Define “Virginity”

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2000-2002

If you read that previous chapter carefully, you may have noticed an omission. I did not mention Jack’s penis in my vagina, for good reason — we didn’t do that. In fact, we still considered ourselves virgins, despite all the nudity, genital stimulation, fluids, and orgasms. 

We talked about everything, so naturally the topic of intercourse came up in conversation. We desired each other, obviously. We were in love.  Intercourse felt like a natural next step. It was how things were done, but we had reservations.

I’d been brought up believing sex was a penis in a vagina. I’d been told repeatedly that sex outside of marriage was a sin. I worried about the state of my immortal soul. Nevermind that I got fingered four nights a week only to have him shoot his load into my mouth for our grand finale. Something felt wrong about us having intercourse, and I told this to Jack.

Jack responded with his own apprehensions. If our parents found out, they’d become even more strict about surveillance. And what if we got pregnant? We had big plans for the future.  A baby wasn’t on our agenda for years yet.

Our mutual admission of not wanting to put the P in the V almost felt like a breakup. Part of me wished Jack would try to convince me that it was okay, but no. Instead, Jack assumed his role as the disciplined guardian of all that’s best for us. It wasn’t never, he reassured me, it was not yet. Standing in the privacy of my parents’ garage, he looked me in the eyes and told me that he planned to marry me someday. Sex would come, but we had to be patient.

In the meantime, Jack and I proceeded to perform pretty much every other sex act two teenagers in the AOL age could conceive of. We continued to utilize the SUV, our hands, and our mouths. We also seized other opportunities as they arose.

When Jack’s parents went out of town for a weekend, I spent a night at Jack’s house, lying to my parents that I was staying with a girl friend. Jack and I imbibed in too much of the whiskey we’d somehow obtained while watching a poorly made porn and then attempting anal sex. We hadn’t yet figured out lube, so that ended quickly. We did, however, make use of a miniature baseball bat, covered with a condom, to practice penetrating my vagina. A rudimentary sex toy, brought to you by the imaginations of two drunk and horny high schoolers. 

We did not put his penis in my vagina, but we were still sexually satisfied aplenty, so that begs the question — what is sex, anyways? Jack and I have been through numerous sexual situations over our years together, but after our years of “fooling around” sans intercourse, sex has become hard to define.

Is it sex when I’m on my period and don’t want to take out my tampon, so I use my vibrator on my clit while Jack whacks off onto my belly button? Is it sex when I orgasm from repeatedly grinding against my friend in the hot tub, both of us still wearing our swimsuits? Or is it only sex once that guy and I get naked an hour later upstairs, him first fingering me and then cumming on my tits as I caress his balls? What about girl on girl? Is it sex when another girl and I use our sex toys in front of each other? Is it sex when a girl and I take turns fingering each other? What if we perform cunnilingus on each other — does that count?  Or does none of this count, since there was no penis in vagina? What’s sex, what’s sexual activity, and who really cares as long as everyone is consenting and experiencing the pleasure they desire?

But I digress. The point is, Jack and I were sexually satisfied while remaining “virgins” for years. This would lay the foundation of our sexual intimacy with creativity, communication, and a focus on pleasure and connection, rather than just fucking to cum.

In time, we also discovered that novelty is important. After two years, our New Relationship Energy started to wear off; fingering and blowjobs were starting to become same-old.

I was in the grade above Jack, so I graduated and went away to college first. I’d chosen a college two hours away long before Jack and I started dating. I regretted my choice that first year, but Jack assured me that it would be worth the wait. He gave me an understated diamond ring to symbolize that he’d marry me now if we weren’t so damn young. 

When he joined me at college the next fall, we spent more time together than most married couples, including us today. We arranged to live in the same dormitory, down the hall from each other. We scheduled our classes to maximize our time together. We arranged our work shifts in the library so we’d be near each other then, too. We carefully monitored our roommates’ schedules to maximize our midday romp time in one of our Twin XL dorm beds, ideally followed by a nap intertwined in the nude.

As our relationship matured, adult ideals also emerged. I no longer had any moral qualms about sex before marriage. I didn’t see what was spiritually wrong with Jack and I consummating our love, because it was love. It was beautiful, natural, consensual, pleasurable. We had every intention of being married as soon as it made sense; we were as committed as we could be. 

Plus, the college health center openly handed out condoms and prescribed the Pill without insurance. Five dollars a month and I was guaranteed to be baby-free. 

The thing about not having actual intercourse for two years was that we built it up to be big. Like, Pussy on a Pedestal big. We didn’t consider what we’d been doing “real” sex, and if this was real love, shouldn’t we be having real sex? We started talking about intercourse again, nonstop. We made plans to “do it right.” We wanted it to be special. 

Plans can create amazing anticipation, but they can also create stifling pressure. We had great expectations for a romantic, soulful evening together. A consummation of the love that we’d grown over those years together. A performance was on the line.

We were only nineteen. We had experience with each other, but not enough to know that sex is rarely perfect. It’s not what you see in the movies, whether it be a rom com or a porn. It’s challenging for most couples, whether they’ve been together two years or twenty, to broach the idea of a new thing to try in bed, and then actually do it. There are bound to be bumps in the road.  Now we know that half the fun is trusting each other to work through the issues that arise, but then…

We planned to go college-style classy, not in a dorm or in a vehicle, but rather a Best Western forty minutes from campus. We splurged for the Jacuzzi room. I bought lingerie. We went out to dinner at the Olive Garden. We were nervous, trying to act natural, and we were killing the mood.

By the time we got back to the hotel, sensually stripped down, and used the aforementioned Jacuzzi, we were completely not ourselves. It didn’t help that on the way to the hotel I realized that I forgot to pack my birth control pills, and nonchalantly threw that little tidbit out during our already strangely awkward car ride. We had visions of consummating our relationship in an epic way. This was bound to go badly. 

It was supposed to go…wine, bath, strawberries, candles…but nope. Did you know that guys don’t get aroused when they get nervous? Or when there’s a ton of pressure? This is not something that nineteen-year-old girls understand, even if they’ve been in a relationship with said teenage boyfriend for years. 

Do you know how girls feel when they can’t get a guy hard? That’s right…vicious. Bitchy. Emotional.

After our bath, we spent what felt like hours trying to arouse Jack enough to physically complete the act. He was nervous enough, and now he had visions of pregnancy floating through his head thanks to my Pill comment. I had high standards, and he knew it. Pressure, suffocating pressure.

We wanted extra protection, so we brought condoms and spermicide, but they were like little deal breakers themselves. Every time Jack got hard, attempting to don a condom made him soft. I assured him that we could forgo the condom, that the spermicide and my months on the Pill would suffice.  But then the spermicide felt funky on my lady bits and I couldn’t endure the burning.

Long story short, “it” didn’t happen. 

We fought. I cried. Wasn’t I good enough? Was I a bitch for putting all this pressure on him? Why didn’t he try harder? In our frustration, we forgot how to properly communicate. We administered blame instead of empathy. We went to bed unsatisfied.

Intercourse had become a task to complete instead of an act to enjoy. We had forgotten ourselves in our rush to lose our virginity.

The next morning, we woke up next to each other, naked, and whispered our apologies. We agreed to put this behind us; this wasn’t going to be our story. 

When we walked back into Jack’s dorm room, his roommate immediately read the expressions on our faces. “Too much buildup?” he asked. He had more intercourse experience, and his straightforward attitude made us feel better. It’s not easy to share your sexual frustrations with others, but it feels good to be seen and made to feel normal.

Jack and I realized that we were still us. We were still in love. We’d have sex when we were ready, willing, and in the mood. 

We made plans, again. We were cautiously optimistic about a Take Two. For Valentine’s Day, two months later, we booked another hotel room at the same Best Western, sans Jacuzzi. Our goal this time was privacy and togetherness, not some sort of inflated movie-style romance.

The minute we walked into our run-of-the-mill room, Jack pounced on me. “Just let me do it now, and we’ll have a great night,” he said. 

I considered. I didn’t have my cute underwear on yet. I hadn’t yet done my nighttime makeup, nor was the lighting quite right. We hadn’t even folded down the comforter. 

But I saw no reason to drag it out any longer. I nodded, and Jack pushed me back on the bed while wrestling us out of our clothes. We kissed just long enough to make Jack’s cock hard and my pussy wet. Then he grabbed a condom. 

His penis started to wilt in the presence of the latex. 

“Don’t use it,” I insisted. “I’ve been taking my Pill like clockwork. It’s okay.”

He hesitated for a moment, then tossed the condom aside. We kissed and caressed and brought back his erection. As soon as it was ready, he pushed into me.

It didn’t hurt. There wasn’t blood. His cock felt different than his fingers had. Thicker, bigger, straighter, deeper, more all consuming. There was pressure inside me, and I felt full.

“Are you okay?” he asked. I smiled. I was great. We readjusted, moving our legs and arms and bodies until we found the position that worked best.

In the missionary position, his face was directly above mine, allowing eye contact while we shared the air between our mouths. His chest loomed slightly above mine, and his legs were between mine. I wrapped my legs around him, flattening my lower back against the mattress. I moved my hands to his ass so that I could direct both the depth and rhythm of his thrusts. His groin rubbing against my clit with his cock deep inside me was a new sensation, one that would soon emerge as my favorite way to experience orgasm. 

We were one. All felt right with the world.

“Does it feel good?” I managed to moan. 

In response, he came. “Don’t worry, I’ll be able to do that again later,” he promised as he pulled out. He wasn’t wrong. We spent the rest of that night and the next morning trying out every position we could think of, only taking a brief break to eat at Macaroni Grill for dinner and then to enjoy the leftovers the next morning.

We thought we’d reached the pinnacle of sex, but we were still young. Sex doesn’t have a pinnacle, but rather a series of peaks. At that point, we didn’t see the sheer abundance that was still left to explore, but we knew that this was going to be a regular thing. Fucking had proved its own type of fun.

No matter how you look at virginity, we were not virgins anymore.