My feelings fluctuate between amusement and annoyance at the responses I get when people find out about my sex life…or lack thereof.
Some people are mourners. “A virgin?” they repeat solemnly. This “they” is usually a male who was, up until this point, interested in “getting to know me better.” In this moment, he hangs his head and performs the Sign of the Cross over his chest as his interest in me flat-lines with a zero percent chance of revival.
Some are outraged. “What!? A virgin!?” They say incredulously. “With a body like that?! Girrrrl you could have a man in a heartbeat!” This “they” is usually a female, my age; a friend who equates what I could have to what I should have.
Some are professors. They got their B.S. in Intercourse and their Master’s in Sexual Relations.
“You know how (insert sexually explicit deed)?” They ask. “Well you don’t know but, (graciously breaks it down for me: how it’s done, how good it is, who the best of the best was, how great he/she does it.)” Their lectures are often accompanied by a pat on my head, a pinch on my cheek, a comment that implies what a precious pupil I am.
Some are coaches: “Get your head in the game, Price! Wind up that arm, pitch a home run!…Run a touchdown!…Throw up a Hail Mary?…Something, do something!” You know the type.
Some are scientists. They hold me at arms length, between their thumbs and their forefingers. They examine. Lets see here, not ugly, nice body, smart, decent personality. They apply the equation: physical + mental = state of being. “Mathematically, If you add the physical disposition (above-average height, formerly overweight, ugly duckling) to the personality (type-A, bookworm, know-it-all, adherent to Christian values)…” They hypothesize, theorize, and conclude: “our research concludes that the subject had no choice in the matter: a virgin, perhaps, by circumstance.”
Some are doctors. They check my vitals. “No sexual activity. Get her hooked up to the monitor, stabilize her and find out why, stat!” They start with a simple diagnosis. To ensure a more conclusive analysis, I must complete a questionnaire. “Answer honestly,” they say, “to the best of your knowledge.”
A. a lesbian?
C. still getting over your ex?
E. “good girl”?
F. saving it for
b. the right one?
H. seriously serious? Like forreal?
All are irritating. Listen closely, now, because this part is important:
It is my prerogative to do whatever the Bobby Brown I want to do with my body. If I want to wrap it in Saran Wrap and save it for all eternity, that’s on me. It’s not up to anyone else to put a label on my package.
Too often is the phrase, “I do what I want with my body,” reserved for those who elect to engage in sexual intercourse. Not often enough does it occur to people that, hey, virgins (and those who elect to be celibate) are doing what they want with their bodies too. Virgins are not specimens to be scrutinized. Virginity is not a problem to be fixed. Virginity is not a social stigma to be exploited *cough* MTV’s Virgin Territory. Virgins are not trapped by circumstance. Virgins are not barred by Holy Doctrine. If they choose to save themselves for marriage because of their beliefs, that it still their choice.
Your choices are not my business. And by that I don’t mean I shouldn’t know what you do. Between friends and family alike, I know a lot about others’ sexcapades. What I do mean is that it isn’t my business to take care of, be it by judgement, action, or imposition. Your choices aren’t mine to handle and mine are not yours.
You won’t liberate me by showing me a “whole new world.” I’m already free. My not engaging in sex by no means makes me a “good girl,” “a trapped girl,” or “a girl with no choice in the matter.” It makes me a 23 year old who doesn’t engage in sex. It’s my body, I do what I want.
*steps off of soapbox*
Y’all be blessed, now, ya hear?