The V-Word

by Amber J. Keyser

But while in the throes of passion. . . .

  When Steven unbuttoned my jeans and took off my favorite purple shirt, my spine tingled. I wanted more and I chose to embrace it. Instead of showering myself in shame, I decided to give in to my desires despite my fear of punishment. I shoved away thoughts of the headmistress and turned down the volume of the voice of external authority in my head. I was in command now, and I sure as hell didn’t want to stop.

  Our make-out session progressed into the night, and our amorous movements accidentally turned on the washing machine. Laughing, we scrambled to turn it off before we woke up Mo and Ben. The kitchen really wasn’t working for us.

  Steven suggested that we head to his room. He must have seen the apprehension in my eyes because he said, “You’re in charge of everything that happens in there. Nothing will happen that you don’t want.”

  Relieved that I could continue with our exploration without committing to going all the way, I retreated into his room with him. Before the door closed, I told him that I wasn’t ready to have sex but that I wanted to explore each other’s bodies completely.

  He asked me what I wanted, and I said that I wished to be kissed all over from head-to-toe with no expectations of anything coming of it, unless of course, it did.

  He was happy to comply. The entire next day we lay in bed discovering each other and, most of all, discovering ourselves. The tightrope between our distance and our closeness led to a vulnerability that set the stage for me to experience my first (and explosively remarkable) orgasm.

  And my second.

  And my third.

  This was not how I imagined my first sexual experience would be or with whom I thought it would be. There’s no way I could have anticipated that I’d end up sharing everything from scar stories to sweaty embraces with a dude-bro on a tiny twin bed, with trip-hop music on in the background, and the scent of patchouli and mint tea in the air.

  For one of the first times in my overthinking life, I felt fully embodied. I had skin. I had a body. I was giving in to cravings and I was devouring the succulence of release.

  Emboldened by the insistence of my own sexual energy, I felt powerful rather than fearful or sinful like I’d been conditioned to believe in church and school.

  Mo and I never ended up going to the beach. We were too nervous we would be spotted by people from school who might report our whereabouts to the administration. But the heavens were in on our little conspiracy of desire because rain soaked the town for the entire weekend.

  We were confined to a house with two cute guys and nothing but music, pizza, and hormones to focus on. So that’s what we did. And we never got caught.

  Steven and I went our separate ways a few months later. I cut him off after hearing that he’d had sex with a girl from my high school during another one of Mo’s sleepovers. He continued to pursue me but I realized that I was no longer interested in a college dude that hooked up with high school girls in the first place.

  What’s more, I wasn’t ready to go all the way yet and was perfectly content waiting to go full throttle with someone I could truly trust. Even though my friends didn’t believe me when I said it, I wasn’t that upset when it didn’t work out between Steven and me. The experience was never about him, it was about me learning to embrace my sexuality without fear. It was about being present in my body and enjoying the delicious fire of my humanity, my femininity, and my spirituality all at once.

  I read that Judy Blume was inspired to write Forever, a candid and controversial novel about teen sexuality, because she had heard from teen girls who wanted to read a book about two teens who have sex and nothing bad happens to them. Even though Steven and I didn’t “seal the deal,” he will always be a part of my “Forever” story because I learned that I could express healthy sexuality without damnation or losing myself. I was grateful for his gentle touch, his affirmation of my idiosyncrasies, and for helping me to learn to receive pleasure without guilt—okay, with minimal guilt.

  Years later, I studied abroad in Italy, and over cappuccinos in Campo Dei Fiori, I met a girl from Mo’s small town. My mouth dropped open.

  “Small world. Do you know Steven S—, by chance?” I inquired, innocently.

  When she exclaimed that he was, in fact, her best friend from high school, I couldn’t believe it. I tried to play it cool because I didn’t want to risk her asking him about me.

  As I contemplated what to say next, she said, “Oh, wait! You’re Mia! Mia? Wow! I heard you had a special experience together. Weren’t you also the one who wouldn’t let him call you by your nickname?”

  I flashed her a sly smile.

  “Yes, that’s right. That’s me.”

  Sex is not everything.

  It’s not a to-do list. There’s no box for you to check, no V card to punch. You don’t have to have sex, and if you do, it’s just one part of the rest of your world. What I hope for you is that—when you’re ready—sex and intimacy and closeness become a rich and wonderful part of your life.

  So for now, don’t worry about it.

  Find your passions. Work hard. Take care of yourself. Play to your strengths. Be creative. Act according to your values. Surround yourself with good people. Be compassionate.

  And above all—

  Choose for yourself.

  17

  It’s All in the Choosing

  Kelly Jensen

  I never envisioned myself having sex.

  I never dated in high school, was never truly kissed. I’d masturbated and was familiar with my body, but sex with another person wasn’t something I thought I’d have to make a choice about doing. I had no idea how it might look or taste or feel even though I’d thought about it.

  It wasn’t that the idea of sex scared me. The opportunity just hadn’t come up. I didn’t find myself sexually attracted to anyone, and I didn’t think I was sexually attractive. I was a girl with less-than-perfect skin and big boobs that didn’t come with a thin or good-looking body. Years of being told I was fat and ugly grew beneath my skin and became how I saw myself.

  It was how I imagined other people saw me, too.

  During high school, I grew close to a boy I’d never met. We’d talked online and by phone, sharing pieces of ourselves we didn’t share with anyone else. There was something connecting us—warm and gentle and soft—but making a commitment to one another when we didn’t know if our rhythms would sync didn’t make sense. We agreed that if things were meant to be they would work out.

  The transition from home to my small college was tough. I didn’t get along with my roommate and disliked my studies. I was lonely, even though I was almost never alone. I stole quiet time when I could to go out to the train bridge across campus. The wooden bridge, built over railroad tracks, connected the far edge of campus to the most rural parts of town.

  Despite the rocky start, I soon met people who would become my closest friends. A group of us hung out every night on the landing connecting the all-male and all-female dorms. We’d stay up until the early hours of the morning talking about classes, our peers, what we thought about news or politics.

  And, inevitably, we talked a lot about sex: whether we’d had it or not, whether we wanted to have it, who we’d love to have it with, logistics and expectations of every flavor. Even though I was one of the only virgins, I kept a jar of condoms in my room in case a friend needed one. Less embarrassing than going to the nurse or the RA.

  One night, after pouring my heart out about how much I hated anthropology and dreaded doing any classwork related to it, a friend made me an offer: study and do well on my upcoming test, and he’d come by and we’d have sex. No pressure or commitment other than to enjoy myself.

  I knew and trusted him, even though—or maybe because—he was open about his extensive sexual experiences. If I was going to have sex, it should be with someone who was that eager about having sex with me. With him, I figured it would be fun for fun’s sake. If I didn’t take the chance, would I see it again?
>
  I did well on the test.

  Before he came to my room on an afternoon neither of us had class, I put a condom in easy reach of my bed and wore a tank and shorts to be comfortable. Shaved. Having a plan made me less nervous. This was what we were going to do.

  He and I climbed into my tiny, too-springy bottom bunk, lying side by side and still fully clothed. He moved his hand up my legs, from my knee to my inner thigh. There was no kissing, no lips pressed this place or that. But it was gentle. Nice.

  We shifted a bit so my back pressed against his torso. It didn’t occur to me to think about whether he was hard or not as his hand kept skimming the length of my leg. There was nothing weird between us, nothing cold or contrived. It felt good and I felt good.

  But there was also nothing more that I wanted.

  Nothing in me craved his hands to do more, explore further, despite enjoying every second of being close to him. He didn’t force more on me, either. I didn’t anticipate how secure I would feel in my body and in this place.

  We were so comfortable, we fell asleep together with our clothes on.

  When we woke up, we didn’t continue what never really started, and it wasn’t disappointing. That time together was satisfying and intimate. We lay together for a while, talking, and he told me he respected me—and my still being a virgin—too much to have sex with me just because he could. That was why he didn’t push me to do more than what we did. His first time was memorable and with a girl he’d never forget. He said I should have the same with my first partner.

  That conversation didn’t change my perception of my virginity but it did change my perception of my worth when it came to having sex. I didn’t need to accept any offer that came my way. I deserved to choose the exact right partner for me—or not to make the choice at all. I was worth that.

  My group of friends still talked sex, about the nights they went home to see their boyfriends or girlfriends and got to finally release the tension they’d built in each other’s absence. Or they talked about where on campus they’d had sex and where they’d love to have sex before graduation. The boy I didn’t have sex with said before graduation he wanted to have sex in the college president’s house (a task I’d help him pull off senior year).

  But I didn’t worry about my own sex life. There wasn’t anyone in my immediate world who interested me romantically, let alone sexually. I could take care of myself as needed.

  And then spring rolled around.

  My friend—the boy I knew online but still hadn’t met—debated with me over the course of that year about where he wanted to attend college. He’d come to like the school I was at and decided he wanted to visit campus. Not only was this a chance to see if the school fit, it was a chance for us to meet and see if we fit, too. Pressure without pressure.

  As his visit drew closer, I told my group of friends about him, how we’d met in a writing forum and started talking years ago, how we’d never actually met. They asked what we planned to do when he got here, if he’d be spending the night with me. I was sincere when I said he’d do all of the routine campus visit things: go to a class, stay with a host student, eat in the cafeteria. I thought it would be fun if I could steal him for a few hours and have some time alone together in person for the first time. He and I had talked about sex plenty of times before, but it wasn’t on my radar as something we’d actually do when we met for the first time.

  The night he arrived, he dropped off his bags with his host and came to my room. I’d been nervous and excited, anxiously standing at my door looking out the peep hole, waiting to see his face for the first time in the flesh. There was no part of me worried he wouldn’t be exactly who I’d gotten to know for four years. We’d exchanged photos and letters many times. I knew him almost as well as I knew myself.

  But the first moment seeing him, having him in my room and in my space, was a surprise. He was full and present and more than I’d expected. When we hugged, he smelled good and felt better, softer even, than I imagined.

  When we settled into the desk chairs in my room, he told me he had no plans for his night. Since there was a concert happening in the commons, we decided to go.

  He and I exchanged glances and smiles, sitting close enough that our legs kept touching, setting off more glances, smiles. Excitement pulsed through my bones. I don’t remember for the life of me who gave the concert. We stuck around until the end, bumping into more than a couple of my friends and making conversation that never once felt awkward or stilted, then headed toward my dorm.

  It was a gorgeous, star-filled night. Rather than go inside to my room, I grabbed his hand and took him to my favorite spot: the bridge over the train tracks.

  We had the place to ourselves. We walked to the middle of the bridge and stood side-by-side looking down at the tracks on the ground below. I told him how it felt to lie on my back when the train went by, how I could feel the wood planks rattle beneath me. About how when I needed to be alone, there was nowhere quieter than here.

  The next train approached from the distance. We lay down and held hands as it barreled beneath us, laughing hard at the way the shaking bridge was terrifying and ticklish at the same time.

  When we stopped to catch our breath from giggling, we leaned into one another and kissed.

  We walked back to my dorm, electricity between our clasped hands. He wasn’t going back to his host’s room. My roommate was asleep in her top bunk, and the boy and I crawled into my bottom bunk. We kissed some more, kisses that were soft and hard, delicious and messy, before saying goodnight, both of us still in our clothes from the day. I’d shared a bed with other people before—guys and girls—but sharing it with him, especially after that kiss, was exciting.

  I set the alarm so he could get up for the class he was visiting in the morning. But things didn’t happen that way.

  My roommate got up early and left, waking us before the alarm. After the door shut behind her, we lay facing each other, quiet. In that moment I knew, and so did he.

  There was a spark.

  The jar of condoms I’d been keeping sat inside my closet, and I grabbed the whole thing. Within minutes, his shirt and jeans were off, my shirt and shorts, too. He fumbled taking my bra off—the clasps a challenge for a rookie—and we lay chest to chest. The air was thick and warm, sweet and still. My skin flushed. Tingled.

  I made the first move, grabbing a condom and handing it to him. He took off his boxers and rolled it on, while I slipped off my underwear. He was a virgin, too, which I knew from years of talking to one another. It was amazing how secure I felt with him, how being naked was the last thing on my mind. He wasn’t judging me or analyzing the way I looked—and neither was I. My body wasn’t in the way of the experience; my body was an important and worthy part of it.

  We lay down and he slid inside me slowly. He was careful not to push too hard, asking if I was okay. Was he hurting me? Was this uncomfortable? Did he need to stop? Could he go a little harder or faster?

  I was okay—better than okay. I didn’t need him to stop because it felt good. I was relaxed, ready enough that he could move faster if he wanted to. Nothing was uncomfortable, though it was weird to have another person’s body inside of my own. It was strange, but nice—really nice—to have his hands and mouth on my breasts. The insecurity I had about myself and my flaws didn’t matter; he made me feel perfect the way I was. I experienced pleasure, all softness and tenderness and lightness, and I let myself have it.

  While he pushed in and out of me, I became less aware of the physical act and more conscious of everything else: how calm my mind and emotions were, how right making this choice felt, how funny it was the bedsprings were so loud and that I hoped no one in the hall could hear. Maybe I didn’t care if they did.

  After he came, we triple-checked the condom to make sure it hadn’t broken. I hadn’t orgasmed, and he turned to using his fingers and his tongue to explore spaces of me I’d never shared with anyone else. There was no shame or vulnerability;
it was exciting to be in this moment with him, to give and to take. When he’d tried for a while but wasn’t successful at making me come, I told him it was fine if we crawled back under the covers and held each other. I felt good physically and emotionally.

  The alarm went off a little while later and after another kiss, he went back to his host’s room to change and get started on the rest of his college visit.

  I skipped my class that day and settled into one of the seating areas in the commons, not far from where he and I had seen the concert the night before. I didn’t want to be completely alone, and the quiet buzz of people going about their own business gave me the opportunity to sit with what happened. Was I different now? How would not being a virgin change me? Would it change me at all?

  My thoughts returned to the afternoon in my room when my friend told me he respected me too much to sleep with me. I got to make the choice where and how I lost my virginity and I didn’t have to accept an offer just to get it over with or because I claimed that it really didn’t matter to me.

  In that moment, I realized the autonomy I’d granted myself. I chose not to have sex with a friend in exchange for something silly like doing well on a test, even though I was comfortable with the idea. I chose to wait for the boy who I’d known and cared about for a long time.

  The where and the when and the how didn’t empower me, making the choice for myself did.

  It’s Your Sex Life—Take Charge of It

  If you’ve come this far, then you’ve got a pretty broad picture of what sex can be like—hot, meaningful, cringe-worthy, gross, forgettable, magnificent, empowering, transformative. There’s a reason so many of us spend a lot of time thinking about and dreaming of sex. It is powerful—not to be taken lightly but maybe not necessarily taken too seriously either.

  You get to express your sexuality in the way that’s right for you. So take charge. Be the boss of your sexual self. Be the woman you want to be.