Guest post by Ellie Di for Oh, these Wild Women: Stories from the tribe
I have the best losing-my-virginity story.
And only a handful of people have ever heard it.
I don’t talk about it because it’s somehow shameful to have a sweet, loving, pleasurable first time. Losing one’s virginity is supposed to be messy, painful, and awkward, according to the stereotype. People bond over swapping horror stories about not-quite-their-idea backseat gropefests rather than by telling love stories with happy endings.
When I tell my story, anyone who had a less-than-they-wanted cherry-popping feels bad about themselves. I’ve gotten sneers, sarcasm, and sass for saying, “My first time was awesome!” They take my story, compare it to their own, and feel inadequate because somehow I “won sex” where they “lost.”
The beautiful story about one of the most magical moments of my life is silent because of others’ shame.
Isn’t that fucked up? That we value shame, pain, and guilt more than beauty and love? Especially in the realm of sex? I’m definitely not your peace-and-love, fuzzy-bunny type, but damn. That’s messed up, yo.
So, here in this space, without embarrassment, let me tell you my story. As the internet is my witness, I swear it’s true.
A stolen moment alone.
The smell of cookies and blue.
A too-big borrowed nightie.
Incubus on the stereo.
Sweet integration.
The three tenors on TV.
I’d been brought up to embrace the idea of sex and the importance of sharing yourself with someone “like that.” I was gentle but firm in my refusal to dive in and get freaky all over the place, and he was respectful and patient in return. We’d been dating about six months, both of us 17-going-on-35, living in different cities and desperate to be closer in all possible ways. Lust is a tangible substance when you’re that age, but I held my boundaries.
For a while.
Just after Thanksgiving, while tooling around St. Louis with the family in separate cars, I turned to him from the passenger seat, heart pounding but fully conscious, and said, “I’m ready.”
Surprised eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
Nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.” Blush.
We drove two hours back to my house in the rural Ozarks with only the flimsiest of excuses to evade scrutiny for the sudden departure. Two hours in a beat-up pickup, neither of us saying much. The weight of anticipation kept us silent, the radio filling space on our behalf.
Park the car. Unlock the door. Double-check the house. Relock the door. Head upstairs.
I’d borrowed one of my mom’s nicer nighties. Something beige and short with palm trees and seashells. I needed to feel grown up and brave – about to become a woman, I thought, I should have appropriate costuming.
He waited for me in my bed, nothing more than a futon mattress on the floor, watching silently as I turned out the lights, struck a match, lit two candles, and set our favourite record to spinning.
I’d thought I would be nervous when this moment arrived, but I wasn’t. Filled with butterflies, yes. Afraid, no.
He took my hand and gently pulled me down.
Trembling hands over hot skin.
Kisses over every inch of each other.
Fumbling under the scent of latex.
Shocking, completely new sensation.
The closest embrace.
Waves of pleasure in motion.
Awkward gasping for air and more.
Racing heart.
Cooling sweat.
Peace.
We lay tangled up in each other for what felt like hours, vaguely aware that someone might come home at any moment but not caring.
Colours were different. Smells were richer. Sounds were deeper. Everything, including myself, felt more real.
The day’s silence continued to unfold, the love we’d made not needing words. All we could think of was each other and the milestone we’d marked, forever engraving ourselves on one another’s souls.
Doesn’t that make you want to raise John Hughes from the grave and demand he make one last movie?
Kidding aside, what’s important here isn’t the details of how I lost my virginity. It’s the fact that, until now, only five people have ever heard this story, despite it’s loveliness, because I’m afraid of hurting other people’s feelings by telling it.
It shouldn’t be like that.
Your first time helps define not just your sex life, but your whole life. It tells you something about who you were then and are now. It’s a milestone that shapes your future, a story you carry forever. Why should you be embarrassed if that moment was fan-fucking-tastic?
So, this is a shout-out, a call to arms to everyone who’s got an awesome losing-your-virginity story.
Don’t be ashamed of it! When you’re shushed by embarrassed others, persist! Be proud of having good sex! Your story is beautiful, and the world needs more like it!
I’ve heard enough shitty sex stories, haven’t you? Let’s stop being ashamed of the good ones.
Ellie Di is a Self-rediscovering storyteller, perpetual wanderer, compulsive scribbler, spiritual nomad, compassionate critical thinker, and master of the delicious mess.
She writes her personal story of unfolding on her blog and shares what she’s learned in her courses and workbooks.
You can visit Ellie on Twitter and Facebook, where she’s epically social.
If that’s not enough for you, sign up for her monthly zine and get a her book of Self-rediscovering fables for $2. Cos that’s how she rolls.
Love it. What a beautiful experience! Thank you for being brave enough to share it!
Maybe I don’t get it completely but I Come from a culture that does not at all talk about sex.
If it was great, I am glad, why should we be hiding it. Is it really pervasive that most people need to put down people like that?
In conservative cultures, you hear of how painful it was for the women and she cold not walk or 2 days properly which is bull shit.
I think the extreme importance given to preserving/losing your virginity is a leftover of patriarchal culture. Let’s just get over it and stop judging other people’s fisrt or second or whatever time.