I was seventeen when I met the guy I should have lost my virginity to.
We were introduced by a mutual friend and instantly hit it off. We texted or chatted on MSN messenger all day, every day for weeks. We hung out in person a few times, but always in public places where any physical touch would’ve been far too risky.
We flirted constantly. He showered me with compliments about my then petite, tight and athletic body. Of course I can only recognise this as being the case in hindsight. He was the first thing on my mind when I woke up, and the last thing I thought about when I went to bed.
I fantasised about how my tiny 5 ft 2 frame might navigate his massive 6 ft 4 body. I wanted to be bold and daring. I wanted to show up at his house unannounced and throw myself at him, giving him everything I knew how to give and letting him teach me all the things I didn’t.
But I didn’t do that. Like a damn fool, I played ‘hard to get’. Because that’s what men want, isn’t it? They want to work for it? Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free, right?
The problem with getting all of your relationship advice from people who don’t actually know anything about courting in the real world, is that it’s usually terrible.
I got fed a lot of misleading information about love when I was young, and even more about sex.
But that’s what happens when your parents are that couple. You know, love at first sight, only have eyes (and bodies) for each other forever and ever.
Growing up with that, while making for a happy, loving family dynamic, sets you up for some pretty hefty falls when you begin to grow up.
So I’m not the slightest bit surprised, looking back, at how clueless I was at seventeen, hormones raging, probably in love with my first ‘big love’ and thinking that playing games like ‘hard to get’ was going to serve me better than seizing the day and going after what I wanted.
The biggest piece of advice I would give my sixteen year old self (a year early, in preparation for the big love) would be to get out there and experiment.
Don’t play games with a guy who likes you and that you like back— kiss him, hold him, let your hands explore his body, let him know you want him and screw his damn brains out like the thirsty little minx you are. You won’t get this time back— Your body will never be this perfect again, your face will never be so pretty and youthful and that insatiable sex drive will one day disappear due to circumstances beyond your control.
You don’t have to save yourself for ‘the one’. You don’t have to love him and he doesn’t have to be special, you just have to want each other and know how to be safe about it.
Contrary to what you’ve been taught, promiscuity and exploration in your youth is normal and important. You should never feel guilty about it and one day, you’re going to regret that you didn’t embrace that window in your life.
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In a twist I should’ve seen coming, my game playing eventually translated to immaturity in his eyes.
The day he cut off communication with me, because he’d started seeing someone else, he dealt this blow— “You’d really like her, she’s a lot like you… except older.”
Older. I knew what that meant.
Experienced and ready to give him all the things I couldn’t… or wouldn’t. I believe I’d played the game so well that in the end he thought I wasn’t interested the way he was with me, and so, like any reasonable person, he moved on.
It’s not that I wasn’t ready. Or that I genuinely believed in saving myself for marriage or any of that crap I’d been fed. I certainly never wanted to ‘treat him mean to keep him keen’ and the shy, flirty, will she/won’t she dance was torture.
My conscience and socially conditioned ‘good girl’ nature was the problem.
And in the most ironic move of all, I did lose my virginity later that year, to the wrong guy.
I suppose after the one I let slip away, I stopped caring about it being special anymore and just did the thing that everyone else was doing. Surely it would make this one like me.
But the second guy wasn’t the first guy. We didn’t get along like we’d been best friends our whole lives, we didn’t have lengthy, deep conversations about life. We didn’t share our taste in music with each other and spend time carefully curating mixed CD’s. We didn’t flirt in that sincere way that comes from real connection. You couldn’t feel the sexual tension lingering in the air between us as the only thing left unsaid.
Honestly, I think the second guy just really wanted to screw a virgin, and I helped him kick that goal.
…
On the few times I’ve crossed paths with the first one since our short-lived romance that never really was, I still get butterflies.
There’s still that playful twinkle in his eyes when he smiles at me and a light dusting of flirty banter with every conversation.
He should’ve been the one I learnt the ropes with. I’d kissed a boy before, so I definitely should’ve at least kissed him. And then everything else.
He should’ve been my first. Not because we might’ve lived happily ever after, but because I wanted him to be. I don’t consider him ‘the one that got away’, I simply consider him the one I should’ve lost my virginity to.
And I’ll always wonder what it might have been like if my first time had have been with the guy I was crazy about. Instead, I have to live with the regret of following crappy, old fashioned dating advice that undoubtedly had the exact opposite effect of what it was intended to.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: NoWah Bartscher on Unsplash