Virginity, a Practicum

When I decided to lose my virginity, I knew I wasn’t going to half-ass it. I was a junior biochemistry major at a women’s college. We were scientists. We were hard-core.

I had one month before I would see my boyfriend again—a matter-of-fact engineer I’d met working at NASA over the summer. He was far more experienced than I was. He insisted that while sex was exciting, it was also just a routine human function, and I shouldn’t worry too much about it. But I didn’t believe him. Like a good scientist, I was skeptical.

Research commenced.

My college had an online sex forum, which was basically the equivalent of having 800 older sisters. I signed on, announced my planned course of action, and immediately advice flooded in: which brand of lube to use, how to best prepare my body for intercourse, how the woman-on-top position would give me the most control over envelopment rate and angle of entry. I took copious notes and, as if studying for a final exam, designed a nightly training regimen.

Step One: Contact Desensitization. I’d never actually located my clitoris, so I sat down with a hand mirror, spread my legs, and touched what I thought it was. I nearly had to peel myself off the ceiling. I was careful to go slower the next time.

Step Two: Progressive Stretching. From a previous dry run, I knew the engineer’s penis was large, whereas I’d only ever had a tampon up there. Structural adjustment would be necessary. I started with one finger, then two, and made slow circles. I eventually made it to four, knuckle-deep. This was progress.

Step Three: Olfactory Conditioning, an innovation of which I was especially proud. The engineer had left a shirt at my dorm. It smelled like Old Spice. So whenever I masturbated, I buried my face in it—that way my lizard brain would associate his smell with orgasm. I thought Pavlov would be proud.

The date approached. I’d been studying hard and amassing materials—condoms, spermicide, and an industrial-size bottle of lube. But I still had the nagging feeling that I was missing something essential.

The moment came on a warm spring night on his narrow bed. I planted my hands on either side of his chest and sank down. It hurt. It really hurt. Like I could hear my flesh cracking beyond capacity, and all my muscles tensed in response, which made it hurt more. I clenched my teeth, feeling like I’d somehow been wrong about everything, even that I’d been lied to, by my college friends, by my boyfriend, by everyone—that this was a supremely unnatural act.

But I remembered my research. I remembered my exercises. I remembered the slow circles I’d made with my fingers. This was the exam. I had to trust I was prepared.

So I stayed there, with the pain and weirdness, and took deep breaths.

And then my body began to unclench.

And then, a minute later, to relax.

And then, to melt.

This is the essential thing I could only have learned by doing: that the body has wisdom the mind doesn’t. Not only is sex natural, I discovered, it’s what my body was made for.

Every good skeptic likes to be wrong sometimes.
-MONICA BYRNE

Curated by Erbe
Original Article
Photo Credit: wired.com