Despite my current status of affairs, I wasn’t always celibate. In fact, there was a point in my life when I was having lots of sex.
Coitus infinitus.
Pornstar sex.
Sex that makes Kim Kardashian look like Mother Theresa.
Ok. Maybe that’s not exactly true, but I did have a boyfriend and we did have sex.
In order to make sense of this long dry spell, I figured I should start at the beginning of my sexual history.
I lost my virginity to a boy named Graham. He was a wealthy fratboy, exactly like you would expect a boy named Graham to be.
Before we had sex, back when I first met him, he seemed too good to be true. He was a living, breathing Ken doll with a perfect six-pack. He was mysteriously tan for it being February in Ohio. The first time my female friends met him they commented that he was too hot for words. Truthfully, he was too hot for me. Way out of my league. He only wore argyle sweaters and polo shirts. I wear sweatpants. In public. To the mall.
Graham was a very serious and rigid person. A man of routine. He ate chicken and broccoli every single night and laid out his clothes for the next day. Super high-maintenance.
He was obsessed with his image. As a result, he had an incredible body, an impeccably clean apartment, and was perfectly charming when he needed to be. The crowd he hung out with looked like they stepped out of a J. Crew ad. I’m more of an ad for “People of Walmart.”
In college, he was the President of his fraternity. He wanted me to go to their five-year reunion “prom.” That’s the actual word he used. I should have known it wasn’t going to work.
When I was twenty, I wanted to have sex with someone I loved. At twenty-four, I wanted to have sex with someone who wouldn’t give me an STD and who would get breakfast with me in the morning.
I needed to trust and respect them but I didn’t need to love them. Graham was a pretty good solution. I knew he respected me and that he was clean. In my book, that was solid enough ground to do the deed.
More importantly, I was physically and emotionally ready.
After waiting almost a quarter of a century to let a penis enter my vagina, I had built unrealistic expectations of how it was going to go down. I anticipated rose petals on the sheets, and a passionate all-night romp. I imagined him carrying me into the room and caressing my face lovingly while Barry White played in the background.
But life’s not a freaking RomCom and truthfully it was kind of anti-climatic. After heavy making out and fooling around he asked, “Are you sure tonight’s not the night…?”
I thought about it for a second and replied, “Yea. Sure. Ok.” Just like that.
“You sure?” He asked lighting a single candle on the night table and pulling out a condom.
“Yep. Let’s do it.” I replied kissing his arm.
I wont gross you all out by going into details, I’ll just say that he was gentle and overall the experience was A-okay.
When it was over, I commemorated by sending a mass text to all my friends that simply said:
“The Eagle Has Landed.” Keeping it classy.
And just like that, after 24 years of waiting, the deed was done.
***
Stay tuned for Part 2. “Costumes are for Couples Who are Bored”
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