What’s All the Fuss About Virginity?
Virginity means something different to every person — it’s really not our place to make assumptions about one another.
I write about virginity from time to time.
Because I’m an engaged, 26-year-old virgin.
And my wedding is in 4 months and I’m damn ready to have a lot of intercourse.
In the time I’ve written about my unique perspective on sex (a sex-positive feminist saving herself for marriage, and a passionate supporter of body autonomy for each and every woman to make her own f*cking choices for her own damn body), I’ve gotten quite a few questions inquiring about what this commitment I’ve made for myself looks like.
A few weeks ago, I got this question:
“What does your virginity mean to you? How would you feel if it was taken away from you?”
Um… excuse me?
Honestly, what kind of question is that?
“How would you feel if it was taken away from you?”
F*ck.
I challenge this, simply because you can’t just go around asking people that question.
- It’s none of your damn business — why do you feel entitled to that information?
- That’s a dangerous question to ask a woman — particularly when there are 1/3 odds that she has been sexually assaulted.
What does my virginity mean to me?
It means I hold my right to autonomy.
It means my consent matters.
It means that first and foremost, I keep my body for my own pleasure, before anyone else’s.
It means that no one else has a say or right to my body.
I can use it as I like.
I can join it to another person as I like.
I can keep it to myself as I like.
It also means that I’m not required to explain myself, unless I choose to. While I can appreciate this is a unique perspective, and people are intrigued with the details, I don’t have to explain why I’ve made this commitment.
Sheesh — I feel a little bit of déjà uu… of right, that’s because I’ve already written about this dumb sh*t before.
How would I feel if my virginity was taken away from me?
I really can’t get over how foolish a question that is.
Are you expecting my response to be shocking or something?
If my virginity was taken away from me, I have a good idea of how it would make me feel.
Because it actually almost happened.
My first boyfriend felt oddly entitled to me. Despite my unwillingness to hand over my virginity, he still wanted it for himself.
I wouldn’t give it to him willingly.
So he tried to rape it out of me.
Like usual, he was garbage at completing anything successfully. Lucky for me.
Still, as per the question, how would I feel if it were taken away for me? I can’t answer that for sure.
But I can tell you how I would feel if my virginity were almost taken away from me, by force:
I would feel violated, nonetheless. I would feel symptoms of PTSD, long after the assault. 5 years later, still, to be exact. I would suffer from periodic episodes of paranoia and general anxiety in my daily life.
The trauma of my sexual assault would affect my ability to work and run my business. I have an anxiety that is always bubbling under the surface, threatening to burst out and hijack my productivity or even sabotage my success and happiness at any given time.
After that night, my ex walked away annoyed because he still hadn’t secured my virginity.
I walked away with a lifetime of violation and trauma to accompany me from that moment.
Final word.
I would really like to stress that the conversation of “virginity” is no one else’s business but the holder of said virginity.
Religion and meddling loved ones try to make it a more collaborative discussion, but it’s really not (and this is coming from a committed Christian woman).
Sexuality is part of us — it makes up a piece of our identity, and it will play a powerful role in our entire lives.
There is nothing shameful about having a sexuality, talking about sexuality, or the owner of said sexuality in question making their own consenting choices of what they would like to do with their bodies.
In my 3 year relationship with my partner, who was not a virgin when we began dating, we often hear a similar sentiment from others:
“Poor guy. He’s a trooper. Does it not bother you that you’re depriving him sexually?”
That this sentiment isn’t shocking to me anymore, I’ve heard it a lot.
I appreciate the great concern for my partner’s sexual satisfaction, but regardless, his “being sexually deprived” is not a good reason to try and push my boundaries of consent.
My first boyfriend thought it was a good-enough reason, and that’s why he’s now my attempted rapist.
And for the record, there’s a lot of grey area between no physical contact and intercourse. We make a healthy habit of playing in that grey area, so my partner is well taken care of.
But thanks for your concern.
