sex, that’s cool, I don’t see The Sex as all that Earth Shattering an event. I’ve never done heroin and I don’t think about how much I wish I could do it all day every day. There are plenty of other things besides The Sex that you can do.
Then again, this is coming from a woman practicing “asstinence.”
I’m saving my ass for marriage
It’s hot outside, now, because I live in Chicago where we have 2 seasons: Ass Hot and Ass Cold. And now, to make matters worse, this is my first experience with non-central air. We have several window units in the bedrooms, but the rest of our condo is sticky, muggy, and hot. The window units are pretty pathetic, too, because I think they’re from about 1946 and blow cool air maybe 12% of the time.
I’m just dying to see the electric bill.
I have a sauna in my armpits, they drip and cause my freshly applied deodorant to smell vaguely like cat piss. And my boobs? Well, they’re two life preservers adrift in a sea of salty sweaty juice. My wet hair dries in about 0.45 seconds upon leaving the shower.
But the worst, the ABSOLUTE worst part about living right now, is what the heat turns my vag into. Crotchal hygiene? Out the window. Clean cootch? Gone quicker than you can say “summer curtains” I feel like I’m sitting in pee. If this is what getting old is like, SHOOT ME.
I’m wondering if this is a call for FDS to the rescue but that could be the dehydration talking. I don’t know that I could actually handle buying or using.
Buying ass-pads? No problem. Buying condoms? Again, no biggie. Whatever, it means that I’m getting some ass.
Crotch spray, I don’t know, that just seems kinda, gross. I don’t think I want a lemon-scented vagina because that just seems a little weird to me. Like I’ve just had The Sex with Mr. Clean and he left his calling card as a Thank You for Coming.
Besides, it’s announcing to the entire pharmacy that you have a stinky cooter. Which, yeah, KINDA shameful.
I’d much rather tell the Internet.
When I was 15, I had this soft spot in my heart for boys in bands, specifically, the lead singers. I guess I didn’t really care if they COULD sing, so much as if they DID sing. These boys were “sweet” and “deep,” they could feel pain and express emotion, and do sexxy things like lick the microphone while singing. It was a completely stupid school-grrl fantasy, one in which I frequently indulged and thankfully broke myself of later on.
On the rebound from another boy in a band, I met Ken, who sang in a band called 7 Times Around. The name was super deep, as it meant he had been “through the ringer” with 7 other girls. You know, because at 15 everything is very, very important and relationships happen very quickly.
Well, Your Aunt Becky because dumb ass lucky number 8.
I knew he liked me because he gave me a necklace in the shape of a smiley face with a bullet hole through it’s head. Romantic, eh? That probably should have been my sign to run away, but because I am not only stupid but a masochist too, I stuck around. Not for very long, though, because Ken was a weenie and I knew it. I mainly dated him because, you know, I was trying to get over someone else.
Out of sight, out of mind.
A couple of months later, I’d made my friend Evan pick me up and drive me around in his car, and we were gossiping like a couple of bitches when he’s all, “What happened with you and Ken?”
And I was all, “Dude, I dumped him because he was fucking lame.”
And he was all, “No way.”
I could tell by the way that he said it that he didn’t really believe me.
“Why?” I asked him. “What have you heard?”
“Well,” he said conspiratorially. “You should know that Ken’s been going around telling anyone who will listen that the reason HE dumped YOU is because you wouldn’t put out.”
“Oh?” I said, my eyebrow arched, annoyed. We hadn’t even come close to having The Sex.
“Wait,” he said. “It gets better. You wouldn’t put out, Ken tells us, because you had a yeast infection.”
Internet, I will tell you that I laughed until I cried. Whatever Ken had been smoking, I want some of that.