I’m 22 And Still a Virgin — And No, It’s Not By Choice

I always envisioned losing my virginity as a night of drinking, a night to forget in college. Maybe after a party, maybe with someone whose last name I couldn’t remember. But at least it’d be over with, right?

I never imagined I’d be 22, sitting around listening to my friends discuss hookups and breakups, nodding my head as if I had something to say, when really all I’ve ever really done is wait. And not the sexy kind.

I’m still a virgin. And not by choice, no.

There’s something that they think when you tell them that — that you’re “waiting,” as if it’s this huge choice based on their religion or morals.

That is not my narrative. I’m not waiting to get married. I’m not even waiting for love. I’ve just… never been picked.

I wasn’t an ugly child, but I wasn’t the type of girl that guys had crushes on. Guys in high school would flirt with my best friend and I would sit next to her and be invisible.

I remember one day in tenth grade when a guy messaged me about homework, and for a second, I fooled myself into thinking that he had a crush on me.

And then he asked me to “put in a good word” for my friend. That little moment did something to me.

I dismissed it like nothing, but inside, I started to shrink. I started to think that maybe I just wasn’t the type of girl people wanted.

College was going to be different. You know, the “reinvent yourself” book. New city, new scene, new confidence. I spent money on new clothes, cut my hair short, went out more.

And I did get noticed, finally. But it was the wrong kind of attention. Drunken guys at frat parties who only noticed me when the lights were low.

Random messages from strangers who requested “pics.” And it made me feel even less attractive — like I was a body, not a person.

The only time I ever thought it could be real was with a guy named Corey. I met him in a writing class. He was intelligent, awkwardly charming, and he appreciated that I was introverted.

We began to spend time together. He would message me with paragraphs about what we read and send me lists of indie music.

He made me feel noticed. I recall lying in bed after one of our late-night conversations, heart pounding, thinking, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how it works for me.

It did not. Two months later, he told me he wasn’t “ready for anything physical.” Two weeks later, he was seeing someone else. Someone thinner. Someone louder.

And then something inside me changed. I started to pretend not to care. I rolled my eyes at virgin jokes, made some of my own. I played too busy for love — too busy building my career, my degree, my “self-improvement.”

But the truth? I wanted someone. I still do. I want the intimacy, the closeness, the touch. Not sex, exactly — but all the things that go with it. The forehead kisses, the shared toothbrushes, the showers followed by snuggling. I want it all with an appetite that can never be filled.

But I do experience this odd shame. Not the chastity — the why. The fact that no one ever wanted me sufficiently to choose me like that.

That makes me feel like I was at the bus stop and watching all the other people board. Like I’m standing at the stop, pretending not to be cold, pretending not to want to go where they’re going.

There are nights that I’m scrolling through dating apps and swiping on faces I don’t even like, just so I can feel like I’m doing something. I match sometimes, I don’t sometimes.

Sometimes they’ll talk to me, and I’ll find myself stuck. Because how do you explain to someone at this age that you’ve never done it? Will they think I’m a prude? Will they think I’m bad at it? Will they flee?

A part of me is just so sick of all of it — just get with someone and do it. But another part of me remembers that I don’t want my first time to be a transaction. I want it to be something. Even if it is small. Even if it’s fleeting. I just want to feel safe. Wanted. Chosen.

There’s this one scene in a movie — I don’t even know what movie — where a girl says, “I’m not waiting for a perfect moment. I’m waiting for a moment that feels like mine.” That stuck. Maybe because that’s what I want too. A moment that feels like mine, not one I did to catch up.

So yeah. I’m 22. I’m a virgin. And it’s not by choice.

But perhaps that’s fine. Perhaps it only means that my tale has yet to begin. Perhaps it will begin in the line of books at the bookstore. Or upon the roof at a party.

Or on some Tuesday when I’m not even in makeup. I don’t know. But I hope it will be something that reminds me I wasn’t late. Just operating on my own schedule.

Until then, I’ll pretend no more. Because I do care. And perhaps that’s the most adult thing that I’ve ever done.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.