“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier for me to be a virgin if I didn’t own a television set.
One day I had the worst experience of my television viewing life: my mother forgot to pay the cable bill. Fox, the only channel with clear reception, was playing “Melrose Place.” Amanda and Jake were having passionate sex everywhere—the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom, the pool, even the laundry room. With every kiss, I was drawn in.
I wanted what Amanda had—the ability to indulge her lust without any consequences. She never gave a thought to getting pregnant or getting a disease.
I clutched the padding of my sofa, trying not to let sexual thoughts enter my body. “I will not succumb to this force,” I told myself. “I will delete the thoughts and I will not let myself become aroused.”
The next night, I flipped to a “90210” rerun, hoping for another steamy scene. Instead, I watched Brenda stress out. She had lost her virginity to Dylan on prom night and now she thought she was pregnant.
“I thought we did everything right, Dylan,” Brenda sobbed.
“It will be alright, Bren,” he responds, and they hug. It turns out she’s not pregnant after all. Just like a fairy tale, Brenda lives happily ever after.
Too bad I don’t live in a TV world
If I was raised by TV, I’d think that sex was no big deal, and that if anything bad happened, it would be resolved within two episodes. But I know I can’t win. I’ll always lose something, whether it be my virginity, my health, or my emotional well-being.
Believe it or not, one of the main reasons I am a virgin is because I met this judge when I was 12. He was my best friend’s uncle. He asked me what I would do with my life. I just looked up at him like he was a god in J. Crew clothes, this man who had everything I wanted—a loving family, friends and a successful professional life. He went to Princeton and Stanford Law School. And he had time to talk to me, some little girl he’d never met before.
Suddenly I saw that I could be like that someday. I could be a Supreme Court Justice. Or win an Oscar for a screenplay, or a Pulitzer for my writing. I could have time for everything, time for a career, time for a family—this really happy life he had. I could look back in my old age and not regret anything. Somehow in that casual five-minute conversation, I felt like he was handing me my destiny.
Having a destiny is not easy when you’re in high school. You see everyone around you ditching school, taking drugs, forming relationships and getting into trouble. I could have gone that way. I could have gone to a lot of parties and gotten drunk. I could have slept around to be popular. But it didn’t seem like it was worth it to me.
Not only would I have to sacrifice my future dreams, but I’d have to be willing to be tossed around like some boy’s plaything. I saw it happening all around me: every relationship ended in “The Pit,” the disastrous end, the bitter moment when he stops talking to you and you realize you were never in love, and you meant nothing to him.
It starts with a smile, a wink or flirting. Then there’s trading of phone numbers. She waits, sweating, by the phone. He finally calls. Then the first date, probably a movie. She calls everybody in her address book to spread the news, while he tells his best friend, hinting that he hit a home run when he didn’t even get to third base.
Sooner or later, they end up in bed
For a while, everything is perfect. He’s a gentleman and she’s a lady. “So, are we an item?” they ask each other. About a week later, “Can we have sex NOW?” Sooner or later, the answer is yes. Otherwise, the relationship will end.
And then they begin their descent into the Pit. She’s madly in love and he wants sex madly. But then it becomes routine. The fire dies down into a wisp of smoke. All they do is have sex. What else is there to do?
I knew three girls who reached this point and asked that question. One got pregnant, paid for her own abortion and the guy never spoke to her again. Another decided not to speak to her boyfriend again, and he agreed. The last one gave her boyfriend another shot and he blew it, as usual.
All these cases had one thing in common: the girl took the blame. She was the one that other classmates labeled as “trash,” “slut” or “stupid.” Meanwhile the guy walked away, his dignity intact.
There’s another girl in the corner of the school who’s being harassed also. She’s called “desperate,” “loser” and “pathetic.” She’s rumored to be a lesbian because she goes to school dances with girls as dates. It’s not because she’s unattractive, has high moral values or is extremely religious. It’s because she’s a virgin. That girl has always been me.
Either way, society judges me negatively. If I did have sex, I would be rejected and denounced as a whore. If I don’t have sex, people will tell me, “You just can’t get a guy. Face reality.”
Sometimes I wish I could be crude like guys are
Sometimes I wish I could transform into a guy. I wish I could sashay into a bar and buy off a girl with a $5 drink. I could advertise myself with “Hey baby, take a ride on me.” I could take a girl home, throw her on my leather sofa and command her like a slave. I could grind and pounce on her frail, weak body and not worry about getting her pregnant or being called a tramp. I could have this girl for one night and kick her out the next without worrying about her, because as long as I’m satisfied, that’s all that matters.
Of course, I’m not a guy. I’m a girl, yearning for a date that’s like a scene out of “Happy Days,” where the guy opens doors for me, pays the bill and takes me home, expecting nothing more. I know it won’t happen.
Instead I have a few friends. I have peace of mind. Nobody is spreading rumors about what I did with whom. I don’t have to worry about getting a disease, or who I got it from. I’m not sabotaging my future. If anything bad happens to me, it’s because of bad luck, not because of something I’ve done. I respect the choices that I’ve made and I don’t regret anything. When I look back, I won’t pin my faults and bad experiences on myself by saying, “All because I had sex.””