I recently wrote about the first time I was raped. (Yes I did say “first time.”) It wasn’t the last time, not by a long shot. My virginity has been something I have struggled with for about seven years now. When did I lose my virginity? Was it the first time I was raped? When my body was violated, and I had no say in the matter? A penis entered my vagina, was I no longer a virgin? Or was it the first time I chose to have sex? I don’t have an answer. I wish I did, but it wouldn’t make me feel any better. It wouldn’t change the fact I’ve been raped repeatedly. It would change nothing knowing society’s answer to my question.
I made the decision to qualify losing my virginity as the first time I chose to have sex. When I made the conscious decision to willingly participate in sex without fear of bodily, emotional, or psychological harm.
I wasn’t in love the first time I had sex. I wish I had been. He wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t even a guy I was dating.
I was 19 and just graduated from high school. I was hanging out with one of my brother’s cycling friends. He was a year older than I was. He was very sweet and kind and easy to be around. I knew he had feelings for me. I knew he wanted to be with me, and not in a sexual way. He wanted me. He knew me. We were friends.
We had sex. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t unfun. It wasn’t really much of anything. It was over fast.
I had sex with him because I needed to say yes. I needed to take back some control in my life. I needed to feel like I had control over my body. I needed to feel like it was my body, that I could choose what was done with it, that I could choose.
I did choose. I chose who. I chose when. I chose where. I chose how.
He wanted to have sex again and I said “no.” He respected my wishes. For the first time, I said “no” and I was heard.