The V-Word (17 page)

That conversation didn't change my perception of my virginity but it did change my perception of my worth when it came to having sex. I didn't need to accept any offer that came my way. I deserved to choose the exact right partner for me—or not to make the choice at all. I was worth that.

My group of friends still talked sex, about the nights they went home to see their boyfriends or girlfriends and got to finally release the tension they'd built in each other's absence. Or they talked about where on campus they'd had sex and where they'd love to have sex before graduation. The boy I didn't have sex with said before graduation he wanted to have sex in the college president's house (a task I'd help him pull off senior year).

But I didn't worry about my own sex life. There wasn't anyone in my immediate world who interested me romantically, let alone sexually. I could take care of myself as needed.

And then spring rolled around.

My friend—the boy I knew online but still hadn't met—debated with me over the course of that year about where he wanted to attend college. He'd come to like the school I was at and decided he wanted to visit campus. Not only was this a chance to see if the school fit, it was a chance for us to meet and see if we fit, too. Pressure without pressure.

As his visit drew closer, I told my group of friends about him, how we'd met in a writing forum and started talking years ago, how we'd never actually met. They asked what we planned to do when he got here, if he'd be spending the night with me. I was sincere when I said he'd do all of the routine campus visit things: go to a class, stay with a host student, eat in the cafeteria. I thought it would be fun if I could steal him for a few hours and have some time alone together in person for the first time. He and I had talked about sex plenty of times before, but it wasn't on my radar as something we'd actually
do
when we met for the first time.

The night he arrived, he dropped off his bags with his host and came to my room. I'd been nervous and excited, anxiously standing at my door looking out the peep hole, waiting to see his face for the first time in the flesh. There was no part of me worried he wouldn't be exactly who I'd gotten to know for four years. We'd exchanged photos and letters many times. I knew him almost as well as I knew myself.

But the first moment seeing him, having him in my room and in my space, was a surprise. He was full and present and more than I'd expected. When we hugged, he smelled good and felt better, softer even, than I imagined.

When we settled into the desk chairs in my room, he told me he had no plans for his night. Since there was a concert happening in the commons, we decided to go.

He and I exchanged glances and smiles, sitting close enough that our legs kept touching, setting off more glances, smiles. Excitement pulsed through my bones. I don't remember for the life of me who gave the concert. We stuck around until the end, bumping into more than a couple of my friends and making conversation that never once felt awkward or stilted, then headed toward my dorm.

It was a gorgeous, star-filled night. Rather than go inside to my room, I grabbed his hand and took him to my favorite spot: the bridge over the train tracks.

We had the place to ourselves. We walked to the middle of the bridge and stood side-by-side looking down at the tracks on the ground below. I told him how it felt to lie on my back when the train went by, how I could feel the wood planks rattle beneath me. About how when I needed to be alone, there was nowhere quieter than here.

The next train approached from the distance. We lay down and held hands as it barreled beneath us, laughing hard at the way the shaking bridge was terrifying and ticklish at the same time.

When we stopped to catch our breath from giggling, we leaned into one another and kissed.

We walked back to my dorm, electricity between our clasped hands. He wasn't going back to his host's room. My roommate was asleep in her top bunk, and the boy and I crawled into my bottom bunk. We kissed some more, kisses that were soft and hard, delicious and messy, before saying goodnight, both of us still in our clothes from the day. I'd shared a bed with other people before—guys and girls—but sharing it with him, especially after that kiss, was exciting.

I set the alarm so he could get up for the class he was visiting in the morning. But things didn't happen that way.

My roommate got up early and left, waking us before the alarm. After the door shut behind her, we lay facing each other, quiet. In that moment I knew, and so did he.

There was a spark.

The jar of condoms I'd been keeping sat inside my closet, and I grabbed the whole thing. Within minutes, his shirt and jeans were off, my shirt and shorts, too. He fumbled taking my bra off—the clasps a challenge for a rookie—and we lay chest to chest. The air was thick and warm, sweet and still. My skin flushed. Tingled.

I made the first move, grabbing a condom and handing it to him. He took off his boxers and rolled it on, while I slipped off my underwear. He was a virgin, too, which I knew from years of talking to one another. It was amazing how secure I felt with him, how being naked was the last thing on my mind. He wasn't judging me or analyzing the way I looked—and neither was I. My body wasn't in the way of the experience; my body was an important and worthy part of it.

We lay down and he slid inside me slowly. He was careful not to push too hard, asking if I was okay. Was he hurting me? Was this uncomfortable? Did he need to stop? Could he go a little harder or faster?

I was okay—better than okay. I didn't need him to stop because it felt good. I was relaxed, ready enough that he could move faster if he wanted to. Nothing was uncomfortable, though it was weird to have another person's body inside of my own. It was strange, but nice—really nice—to have his hands and mouth on my breasts. The insecurity I had about myself and my flaws didn't matter; he made me feel perfect the way I was. I experienced pleasure, all softness and tenderness and lightness, and I let myself have it.

While he pushed in and out of me, I became less aware of the physical act and more conscious of everything else: how calm my mind and emotions were, how right making this choice felt, how funny it was the bedsprings were so loud and that I hoped no one in the hall could hear. Maybe I didn't care if they did.

After he came, we triple-checked the condom to make sure it hadn't broken. I hadn't orgasmed, and he turned to using his fingers and his tongue to explore spaces of me I'd never shared with anyone else. There was no shame or vulnerability; it was exciting to be in this moment with him, to give and to take. When he'd tried for a while but wasn't successful at making me come, I told him it was fine if we crawled back under the covers and held each other. I felt good physically and emotionally.

The alarm went off a little while later and after another kiss, he went back to his host's room to change and get started on the rest of his college visit.

I skipped my class that day and settled into one of the seating areas in the commons, not far from where he and I had seen the concert the night before. I didn't want to be completely alone, and the quiet buzz of people going about their own business gave me the opportunity to sit with what happened. Was I different now? How would not being a virgin change me? Would it change me at all?

My thoughts returned to the afternoon in my room when my friend told me he respected me too much to sleep with me. I got to make the choice where and how I lost my virginity and I didn't have to accept an offer just to get it over with or because I claimed that it really didn't matter to me.

In that moment, I realized the autonomy I'd granted myself. I chose not to have sex with a friend in exchange for something silly like doing well on a test, even though I was comfortable with the idea. I chose to wait for the boy who I'd known and cared about for a long time.

The
where
and the
when
and the
how
didn't empower me, making the choice for myself did.

I
f you've come this far, then you've got a pretty broad picture of what sex can be like—hot, meaningful, cringe-worthy, gross, forgettable, magnificent, empowering, transformative. There's a reason so many of us spend a lot of time thinking about and dreaming of sex. It is powerful—not to be taken lightly but maybe not necessarily taken too seriously either.

You get to express your sexuality in the way that's right for you. So take charge. Be the boss of your sexual self. Be the woman you want to be.

If that seems daunting, that's okay. I've got your back. The next section is jam-packed with resources. I interviewed four expert sex educators—Al Vernacchio, Pepper Schwartz, Jo Langford, and Amy Lang—and asked them to share what they've learned after years of working with young people. Consider this part of the book a map you can use to chart your own course through the steamy waters of sex.

Know Your Body

All the Parts

Start with the body.

All those curves and folds and slickery bits are worthy of your attention. Labia, mons pubis, vagina, clitoris—this is the territory of pleasure, and it's good to know your way around. Lots of women have never really looked at all their sexual parts. Sure it's hard to see down there, but the bigger issue is that many of us have the idea that looking is off limits.

But if you have plans to invite someone else into your nether regions, you should be able to get up close and personal with your own lady bits. Spending quality time with your body is a good precursor to sharing it with anyone else. If you need a diagram to find your way, there's a good one in
S-E-X: The All-You-Need-To-Know Progressive Sexuality Guide to Get You through High School and College
by Heather Corinna.

Use a mirror. Use your fingers. Explore.

Consider it information gathering, critical for sexual success.

Is That Normal?

Many of us wonder whether we look normal. Are my labia too long? Too dark? Are vaginas supposed to look like
that
? What about all my pubic hair? These concerns about the appearance of our sexual parts are exacerbated by the pervasiveness of pornography. Images of shaved, oiled, and surgically altered women are everywhere. Just as runway models don't reflect what the majority of women look like, neither do women in pornography.

Real women—and their sexual anatomy—come in all colors, shapes, and sizes. If you're worried that things look weird down there, check out the books
Body Drama: Real Girls, Real Bodies, Real Issues, Real Answers
by Nancy Redd,
Femalia
by Joani Blank, and
I'll Show You Mine
by Wrenna Robertson. These books feature full-color photographs of many different vaginas. Yours will fit right in.

Popping the Cherry

Sex educator Al Vernacchio says, “Misconceptions [about sex] are borne of misinformation or lack of information.”
²
This confusion often starts with a maligned little bit of flesh called the hymen. The story goes that girls are born with a membrane covering the vaginal opening. First-time penis-in-vagina sex (penetrative sex) is supposed to hurt because an erection is bashing its way through this barrier. Blood on the sheets means the deal's been done. Proving virginity is as easy as prodding around up there to make sure the blockade is intact.

Except it doesn't work like this.

Like all parts of the female anatomy, there is a lot of variation from hymen to hymen. In some women this thin bit of tissue covers almost all of the vaginal opening. (It certainly doesn't cover the whole thing or we couldn't have periods.) Using a tampon or inserting a finger may stretch the tissue and cause discomfort. Other women may find no evidence of a hymen at all.

Like all the tissues down there, the hymen responds to arousal by becoming slick and elastic as you get turned on. Amy Lang says, “If everything is
all systems go
, [first-time sex] will feel good, not overwhelmingly painful.”
³

For a visual demo (and a lot more great info about sex) check out Laci Green's “You Can't POP Your Cherry” vlog post on her YouTube channel,
Sex
+ (
www.youtube.com/user/lacigreen
).

Biological Sex vs. Gender

Biological sex is determined by sexual anatomy. Genetic makeup in tandem with conditions during fetal development influence how our genitals appear. A person can have a typically female reproductive system or a typically male reproductive system. When a combination of male, female, or ambiguous characteristics is present, the person is called intersex.

Gender is a whole different concept. Gender is how we identify ourselves. This is the core of who we are and is influenced by our intellectual and emotional selves as well as by cultural gender norms and expectations. Gender identity can occur on a spectrum, not just
woman
or
man
. People who identify on a part of the gender continuum that lies between woman and man often call themselves
genderqueer
.