Meet Nikki, our gorgeous Polkadotsi team member, and giggle with us as she shares how she lost her virginity...
I was a few weeks shy of 17 when I lost my virginity (although the term ‘losing it’ is silly – I know where it went). In complete cliché fashion, it was after the prom. On a deck in a schoolyard, across the road from the after party.
Sure, I liked the boyfriend. I remember being really into the making out stuff, because back in those days, you could just make out forever, without it going anywhere. On the night in question, I don’t think he was really even all that interested in doing it. But I kind of rallied him into it. Because as much as I liked him, cared about him, wanted to take things from an M to R rating with him, I also just wanted to know what all the fuss was about. And I didn’t want to be the only virgin anymore, when almost all of my friends had already popped their cherries.
Before we did it there was a conversation something along the lines of…
BF: I’m not going to tell you I love you.
Me: That’s fine. I don’t love you either.
Or something like that.
Is it strange the blatant ‘I don’t love you’ didn’t upset me? In hindsight it was maybe a little sad – I mean, shouldn’t I have wanted to wait for someone who did love me? At the time though, at least for me, sex was about sex - not love - and I kind of appreciated his honesty. I rationalized I would much rather that, than have someone spout grandiose, but untrue declarations, just to get into my knickers. I told myself I would go into this sex thing with my eyes open. That I wouldn't be lied to or love-fooled. That I was in control of my experience.
Shoulders were shrugged. There was some more making out. I can remember he’d lain back with his cock out, looking at me expectedly. It wasn’t until much later I’d realized he’d been anticipating a blowjob – and the fact I didn’t understand this and just stared at him blankly really serves to demonstrate my ignorance of all things carnal at the time.
So, This is Doing It?
As for the actual deed it was kind of a non-event. For both of us, I expect. I remember being surprised it didn’t hurt. And wondering if I was doing it right. Was I supposed to say anything, or moan… because that’s what people do when they have sex, right? I don’t remember whether I did or not. I didn’t bleed. Mostly, the thing that mortifyingly sticks out for me is that I kept my socks on. Yes, really.
I didn’t come – although, perhaps sadly, I didn’t have any expectation that I would – and I don’t think he came either. There was no illustrious screaming climax... we just kind of stopped after a few minutes. It wasn't particularly romantic, and there weren't fireworks, but it was exciting. Exciting and new, and naughty and grown up. And yet... I really didn't see what the big freaking deal was. I vaguely recall sitting on the swing sets afterwards talking, and then we went back to the party. And my friends, between public pashing with their own boyfriends, questioning me about whether we’d done it.
I don’t think we dated for all that long afterwards, which may or may not have had anything to do with the blonde German exchange student staying with his family. In fact, I think we only ever had sex again a couple of times, after we’d broken up. And we certainly never talked about it.
Cherry-Popping Myths Busted
The funny thing is, I’m still friends with this person, and it’s not weird at all*. Which seems a little weird in itself, given the notion everyone seems to buy into about your first always being such a big deal. Maybe it's not awkward because so much time has passed that the experience has become so far removed from who we both are now. Maybe because, having largely informed our ideas about sexuality by watching endless episodes of Sex and the City, my generation has different attitudes and expectations. Maybe, because there were no big love feelings involved, it’s easy for it not to be an issue.
Thinking about the issue – or non-issue, depending on your point of view – I find myself wondering what I would want for my daughter, should I ever have one. Yes, I would love for her to have a good experience and for it to be with someone who cared about her, and whom she cared about.
But I also think this myth we perpetuate about girls needing to be madly in love and the experience having to be magical, surrounded by candlelight and RnB crooning, is actually quite damaging. I don’t think any of my friends in high school experienced anything remotely close to that (although it’s actually pretty close to my husband’s virginity story, which always makes me giggle – bless him).
For most of us it was lost in tents or our parents’ beds, or on bathroom floors… and we were the ‘good girls’. Whatever that means. More importantly, none of us were irrevocably scarred, or left feeling ashamed or unworthy or unlovable afterwards. The societal values of chastity versus promiscuity – placed only on women, and particularly as they relate to losing our virginity – for the most part simply don’t align with our realities.
What About You?
How did you get your cherry popped?
*Although it was a little awkward sending this to him before I published it. Because, you know… ethics.