It wasn’t like I intended it to work out this way. I’ve not been precious about meeting my true love, saving it for a serious relationship or marriage, and it’s not because of religious or cultural reasons. I just happened to remain a virgin until I was 35.
I never had a boyfriend at high school or university and I was grossly overweight which only compounded things. Now that’s not to say that men don’t like big women. But for a long time I convinced myself that was the truth and blamed the entire male species for not being able to see beyond my belly. The truth I came to realise over the years is that it was me who couldn’t see beyond my body and I pushed men away.
I’ve actually learned to enjoy being single, except for one thing: there’s a certain stigma about being a mature-age virgin.
Not that there is anything wrong with it, theoretically I knew that, but internally I was ashamed of this status. Just as society is known to slut-shame women, it seems there is no place for virgins outside of their early 20s. And not only was I a virgin, but I was inexperienced in even the most basic things. My last kiss was when I was 16. I had never fooled around, given head, or even slept in the same bed as a man. And then it just happened.
I met a guy through an online app, we went on a few dates and I simply liked him. At the end of our third date I declared “I’m gonna kiss you!” and suffered through an extremely awkward and unsexy kiss. But we persevered. On the sixth date we went back to his place and I was thinking “we’ll probably just snog a bit”. But no, we went straight to the bedroom he took his clothes off very matter-of-factly and then took mine off, and that was it.