By ROSIE WATERLAND
I thought I’d jump on the bandwagon and reference Fifty Shades of Grey in a piece of writing. Given my up-to-date timing, it’s obvious I’m very much on the cultural pulse.
To be honest, I needed a little time to take it all in. And not for the flushed, rosy-cheeked reason you’re thinking of. It wasn’t really my cup of tea, but I do think it’s fabulous that it’s awakened the sexual beast in so many women.
The thing that irritated me was the virginity scene. It was painless, pleasurable and perfect. Three things that I’m sure no woman associates with losing her virginity. An orgasm during the first time? Really? The bar was raised incredibly high for young virgins in Fifty Shades, and I’m worried that some (all) of them are in for a very rude awakening.
For a lady, losing one’s virginity is very rarely a pleasant experience. It can be with someone you love; it can be sweet. But it’s also going to be awkward, messy and it’s almost certainly going to hurt. I’ve never met a woman who orgasmed the first time. I’m sure it can happen, but there’s no way it’s the norm. And going in to that experience expecting earth-shattering, romantic waves of pleasure is going to leave a lot of girls very disappointed.
So I’d like to present a virginity story to offset the one in Fifty Shades: mine. No two virginity stories are the same, so I can’t speak for all women, but I would like to offer up something that makes others feel OK about their first time being more hilarious than romantic.
I was sixteen, he was my first serious boyfriend and we’d been rubbing up against each other pretty aggressively for a few weeks. Soon the top came off, then the bra. When we moved on to make-out sessions in just our knickers I knew it was time. There was nowhere else to go but… in. And don’t get me wrong – I wanted to, but I was a little scared. I’d only figured out how to use a tampon six months earlier, so I wasn’t exactly well acquainted with whatever the situation was down there. Let alone his weird-looking bits.
It wasn’t particularly magical when we gave it the go-ahead. It was the middle of the day and we’d somehow transitioned from Oprah into some heavy, almost-naked petting.
“Wanna do it?” I said. (Always the romantic.)
He acted sufficiently concerned about whether or not I was ready, although I’m certain that inwardly he was crying tears of joy for the balls that were slowly turning from blue to purple.
So, having begun the beautiful journey of giving up my flower by asking if we should ‘do it’, it was time to talk protection. I was on the pill already for my skin, but as sexual interns we felt we needed more. I remembered seeing condoms in the upstairs bathroom, so we decided on that plan of action. This is where things took a turn.
I think we both assumed that condoms were a one-size-fits-all situation. Did I mention we were sixteen? Anyway, after taking ten minutes to pry one out of its plastic-packet fortress, he went to put it on and… well… let’s just say whoever hid these condoms in the upstairs bathroom was not as well endowed as the young man currently in my bed.