We stumbled back from the club in the early hours of
Valentine’s Day. Drunk.
And now I bet you’re already thinking “Oh here we go
again, another one of those twenty first century good-for-nothings who wears
twelve inches of foundation and a crop top and shorts when it’s minus twenty
degrees outside”. Well, if you are thinking that; you are thinking wrong. I
was, in fact, only wearing 11 inches of foundation, and a low cut dress that just
about covered my bottom. It was minus nineteen degrees outside.
I’d known him for a month. It was a Friday night, we
hadn’t spoken since a minor disagreement on Sunday, and I hadn’t seen him for
two weeks. But in the true style of what I shall now refer to myself as “One
Too Many Becky”, I was, as usual, rather intoxicated. I knew he would be out,
and in my drunken state had already explained to my friends via Facebook group
chat that he was going to “be mine”. Of course this was, at the time, the
quadruple vodka and lemon squash talking. It was only later I would find out
that my drunken self had in fact correctly predicted the outcome of the night.
I’d (somehow) been granted entry into the club, and had
been inside for around half an hour. Both of the friends I arrived with were
already getting rather too friendly with two guys who were, admittedly,
reasonably good looking. So there I was, bottle of Smirnoff Ice in hand,
looking slightly awkward, drunk, and dancing by myself. I needn’t have worried
about not finding a man, because within two minutes I was eating the face of
another guy (and accidentally spilling my drink all over him). At this point I
would like to applaud myself for “pulling” a rather handsome young fellow, but
if I’m being brutally honest I cannot remember what he looked like at all.
Having taken a short kissing break to apologise for covering him in my drink,
it was then that I saw what I shall refer to as “The Guy”. Without saying a
word to Guy No. 1 who was to later return home smelling of lemons thanks to my
Smirnoff Ice spillage, I ran as fast as I could to see “The Guy”. I’m still
surprised I made it over to him without being mistaken for Usain Bolt at some
point along the way.
I will now backtrack. For those who don’t know, I’m
Becky, I’m 18 years old and I am a Psychology student. My longest relationship
lasted three weeks, and until I came to university, I was a virgin. A lot of my
friends were virgins; a lot of people in my year at school were virgins. And
even though I’m not a virgin anymore, I still absolutely hate the word virgin,
so I’m going to try to use it as little as possible.
It wasn’t until I came to university that I started to
become almost obsessed with the idea of having sex. It seemed like everyone had
already done it, and if they hadn’t, they were likely to be found alone in the
library with a face like a slapped arse, head buried in a book about “How To Care
For Your Hamster”, and a whole day’s worth of work lined up in front of them,
neatly planned out on the list they wrote using an inkwell and quill two weeks
prior to this day. I was wrong. Firstly because I’ve never spent enough time in
the library to be unfortunate enough to stumble across such a being, and
secondly because I started to meet a fair amount of people who, like me, had
never had sex.
At first it didn’t really bother me. Sure, I wouldn’t
have to drink a lot in the “Never Have I Ever” drinking game, because no, I had
never had sex with my boyfriend in a bush – I had never even had sex, never had
a proper boyfriend, and quite frankly can’t think of a nice enough looking bush
(careful…) to ever have sex in. But with the drinking came the nights out, and
with the nights out came the boys. I’d like to think I’m not the least
attractive person in the world, so admittedly will probably grab the attention
of a guy or two on most nights out. But I soon came to find that they pretty
much always want more than just a kiss.
“Will you come back to mine?”
“Are we going back to mine or yours?”
“Do you want to stay here or shall we leave now?”
To which my answer to all of those questions would always
be no.
I’d always told myself I would never have sex outside of
a relationship. Why should I compromise what I believe for a random guy I’ve
just met, when I’m drunk, when I have the potential to make irrational
decisions that I could regret in the future? But then for some reason, things
changed and I started to have doubts about what I was (or wasn’t) doing. I
wondered what these guys were thinking when I turned down an offer of staying
at their place for the night. Could they tell I was a virgin? Were they going
to start insulting me for not putting out? Were they wondering why they’d
wasted the last ten minutes kissing me, only for me to turn down the offer of
sex? Am I quite simply a complete and utter loser?
Every time I went out, it got worse. I was no closer to
finding a boyfriend that I could give my virginity to, and was equally just as
far from finding a nice guy who, within the first five minutes of meeting me,
didn’t ask for a shag. I’m only 18 but for some reason I started to feel not
desperate, but like time was running out. I know now, and I even knew it back
then, that this is an absolutely ridiculous thought. Plenty of people are still
virgins at my age, and many of them are probably in no hurry to lose it. But
for me it was different. I don’t know why I did, and I’m highly embarrassed
about it, but on several occasions I did find myself crying over it. Sex is
clearly an important part of many peoples’ lives, and it’s not that I didn’t
know it was going to be talked about so much at university. I just didn’t
realise that not having had it would make me feel so shit about myself.
Personally, I didn’t mind being a virgin. I still don’t see how not having had
a penis in your vagina (or putting your penis in someone’s vagina) makes a
great deal of difference to your life. If sex wasn’t discussed around me on a
daily basis, I wouldn’t have felt so down about it. But it was the way that other people unintentionally put me down
about it. I’m sorry if you’re reading this (I won’t say the name), but as an
example, one of the defining moments for me was a comment made by one of my
flatmates. We hadn’t been at university for long, and were sitting outside
together at a bar, when his boyfriend arrived. I had met his boyfriend probably
only once or twice before, but he came over and sat with us and it wasn’t at all
awkward. Until, of course, a brief moment of silence. My flatmate, for some
reason, decided that the best way to fill the silence was to announce to his
boyfriend –
“Becky is a virgin.”
Those four words killed me.
I neither showed it in my face nor said anything, but I
just couldn’t understand why he had felt the need to say it. Had one of my
friends come to join us and there had been a moment of silence, would it have
been okay for me to say “[name] is gay?” He might think differently, but I
think not. I just couldn’t understand how being a virgin made me any different
to anyone else.
I will now fast forward to January, when I met “The Guy”.
We’d met on a night out at our Students’ Union and I thought he was absolutely
lovely. We stood and chatted while laughing at his mate who was attempting to
pull a girl, he asked for my number, and he didn’t even try to snog me or ask
me back to his place (incredible)! The next week we went on a date and I
couldn’t believe my luck. I thought the most wonderful person had just walked
into my life. We had so much in common, there was never an awkward moment of
silence, and for whatever reason I just really, really liked him. A week later
we went on our second date and I felt the same. Then, the next week, I saw him out
at the same club we always go to on a Friday night. We were both really drunk,
it was almost closing time, so he took me by the hand and we went back to his.
He’d already asked the dreaded virginity question before we left the club, so
we both knew where we stood. Once we were back at his house, we grabbed
something to eat and started making out. He assured me that he wouldn’t try
anything I wasn’t comfortable with, and he stuck to his word. I slept over, but
earlier that night he had told me that he had already slept with twelve people;
ten of which were one night stands. I didn’t know how to feel. For some reason
my opinion of him quickly changed. He’s not at all a bad person, but he wasn’t
the type of person I thought he was. He explained to me that having ended two
previous relationships on bad terms, he had told himself not to get into a
relationship at university. He didn’t want anything serious. I went home the
next day seeing him in a different light, and questioning myself again. Even
though I know he didn’t, I felt like he judged me for being a virgin. I slept
over his again the next night and everything I liked about him before came back
to me. However, as my current “body count” stood at zero, I just couldn’t get
over that number twelve!
I was meant to see him the next weekend, but he let me
down twice. I’d spoken to a lot of friends and even my Mum about it. They told
me that if I didn’t feel comfortable with the number of people he had slept
with, I shouldn’t see him anymore. Letting me down twice was a perfect excuse
to end it. I was reasonably blunt with him and told him not to come over, and
he never replied to my message.
Fast forward again! To my Usain Bolt impression across
the club, where I found him and despite me being a bitch and him not replying
to my message, he was surprisingly nice to me. Again, he grabbed my hand and we
left. This time we headed back to mine. Like before, he told me we didn’t have
to do anything if I didn’t want to. I went to the toilet and came back to find
he had already stripped down to his boxers. He took off my dress and my bra and
we started to kiss. Weirdly, I didn’t have a sudden “Oh my god I’m about to
lose my virginity” realisation. It might have been partly due to the fact I was
still quite drunk, but I felt completely relaxed, and most importantly, I felt
ready and it felt right. He asked if it was okay for him to take off my
underwear, I said yes, and the next thing I knew, we were having sex.
I’m not going to turn this into a rip-off of 50 Shades of
Grey, but to lighten the mood, I will list some embarrassingly funny things I (just
about) remember saying during my first sexual experience:
“In my vagina please, not my arsehole!”
“Yep, that’s my arsehole.”
“Do I smell?”
“Will it go up the wall?”
“Has my clit come off?!”
I know that, despite clearly being drunk, this was
actually the best way for me to lose my virginity. I lost it to someone I know,
someone I like, someone I trust and someone who respects me. Since being at
university I had started to realise that, as stupid as it sounds (and yes
please feel more than free to judge me), I would have to be drunk in order to
have sex for the first time. As a person who suffers waves of anxiety and lacks
a substantial amount of self-confidence especially at the thought of someone
seeing me naked, I knew that, for me, it had to happen in this way. I imagined
myself being awkward in bed and worried about taking off my clothes in front of
someone. I imagined an awful lot of pain – in fact I had actually imagined him
not even being able to get inside me. But on the night I lost my virginity I
had none of these fears at all, and for that I couldn’t be happier. I’m not
suggesting that anyone should lose their virginity whilst not in a
relationship, whilst drunk, or because they feel they have to in order to fit
in. It was just the way that it was most comfortable for me personally. I
understand that a lot of people want to give their virginity to someone they
love, and in many cases may even want to give it to the person they marry, but
I didn’t feel that way. I feel so much better in myself after having sex and I
have not once felt regret. Oddly, I thought I would feel a lot different after
having sex for the first time. I was worried I would develop a strong emotional
connection to the person I lost it to, but thankfully for him I most certainly
haven’t! However we do like each other and are going to continue seeing each
other casually.
He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t love him. My sex drive is
now through the roof. But I don’t regret it.
In fact, my only regret is not asking Guy No. 1 for a
small donation towards my drink. That Smirnoff Ice cost me £2.50, and due to
the high volume of drink I accidentally poured over his shirt, I reckon he owes
me at least 50p.
