The V-word

Well this could mean any number of things. Vagina. Yes, I have one, and it is regretably unfrequented. By anyone other than me, that is.

Vortex. I'm informed this is an inpenetrable, unavoidable force given off by ruthless women whose goal in life is to lure men into their caged lair; zap them with their beauty, wit, and charm; and watch as they drop, still fuming with confusion to the floor. No, this topic certainly has potential, but it's not the word to which I am referring.

Vermin? Gross. Vision? Nah. Vendetta? Not yet. No, the V-word I would like to address is the big 'un--V. I. R. G. I. N.

Gasp! She said it.

That's right, the big V. A virgin. That's me. I'm twenty-four years old and I have never had sex. And let me tell you, in this society as it exists today, that might just make me an anomally.

My friends have been having sex since they were fourteen and fifteen years old. In fact, I remember hearing that two kids were sleeping together in the fifth grade, which meant they must have been ten or eleven. Now, this easily could have been a vicious rumor, but somehow in my memory it seems possible.

When I was ten, however, my "boyfriend" and I were teasing eachother at recess, passing notes, and MAYBE sitting together at lunch. I was ecstatic when he gave me a plastic candycane filled with Hershey's kisses for Christmas.

Back then, my hair was frizzy and I wore my bangs in a poof. I had big, bright colored socks that I pulled up high over my tight-rolled jeans. Man, was I fashionable. I was more concerned with rollerblading down my street, playing with my dog, and terrorizing the boy across the street than with carnal exploration. This was a time of sleepover parties where we ate junk food while watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and playing "Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board." Those were the days we convinced eachother the house was haunted and then couldn't fall asleep all night. It was a time of crank calls and midnight capture the flag, of imaginary adventures and outrageous dreams.

What was sex? Damned if I knew. And at the time, I didn't care.

Since then, I've been flirting with perpetual lonliness, emptiness. Too scared to accept happiness. Too damaged to let it in. I find it almost impossible to believe someone might see past the skin level to the me inside. Nobody did in Tolland, nobody did at UNH, or on Semester at Sea. So why would anyone now, or ever for that matter? But here I tell only half the story.

I wouldn't let anyone try. I've been on the defensive since highschool, and then I wonder why I've never loved or been loved. It's a cop out to say all guys are scumbags and are only interested in sex. Obscene generalities like that are just my way of feeling better about myself and my place in life. My imaginative brain waves have worked overtime looking for every possibility of my being hurt and used. The blame is ultimately always on the other. But really this is all my fault.

I've let sterotypes and impressions others held about me infiltrate my self-perception, and it's from that point of penetration that my psychoses originate.

Maybe it was that list the boys made in high school: the one labeling me "Best Boobs"--not most beautiful, intelligent, or interesting. Or maybe it was that summer day during downtime at play rehearsal when Rallo and Hayes first grabbed my breast, and not knowing this was grossly inappropriate, I just squealed and squirmed away: thus setting the precident for sexual harrassment that would last entirely too long and that would strongly affect how I thought about and interacted with men thereafter.

This also directly relates to the falling out I had with one of my best friends. It's not that I was one of those girls who exploited her body to get what she wanted (in fact, those girls pissed me off), but I kept quiet and smiled when someone made a comment or gave me attention because of my body. But at the same time, I never thought of myself as beautiful. Apparently, I was "hot," not "pretty." I don't think I ever actually believed any of those things. I'm not sure what I thought of myself, but I doubt that it was even mildly attractive.

It didn't help that by nature, I'm what they call a "huggy" person; and because of this, I fell easily into the "flirt" category, which was the threat for Sara when she and Tim got together. No amount of talking and truth-telling could break that label, that perception she had of me. It didn't matter that any number of our friends were just as flirty--it was me and my body that was the threat. I became the enemy, the one she had to watch out for. I went from best friend to favorite one to hate. In just one moment.

So from the ashes of hurt and betrayal rose an unfamiliar version of myself: one that held back, one that lost some of the spark and personality, one that could barely convince herself that it would all work out in the end.

Of course, if not for this happening, I might've taken longer to realize the qualities of true friends. Friends that don't try to fit you into a nice, neat little box so they don't have to be confused or surprised about the way you're acting. Friends who place a mirror before you so that you can finally recognize and accept the reflection you see, for yourself, not for anyone else or by anyone else's standards. The ones that make you feel at ease to be silly and odd and real. The ones that you can talk to about the world, politics, spirituality, and various other "big" issues, and then turn around and have a sugar packet fight in the middle of class, or plot and execute a water balloon ambush together.

It's becoming more and more clear to me that if it weren't for this phase, this pathway of experience, I might not have truly appreciated the next male entrances into my life. There were qualities in them that the guys I went for, or that went for me, never had. Physicality was removed; intellect, humor, and spirituality were on the forefront. I loved the way we laughed. The way he treated me like a lady and one of his buddies simultaneously. The way we had such a hard time saying goodbye. The way I never felt pressured. Instead I felt wanted, needed, comfortable, and immediately missed when I was gone.

But these qualities and possibilities, in two separate boys, were thwarted either by timing, circumstance, or distance.

And now I feel like I'm back at square one. How do I date with this baggage weighing me down? I'd like to put back together my fractured self. I'd like to find someone with whom I can both be the person I know I am beneath my skin and be proud of the body I have. I want to bring back the physicality into my relationships. With the right person, I think I'm more than ready.

But I fear that this V-word is taking on a life of it's own. I suppose, as with everything else, I'm going to have to prove to myself and to the next man that I am not defined by this. I am so much more. I have so much to offer. And with some patience and some affection on his part, I'll be willing to give him everything I have to give. I just have to find him.

Sigh. Therein lies the problem.